I. What's Past is Prologue

by Loquacious of Herd

Rating: mature
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery, Dark, Other, Adventure, Drama
Length: 114706

In which we begin our tale by joining a rather peculiar unicorn on his journey to Albion in search of answers.

"Old Sins Cast Long Shadows."

In the dark corners of Equestria recent, strange, and terrifying arcane disturbances are a-hoof. Looking into these disturbances is the lame unicorn, Cantor Mortalis – a particularly pleasant pony whose peculiar magical talents may aid in unraveling both these modern mysteries and the buried secrets of an ancient horror.

We join Cantor on the Zeppelin Westphalia as his path leads him (and two of his more unusual friends) to the Isle of Albion. What will come of his quest? What roles will old familiar faces (as well as new friends and foes) play in this drama? Find out, in this unfolding tale of magic, murder, mystery, and madness.

Published 2017-01-29 18:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-07 16:29:37 UTC

2. Interludes

“Damnedest luggage I’ve e’er had on my ship!” Grav Gunther Schwartz, Captain and pilot of the Westphalia, was outraged. He also sounded like he was finally winding down. His jet black feathers were starting to settle again. Even at his age his feathers remained lustrous, and were an impressive contrast to the white-tiger striping of his body.

The ship’s purser, a pegasus named Mr. Grady, raised an eyebrow. “And how would you have us deal with Cantor, Sir?”

Gunther snorted. He absented mindedly scratched at his eyepatch. After a moment, he let out a short squawk of laughter.

“He bought a ticket, and he’s already onboard, so there’s not much we can do now, is there?”

“No, sir. Not much we can do to improve this.” Grady paused, then added, “In this instance, I believe that Valentina’s instincts may have provided the best solution. By letting Cantor bunk with the crew, it prevents any disturbances or questions arising from our having an un-quartered guest taking up space in the sitting room on this flight. Cantor has yet to provide any trouble for the crew themselves. Although that may be because the unicorn in question has spent the bulk of the past few days sleeping.”

“So your suggestion is to just let him ride.”

“That's right, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

The resulting snort was as much of an agreement as one might expect.

“Any other issues I should be aware of, purser?”

Mr. Grady's mind raced down his own, private list:

Yet another family of unicorns who act like they own the zeppelin, a foreign reporter from a notorious tabloid digging for gossip on anypony around, a shady archaeologist with a name on his passport so ridiculously fake even I can tell he had stolen it from the cover of some penny dreadful, and whatever it was in the cargo bays that had everypony on the crew seriously spooked.

A vagabond with the merest shadow of a ticket who was occasionally caught talking to ponies who aren’t there hardly merits a mention, really. Much less all this fuss. Admittedly mailing oneself to one’s destination was a novel approach to airship travel. Not exactly a stow-away, nor exactly a hitchhiker. How did this Cantor character convince the ticket counter attendant back in Manehattan to agree to such an odd arrangement?

The captain, Grady knew, was bored. Not that the old griffon would admit it. With the weather being so carefully managed through the journey he had little enough to do. Give him some stormy weather, airship pirates, a touch of actual danger, and he’d revel in it. This ‘tea and cakes’ run from city to city … it wore on his nerves. Made him grouchy. Gunther really ought to take a vacation, Grady thought, go somewhere exotic and dangerous, pick a few fights, pirate a few treasures … then he might be more inclined return to this settled and respectable life.

For his own part, Grady was seriously considering an extended holiday of his own. Maybe somewhere up in the mountains, where it would be quiet – just himself and his family, alone in the snow.

It was the luggage’s fault. And it was not Cantor that Grady was thinking of. Grady was tempted to venture into the cargo compartment himself and see if he could find the … whatever it was. Arrange for a little accident. An ‘oopsie’ out the starboard hatch. Things got lost in transit all the time. Even on a respectable airship like the Westphalia.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good. Carry on with the accounts. I’m going topside to check the bags.” Gunther usually did a fly-around of the zeppelin at least once a day. It gave him an excuse to stretch his wings, if nothing else.

“Very good, sir.” Carry on with the accounts indeed! The ledgers were always checked thrice a day. It was managing the stewards and stewardesses that kept the purser busy the rest of the time. In spite, or perhaps because, of his position, Grady didn't usually have to intervene directly in affairs involving the other departments. But now the chief engineer was talking about having his workers' pay docked for their refusal to conduct routine maintenance near the cargo section so the purser was going to have to get his hooves on problems he could usually trust the other senior crew to handle.

And then there were the reports for the home office. The Grav Zeppelin airlines had a reputation to maintain. Irregularities and inconveniences simply weren’t allowed on their luxury lines. Even on their smaller and older ships, like the Westphalia.

Grady sighed quietly.

This trip’s report would be a more flagrant work of fiction than usual.

That vacation was sounding better all the time.

Grady went about the rest of the evening’s duties. The stewards and stewardesses were efficiency itself. With the notable exception of being unusually slow with the linen service. Clean sheets, table-cloths, and napkins were a must. And the Westphalia didn’t boast a laundry. Which meant accessing the stores.

Stores that were adjacent to the cargo hold.

Which no pony wanted to approach.

Grady considered what might be causing this discontent. This fear. Magic was the easy answer. Some warding spell that was malfunctioning perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time a unicorn's enchanted luggage had reacted oddly to the altitude. Or was something being transported with a particularly eerie aura? But what? And who was responsible for it?

The obvious suspect, in most of the crews’ mind, was the mad-pony. But ponies who spent even ten minutes talking with Cantor usually relegated him to a status somewhere in the general vicinity of “odd, but harmless.” A hoof-full of them had decided they liked the fellow, even if Grady was half convinced that Cantor's often too-pleasant demeanor was some sort of facade. Regardless, Cantor was certainly odd. Even for a unicorn. And he might even be harmless. But the real reason Grady didn’t think the situation in the cargo-bay was somehow Cantor’s fault had more to do with finances. Sending goods via a luxury airliner cost money. Cantor had barely enough coin to post himself as a variety of parcel.

Grady frowned at the staff galley. The chief chef, an earth pony and one of the few non-pegasi on the crew, was at it again. He was even whistling this time. Cantor was certainly eating well. In large part because Valentina had taken an interest in Cantor and had been advocating for him. Whether this was because she genuinely liked Cantor or because of that ridiculous betting pool some of the stewardess thought Grady didn't know about was largely irrelevant to the purser. Also, cooks enjoyed having their work genuinely appreciated – few enough passengers thought to send compliments (sincere or not) to the staff. If Cantor wasn’t sincere in his appreciation, he faked it awfully well.

Simply being recognized for their good service did wonders for the cooks’ morale. Such recognition was good for anypony's morale, really. Even with the extra mouth to feed, there would be no shortage of food. It was the unanticipated expense, the extra tally in the ledger, the bloody inconvenience of it all that had the purser's teeth on edge whenever matters relating to Cantor came up. After the first day, Grady had made it clear to Valentina that not only was there to be no funny business with the passengers, but that such meals as ‘the house’ was providing to their passenger-shaped piece of luggage were to come from the left-over odds and ends that would otherwise be unused and relegated to the dust-bin at the end of scheduled meal-times. If anything, the cooks were inspired by this restriction to be creative.

Although, speaking of funny business with the passengers, that archaeologist was too suave by half. While he was an earth pony, and thus unlikely to be directly responsible for some miss-warded luggage, perhaps he was smuggling some jungle fetish or ancient talisman that was giving everpony in the rear half of the airship a bad case of the Nightmare Night heebie-jeebies. Regardless, if they weren’t careful, that stallion might leave a stewardess or two in an awkward situation. It wouldn’t be the first such scandal Grady had dealt with. With a sigh, Grady thought it doubtless wouldn't be the last either.

Time for a quick check of the wait-staff – to make sure everypony was keeping up with the work, and that the passengers were satisfied with their after dinner service.

Perhaps a trip back to cargo was in order after all. But first, “Valentina. How is our special passenger?” Grady was adept at keeping the annoyance he felt from showing in his tone of voice.

“Oh, quite well Mr. Grady, sir! He successfully navigated the ladder from the crew-quarters to the gondola shortly after dinner and is presently playing cards with some of the passengers.”

“No falls, then, today?”

“No sir! Considering his gimpy leg, sir, he doesn’t do too badly.”

Grady arched an eyebrow. Well, at least Cantor hadn’t fallen off the airship yet.

“Aren’t you worried you might fall off the airship while scrambling around in the superstructure? How did you injure your leg anyway? Did you see action back during the troubles? What’s it like up with the crew?” the reporter drew a card, added it to his hoof, and discarded another queen.

Cantor had come to find Jon’s questions amusing. Most of the time the reporter would ask at least three, usually all in one breath, and seemed pleased as the proverbial punch to get even one of them answered. His record was nine questions and Cantor suspected it would have been more if inhaling hadn't become mandatory. Sometimes Jon would remember to take notes. Or scribbles that were supposed to be notes. Cantor suspected that Jon couldn’t read them any better than Cantor could.

Not that, as a reporter for the Yellow Star, Jon Quill needed to be bothered with such details as “facts.” The Star was the epitome of “tabloid trash.”

“The crew are quite friendly, especially considering that I’ve effectively commandeered one of their bunks.”

“’Friendly’ is an overstatement. As is ‘welcoming.’ I would go with ‘tolerable.’” If the fellow ever sang, Cantor thought, he'd have quite the pleasing baritone.

“Eh, they’re not so bad as all that. Somethin’s got ‘em proper-spooked though. And, point them: ‘e does snore.” You could almost hear the grin in Magpie's voice.

Cantor rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and repeated himself, “Especially considering I’m commandeering one of their bunks.”

“Oy! So now ‘e’ll talk to us!” Magpie did indignant well.

Jon Quill and … blast it … Cantor suddenly couldn’t remember his name – one of the two business ponies on the way back to Canterbury … Archie-something – regardless, Cantors two table companions both chuckled.

Archie picked up the discarded queen. His second this round. He must have a book of them. Or he was working on a pair of high runs. This late in the game, it could be either. Archie discarded a seven. Cantor’s initial surge of interest faded when he saw it was a seven of clubs rather than spades. Either a seven of spades or a jack of spades and he'd be down on the table, and thus he'd wind up being caught with fewer points. Which was, in this particular game, the whole goal. Not that one could easily tell that just by looking at Cantor's scores on the past five rounds of play.

Cantor drew a card. Another three. He really should have kept the first two of them. With a sigh, he discarded it and stared at the hoof of cards he had amassed.

Play passed to Jon as Cantor added, “And yes, I do worry a bit about taking a tumble.”

“Heh!” Harsh and shrill, Magpie, when amused, was more likely to squawk than laugh.

“Shush, you reprobate.” And, as if on que, his low voice scolding her.

“But the brace helps keep my dodgy knee on the straight and narrow. More or less.”

“How did you injure yourself, Cantor, old boy? If you don’t mind my asking.” Archibald (that was his name, Archibald!) had likely joined the card-game because there was only so much to do on an airship, and three days into the flight the novel he had been reading wound up becoming a coloring book for one of Polo Pony fillies. For somepony who made the trip from Lunadun to Manehattan at least once a quarter, simply watching the rolling majesty of the clouds and the waves had long ceased to be sufficient entertainment.

Cantor shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about it much.” That was an understatement. “It was an incident from my bright college days. An incident involving a sizeable rock, a solid piece of oak, and considerably more physics than the pony body will comfortably withstand. Afterwards, one of my professors lectured me quite sternly about the concepts of angular momentum and the transfer of force. The word ‘torque’ popped up more than once.” As usual, Cantor left out the part about the terrified mob, the screaming, and the kicking. It did no good to dwell on such things.

Archibald gave a sympathetic wince. "Sorry, old chap. Sounds like a nasty bit of business."

“School you say? Did you attend Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, by any chance? I had an uncle who went there back in the day – Steadfast was his name. Did you perchance know him?” Jon Quill rearranged the cards he held. He seemed more interested than usual in this particular question. Always looking for that new personal connection, this pony was.

Cantor snorted, “’Day-school?’ Me? Sorry to disappoint but no, no Splendore Mentem here! Semper Discentes. Nighthaven Academy. And, ironically, I had to abandon my studies early. Financial difficulties.” That was half true.

“Nighthaven?” Archibald looked a little worried. “I heard they push their students … hmm … hard.”

“I heard they got in trouble for practicing forbidden magic!” And now Jon Quill was more interested than ever. Nothing like the hint of scandal to bring a shine to his eyes.

Cantor snorted yet again. It was becoming a habit, “Jon, please! One professor a century ago goes just a little mad and messes around with some unconventional methods of mind control and suddenly the whole school's reputation is tarred forever? Really, now! I found it cliquish and the official studies alternately dull and tedious. Well, unless you count the occasional bout of drunken, youthful revelry. So if you’re looking for a juicy story to put in the Star, I’m afraid I can’t help you out with that.”

“Because you don’t know any such stories, or because you don’t want to tell a broad-sheet scribbler like Jon Quill about the ones you do know?” There was a touch of suspicion, and considerable interest, in his tone.

“Oh! ‘i’s eyes narrowed! D’ya see that? Our Cantor does know sumthin’ scandalous. Once we’re off this overgrown balloon, ask him ta tell us all about it!” Magpie sounded eager for a chance at some juicy gossip.

Cantor grinned, at his most recent draw rather than the conversation only he could hear. But his tone turned rather serious, “And as for pushing their students, Archie – well, they do. ‘Always learning’ isn’t just their motto: it’s their expectation. Waking or dreaming, you were expected to be working through lessons of some sort. Drunk or sober you could be quizzed on anything at any time. They wanted greatness. Expected it. I suspect that drive comes from being a fourth-rate safety school for unicorns with enough magical ability to do something, but not enough talent to get into somewhere as prestigious as one of Canterlot’s Universities. So yes, Nighthaven pushes their students. Very hard sometimes. Hard enough that some of them ... break.” Cantor started laying his cards down on the table. That last joker had come just in time. True, he couldn’t go out … and true, the point-situation was such that barring some truly unusual card-play he was nowhere near winning, but at this point in the game, it was all about not losing any worse than he had to!

“Aha! So that’s why we worried you at first. You think you might be … fractured.” His voice projected understanding, sympathy, and reassurance.

“Batty. Bonkers. Loco in the coco. And if’n I didn’t know I was real, I’d probably think ‘e was cracked too, talkin’ ta me.” Her voice, in contrast, seemed to take pleasure in the darkly humorous prospect.

“And me. He found me first.” He sounded more than a bit indignant.

“Talking to ya is cracked anyway. Who bothers with authors? Useless word-smiths tha lot of ya!” Another jab from Magpie.

“Ah." If Archibald thought Cantor might be one of Nighthaven's broken ex-students, he kept it out of his voice. "I went to Oxherd myself.” Archibald smiled as he drew a card.

Cantor brightened up. “Really? I did an exchange there for a term. I even got access to the Bodleian …” Archibald started laying cards on the table. By the time he was done his hoof was empty. No discards.

“… and … you’re done. Down and out again? I’m glad this isn’t a betting game!” Cantor shook his head.

“I still think ‘e should let us help him cheat at cards. It’d be easy-peasy. And some bits in his pocket could go a long way.” Magpie clearly had no problem with ignoring social conventions, fair play, or the law if there was fun and profit to be had.

“It would also be a gross misuse of power. We’ve already discussed this.” And there he was, playing the part of angel to her devil. He was much more proper and restrained when it came to such matters.

Jon Quill threw down his cards in disgust. This time he hadn’t even gotten on the table. Cantor began to count up the points. One more round and this game would be done. Baring a miracle (or a disaster, depending on your perspective) Archie would have won. Although after this last go, Cantor might manage to come out ahead of Jon for a change.

Archibald tapped the side of his glass with a knife. Before the tone of the crystal had fully died away one of the stewardesses had already refilled it. Cantor felt a little disappointed that it wasn’t Valentina who answered the call … but then reigned that disappointment in hard.

As Cantor shuffled and Archibald sipped, Jon asked, “Were you two at Oxherd at the same time? Did you know one another?”

Archie laughed, “Oh, definitely not. I would have remembered somepony like Cantor. ... No offense!”

“None taken.”

“I do remember the Bodleian though. As I recall, as a second year, I bungled the oath to get in. Nearly caused the dean to lose his wig laughing. Part of it is that you’re supposed to swear not to smoke inside, you know. But I mixed up the Latin and wound up swearing not to drink in there instead.” Archibald eyed the cocktail he was holding, “Needless to say that was an oath more frequently observed in the breaking than in the keeping.”

Jon Quill perked right up, pencil once again in hoof, “Secrets in the stacks? Did you see anything unusual in the old college grounds?”

Cantor grimaced and shook his head as he began dealing the cards, eleven to each player. “Jon, really! Must you always chase gossip? My apologies, Archie, I trust his badgering isn’t too problematic?”

“There may be a problem." The voice was hardly more than a whisper and it conveyed considerable menace.

“The devil’d you come from? Ah, that is …” the suave stallion made a quick recovery from his momentary loss of composure. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t just muttered a snide comment to himself about the go-between popping up out of nowhere. He had been reasonably sure there wasn't anypony else in his cabin at the time.

Cabins on the Westphalia were cramped. Even having bought both tickets, so that he didn’t have to share, the stallion would have preferred a little more walking-around room. The cabin was also dim. Lights were turned low, the crystals barely aglow at all. The curtains were half drawn. Outside it was already past dusk. The moon would be up soon.

“Close the curtains. We need to talk.”

“We certainly do.” Pointedly, the stallion left the window treatments precisely where they were. If it came down to it, he had a couple of flash-bangs tucked up one sleeve. Prior experience with this particular messenger led him to suspect that whatever it was, it didn’t like the light.

“Oh?” If the voice had been chilly before, it was positively cold now.

“Remind me, why did I come out of retirement for this?” It was a good bluster.

“Gold.”

“Hmm.” The stallion tucked his scarf into his blouse a bit more securely, in part to hide a shiver, in part to check the small bombs. He also glanced at the door. It was still shut and locked. The same with the windows. How had that thing gotten in here?

“Lots of gold.” Its tone was still quite frosty.

“Ah, and why am I being paid lots of gold, mon cher?”

There was a sigh from the figure in the corner. Dark cloak, shining yellow eyes. Nothing else could be said for certain. Not even if she was a pony. The stallion was reasonably sure it was a she though.

“You are being paid a small fortune because our mutual employer has been satisfied with your previous work for him. While the end results were … less than ideal, and certainly no ringing victory, that part wasn't your fault. You upheld your end of that deal admirably. As you have stated numerous times …” was there a slight edge of mockery? The stallion thought there was a slight edge of mockery, “… had you been employed for more than item retrieval, the ultimate failure of that project might have been averted.

“In short, you are being paid because you are competent …”

The stallion’s smug grin was just settling in when the figure continued, “… enough ...” the stallion’s grin vanished.

“… for this.”

“Now see here! I-” his heated rebuttal was cut short by the distinctive, musical sound of a pouch full of bits landing on his bedside table.

“You want more money. That was expected. This will suffice.”

It was more than he had been hoping for, actually. Better try not to show it though, so he managed a not-yet-entirely-satisfied sounding “For now.”

“Yes, for now.” The stallion couldn’t tell if the messenger saw through his bluff, or simply didn’t care. Either way, she continued, “Now, on to the problem.”

“Yes, mon cher?”

“Somepony has been snooping around the cargo hold.”

The stallion's heart skipped a beat. “And? Did they find it?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

The pause was just a little too long. “I … do not know.”

Was she lying? Or worried? Perhaps both.

“If you don’t know who, then how can you be certain they found nothing, mon ami?” His grin wasn't friendly.

“I would know if they opened the box.” Ah, the cold certainty was back.

She probably would know at that. The stallion rubbed his unshaved jaw, he thought he knew what was coming next, and he didn't like it. “You have some suspicions I take it?”

Another pause. A long one.

“The reporter. He is an idiot, but even idiots can stumble over the truth. And he is actively looking for … extraordinary things.”

She didn't sound entirely sure. Further the implications of her unspoken request were far too risky. The stallion snorted, “So ... what? You want him to fall off the Zeppelin? I’m not being paid enough for that. He’s harmless. No one believes what they read in the Yellow Star. Not even when it’s true. Especially not when it’s true.”

The shadowy figure considered this for a few moments. “Be ready to deal with him if you must. We may need to improvise in order to see this through to the end.”

“So … I take it you wish to add on to my duties? As if running this little ‘escort’ to the Ashmulean wasn’t enough of a chore.”

“You will be well compensated.” The shadowy figure’s voice positively dripped disdain. “Ahuizotal isn’t concerned with gold. He’s concerned with climate. Once this is done, you can retire somewhere warm with all the money you’ll have made, Caballeron.”

“That’s Doctor Caballeron to you!” the rogue archeologist growled. “I’ll keep an eye on the passengers and make sure none of them follow us once we disembark. You keep watch on that damned luggage.”

Author's Note

For readers interested in what the Westphalia might look like, as well as how the rooms are laid out in the gondola, the Author would refer you to his source of inspiration: the LZ 127 Graf Zepplin a German-built and -operated, passenger-carrying, hydrogen-filled, rigid airship which operated commercially from 1928 to 1937. Several pictures of it's interior can be found here.

The most prominent difference in appearance between the fictional Equestrian airship and its historical counterpart is that the Westphalia's envelope is more artistically designed than that of the LZ 127 -- it is shaped roughly like a chubby dragon, and the linen is dyed to increase the resemblance.

3. Arrivals

“I need a favor, Valentina.” This was the start of the conversation Cantor had spent the last few days pretending to himself that he wouldn’t need to have.

“Sir?” Valentina raised an eyebrow. Usually Cantor wasn’t that direct, nor that forward. He also looked unusually serious, and perhaps a little ill.

“I’m hoping it’s nothing, just nerves …” Cantor trailed off worriedly.

Valentina was intrigued. In part because Cantor hadn’t seemed the nervy type. A little scattered and self-effacing perhaps – which became annoying on occasion. But his jumpiness wasn’t something she would have chalked up to nerves.

“The favor, sir? We’re here to serve.”

“Well?” Oddly, it was his voice who was pointing out possibilities for a double entendre.

“Oy! It’s no fun when the straight line is that easy!” Or perhaps Magpie didn't like him horning in on her action.

Cantor took a deep breath to steady himself. He then deliberately turned away to gaze out the window. While the view of the countryside during their final approach to Hedgerow Airfield on the outskirts of Lunadun was nice and all, Valentina fancied herself a pleasanter sight. Cantor generally agreed, but he couldn't afford to be distracted for this.

“I have reason to suspect that some of my family may have arranged a little surprise for me immediately upon my debarkation. Such a surprise would not be at all welcome.”

“I wasn’t aware you had family in Albion, sir?” Valentina was adept at turning a statement into a question, all by varying tone and cadence. It was a skill she had noted Cantor possessed as well.

Cantor chuckled wryly, “I don’t. I do have some very good friends here.”

“I’m sure you do!” Valentina felt comfortable dropping such hints precisely because Cantor was exactly the sort of stallion who wouldn’t pick up on them.

“Well?!” He clearly thought Magpie would jump on such a straight line.

“Still too easy, scribbler. Anyroad, weren’t you the codger what said we shouldn’t be distracting ‘is nibs?” Magpie was probably just being contrary for contrariness sake.

“… touché.” He yielded the point.

“I never!” It was hard to tell if Magpie was genuinely indignant.

“The favor, sir? We will be docking soon.”

“Yes, yes. Precisely. And I would rather not walk out the front door, as it were.”

Valentina gave a little start. Oh, this was going to be interesting after all! And here she had already decided that Cantor’s oddness wasn’t going to be a source of intrigue and entertainment.

“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.” Valentina used her most convincingly innocent tone.

“Why that little minx is lyin’ through ‘er perfect teeth!” Magpie sounded both impressed and annoyed.

“What? How can you tell?” He, in turn, sounded mostly confused.

“I’m a mare, ain’t I?” Magpie's tone was that of someone stating the obvious.

“In retrospect, I now realize that I have never really understood mares. Why should I be surprised to find that I do not understand you?” He sounded reflective.

Cantor, ignoring the comments from his own personal peanut gallery, spoke with a quiet urgency “Is there another way off the Zeppelin?”

Valentina let out a little gasp, “You wish me to help smuggle you past customs?” This was delicious! Just how illegal did Cantor intend to be? Valentina was busy tallying her accumulated rule-bending … and rule-breaking … with a finesse that even Mr. Grady would have begrudgingly praised. Depending on Cantor’s answer, she might have to decline. There was only so far even she was willing to push the envelope.

Valentina was a little surprised at herself to discover she didn’t want to decline.

“What? No! Just … er … just off the Westphalia. Is there a … back door or something? I’m not exactly up to some feat of derring do – climbing out a window, swinging from a mooring line to the pier. Even if my leg hadn’t … well … and it’s a long way down. If I were a pegasus I’d just open a window or something but …”

Cantor took another steadying breath. “Look, will you help me or won’t you? You don’t have to. It might even get you in trouble. I wouldn’t want that.”

Valentina eyed Cantor closely. He was sincere. He didn’t want to get her in trouble. Having spent nearly a week in his company, she probably shouldn’t be surprised. That sincerity, more than anything, sold her.

“Can you not just teleport across?” There was a good ten minutes left before they got to the tower, no point in missing out on some perfectly good teasing!

“Oy! Cantor, tip: I think she’s bitten. Haul ‘er in easy and we’ll slide away smooth as silk.” Magpie was pleased, which meant she sounded smug.

“If you say so. I can not believe I am trusting your judgement on this.” He just sounded done with it all.

Cantor turned back towards Valentina with a wry grin, “It’s not that easy! Teleportation isn’t something common, like moving objects or producing light. And goodness knows there are unicorns that can’t even manage those petty magics well – much less something as difficult as casting oneself adrift on the currents of the aether to reform spontaneously elsewhere. Even unicorns who can teleport (which are fewer and further between than most ponies seem to think) find it can be a finicky talent – sometimes it just won’t work at all even when it was working fine yesterday.

“But … that didn’t sound like a ‘no’?” Cantor raised an eyebrow in an inquiring manner. Tone and cadence.

Valentina smiled brightly, “Very well, Mr. Luggage, sir. If you would care to follow me to the cargo bay, I’m sure we can get you off-loaded out the back. It's only proper, given your ticket.”

“Thank you, Valentina! You’re a treasure.”

“Indeed, all is well that ends well, yes?” His tone was one of relief.

“This plan is shite. Bugger me! I really don’t like this plan.” Magpie's own words were laced with a real, rather than manufactured, fear.

“What? Why not, Magpie?” He had clearly been startled by Magpie's words. Though they bickered more often than not, when she was that worried about something, he paid attention. And she was clearly worried.

“You two scholars haven’t been snooping about back in cargo. I have. There’s sumthin’ wrong back there. Gave my hooves the prickles sumthin’ fierce. Whatever it is might not do for you or me, but Cantor don't have our 'advantages' ... an' if 'e meets a terrible fate, we're well and truly done, scribbler. Ugh. Fine, we’ll bugger off out the back but, smoke and moonlight, don’t linger there boys.”

“Mr. Grady? Captain, sir? There’s a port official who wants to speak with you before we begin deboarding the passengers.”

“Thank you, Valentina. I’ll see to it, sir.” Ordinarily Grady wouldn’t be too concerned, but something in Valentina’s manner struck him as odd.

The crew were still tying off the gangways, the narrower one with hand rails near the nose of the gondola, just past the sitting room, where the passengers would shortly be exiting … the wider one for the cargo further back, at a separate pier, almost half-way down the airship’s balloon. Already the Westphalia's pegasi were beginning to offload some of the boxes to the cargo area over there.

Five ponies waited on the passenger pier. Two of the four earth ponies there were local constables working for Hedgrow Airfield, the aforementioned port officials. However, they were accompanying a unicorn wearing a doctor’s jacket who was flanked by a different pair of particularly burly earth ponies, identical twins, in matching coats. It was abundantly clear who was in charge, so Grady wasted no time in approaching the unicorn.

“Mr. Grady, purser of the Westphalia. Is there a problem, doctor?”

“Yes there is. I have papers authorizing me to secure the personage of one Cantor Mortalis for involuntary commitment. We have judge’s rulings here from both Manehattan and Lunadun along with signed statements from his next of kin. If you would kindly allow us to retrieve him, the potential danger he represents to yourself and to your passengers will be removed forthwith.”

Grady was stunned. He automatically took the clipboard the unicorn offered and reflexively glanced at the papers there.

Everything seemed to be in order. Quite in order. Not that Grady had experience with psychiatric paperwork or court orders pertaining thereto. This was new. Unwelcome, but new.

“I’m sorry, Doctor …?”

“Fether. Doctor Tarrant Fether. Professor of Abnormal Psychology.”

“And Mr. Mortalis is wanted … ?” Grady trailed off, unable to bring himself to complete the sentence.

“Mr. Mortalis, as you say, is required to be housed in Bedlam.” Dr. Fether’s smile was brusque at best. “It’s for his own good, although, at present, he might not agree. May we come aboard and retrieve him, Mr. Grady? We wouldn’t want to delay your passengers any longer than we must.”

“No you bloody well may not come aboard the Westphalia! Not without a ticket. Do you have a ticket, herr doctor?” Grav Gunther had arrived in the doorway.

“I … had not thought it necessary to procure one …” Dr. Fether was clearly taken aback by the sudden appearance of an angry griffon.

Grady knew that as the Westphalia’s purser it was his duty to the Grav Zeppelin airlines to strive to smooth over this situation. Reputation, scandal, all of that. But Grady also knew that Gunther had been spoiling for a fight. The only saving grace was that Gunther wasn’t drunk this time.

Time for damage control. Let the doctor and the captain have it out with words. Worst case? Gunther would pitch Fether from the top of the tower, but there were safety nets set to catch anypony who might have the ill fortune to be born wingless and to suffer a fall.

“Oh! ‘Not thought it necessary …’” Gunter was in fine voice as Grady ducked back inside.

“Wipe that smile off your face, Valentina, and find Mr. Mortalis. We need to get him off the ship before the passengers hear about this.”

Valentina looked at Mr. Grady in surprise.

“That means now, filly! Move those hooves!”

“Yes sir, Mr. Grady, sir! Only …”

“Only what, Valentina?” Mr. Grady felt his left eye twitch ever so slightly.

“Only I was coming to tell you, sir, that Mr. Mortalis doesn’t appear to be in the crew quarters. Would you like me to conduct a search of the passengers' cabins?”

Valentina left the “… while the passengers are still in them,” portion of that proposed course of action unsaid.

“Sweet Celestia, no! Let me think …”

Tearing his mind from the possible scandal, Mr. Grady thought furiously.

“Valentina, tell the passengers that they will be disembarking momentarily. Stand watch in the sitting room and detain Mr. Mortalis … quietly … should he attempt to exit. After the passengers are off, we can turn him over to Dr. Fether. If Cantor doesn't turn up, then we can search the cabins after everypony's left.”

“Yes, sir!” Valentina hesitated, looking momentarily concerned, “And, Mr. Grady, sir – did I hear right? They’re wanting to take Cantor to Bedlam? The Bedlam? The insane asylum?” There was a faint quaver in her voice.

“Yes, you heard right. Now, do you want to go explain this to the captain or shall I?”

That got her moving!

Maybe he should also have Valentina detain that Jon Quill fellow. “Work of fiction?” This trip’s official report back to the home office would be fit to be published in the Star!

“What do you mean, that’s all of them?” Dr. Fether was angry. You could see it in his eyes. But his was an anger that was immediately bottled and stored somewhere deep inside. There it would ferment, like a too-dry wine, into something bitter and poisonous. His anger was all tight, crushing control. Unlike the flamboyant outbursts of Captain Gunther’s rage which flamed brightly and were gone, Dr. Fether’s anger endured.

Mr. Grady suspected that Dr. Fether might be the more dangerous of the two. Much more dangerous.

Valentina looked to Gunther for support. The griffon just narrowed his one eye.

“I mean, sir, that all twenty four quartered passengers have now departed the Westphalia under your watchful eye.”

“I only counted twenty three.”

“Doctor Caballeron purchased two tickets in his own name, you saw them yourself, sir.”

“‘Doctor Caballeron’ is a popular fiction. No such pony really exists.”

“Quite right, sir. He might not have been travelling under his own name. Was he perhaps this 'Mr. Mortalis' you are looking for?”

“No, miss. Mr. Mortalis is a unicorn, pale – dark mane going gray, blue eyes. Not some ... some ... cos-playing earth-pony on their way to a literary convention. Cantor must still be on the ship.”

“But, I double checked the entire gondola myself, sir. There are no other ponies of any sort. Your Mr. Mortalis isn't here.”

“Isn’t he?” You could have struck sparks from the flint in Dr. Fether’s clipped speech. Grav Gunther's steely gaze seemed quite up to the task.

One of the constables, a sergeant from the cut of his coat, cleared his throat. “Mr. Grady, was it, sir?” He was looking for a less explosive way around the situation, “I’m sure the Grav Zeppelin airship line wouldn’t mind if we let ourselves in. A quick look around, just to be sure. Unofficially of course. There’s no need for any unpleasantness with the courts regarding search and seizure. And if there is a lunatic …”

“A dangerous lunatic,” Dr. Fether interjected.

“… a lunatic aboard,” the sergeant continued, neither batting an eye nor adding Fether’s desired adjective, “then best for all concerned that we have him removed. Don’t you agree?”

“And if there’s not?” Gunther wasn’t screeching any more, but there was still a low growl underlying his words.

“If there’s not, what?” the second constable seemed a bit put off by the question. Or perhaps by the air of danger that Gunther projected.

“If there’s not a lunatic, dangerous or otherwise, hiding on my airship?”

“Well then, Dr. Fether will owe both you and the constabulary an apology for wasting their time.” Bland. That was the word for the sergeant's reply. Mr. Grady was impressed. That was exactly the right tack to take with the captain.

A moment passed.

“Valentina.” Captain Gunther spoke with authority. “Accompany these ponies aboard the Westphalia. Assist them in searching the entirety of the gondola. If Mr. Mortalis is aboard, find him.”

Dr. Fether was on the airship in a moment, expertly combing the cabins, opening every door, checking in every cupboard. Valentina trailed after him, as did the Doctor's two companions and both of the constables.

Outside Mr. Grady turned to Gunther. “Sir? What should we do?”

“Let them search. I’m going to the galley for a drink. Let me know if they find anypony.”

“If they do?”

“Turn him over. It’s not our concern.”

From within the navigation room Doctor Fether's raised voice could be heard asking, “I said where does this ladder go?”

Gunther rolled his one good eye and shrieked through the open door, “It goes up to the crew quarters and the superstructure Doctor. You have my permission to search the whole of the ship if you like. Valentina – accompany them and make sure they don't break anything.”

Gunther's voice dropped to a soft growl again, “Except maybe his neck if he falls. Storms willing off the port side where there's no net to catch the arrogant bastard.”

Grady winced, “Sir … what if they don’t find Cantor?”

“Then we tell them the truth.” Oh, there was a devilish gleam in Gunther’s one good eye. Mr. Grady’s heart sank.

“The … truth, sir?”

“Yes. The records will show there never was a 'passenger' by the name of Cantor Mortalis aboard the Westphalia. Only a piece of luggage that Mr. Mortalis paid to have shipped overseas. I noticed that Valentina was clever enough to keep her pretty blather-trap shut when it came to the subject of Cantor's having ever been aboard. You'll tell the crew that anypony who wishes to be secure in their future employment would be advised to forget our extra passenger existed.”

While not an expert on the law, Grady was reasonably sure that most of that fell under the category of “aiding and abetting.” With other parts of it falling under the category of “worker protections against unjust retaliation.”

“I … forgive me, sir, but I wasn’t aware you held Mr. Mortalis in such … high esteem.” Grady didn’t hold Mr. Mortalis in particularly high esteem himself, certainly not enough to help him in his miraculous escape from the authorities. Still, mad-pony or not, Grady wouldn’t have wanted to see Cantor locked away in Bedlam.

“I don’t care a sour fart in a windstorm for Mr. Mortalis,” Gunther glared at the open door to the Westphalia. “I’m not doing this for his benefit. But after due consideration I’ve decided that I mightily dislike that harpy of a sawbones. He can go rot. When he’s off my ship, Mr. Grady, I want the whole thing scrubbed down. I don’t want even the smell of Fether lingering here.”

With that Gunther strutted back inside the Westphalia.

Grady remained on the deck, pondering this turn of events. Most of all, he was trying to decide if he should go along with the captain’s orders.

Dr. Fether might be … a difficult unicorn to deal with, but that didn’t make him wrong. Mr. Grady had spent most of his career dealing with difficult unicorns, smoothing things over for them. What if Cantor was a danger? Either to himself, or others. Perhaps Grady should go over the captain’s head, so to speak, in the interest of keeping the reputation of the Grav Zepplin line shined and spotless.

After all, it’s not like the crew had conspired to whisk Cantor away!

“Sir? Mr. Grady, sir?”

Grady looked up from his reverie. It was Tom, one of the crew. A steady sort, Tom.

“Yes, Tom?”

“We’ve finished unloading the cargo. All of the cargo. Everypony’s glad to be shot of it. Permission to go ashore?”

“Good work. Thank you, Tom. I'm sure the captain won't mind.” Grady suddenly started up, eyes wide, gesturing at Tom to keep him from flying off.

“Tom … wait a moment! Did you say you had unloaded all of the cargo?”

“Yes sir, all that didn’t unload itself, if’n you catch my meaning.”

“Unload … itself?” Grady's heart sank further still.

Tom grinned, “Why yes, sir. I’m not sure if you noticed, but we had the most peculiar piece of luggage on this flight.”

“Luggage?”

“Why yes, sir. One of the first pieces off the ship. Would have been, oh, half an hour ago. Don’t worry, sir. I got him pointed towards customs. He should be through by now, sir. And, begging your pardon, I for one will be just as pleased to have him out of our manes.”

4. Respites

“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.

5. Plans

“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.”

6. Revelations

“Good evening, officer! And what a lovely evening it is! Jon Quill, reporter. I’m here to ask you a few questions about the fire!”

Clarissa frowned. She took a sip from her thermos of coffee. It was mixed with just enough of her favorite whiskey to make her feel warm without too much risk of putting her to sleep. She had hoped she wouldn’t need the extra fortification, as she thought of it, tonight.

Eyeing the reporter she decided that her hopes were, in this case, destined to be dashed. She settled her wings more comfortably against her sides.

“You may report to the precinct office during regular business hours to receive a copy of the official press release. Please move along.”

Moving along would offer a number of benefits, Clarissa thought. First, she would avoid a topic of conversation she was forbidden from commenting on – officially or unofficially. The force had already let one mare, a relative newcomer named Bea, go for “sundry minor offenses.” Bea’s real crime had been talking to the press without permission, all of the constables knew that.

Of course, Bea had also been the first pony to report to the fire. Rather than put it out, she had frantically added to it – and worked with those present to seal the door shut. Clarissa hoped she was getting the psychological help she clearly needed.

The other benefit from Jon’s moving along was that he was rather handsome. Watching him walk away would provide Clarissa with a pleasant view.

Jon smiled, “Oh, there will be plenty of time for that later! Right now, I’m more interested in the aftermath. The clean up. The personal stories of the ponies who have been tasked with keeping the area safe and secure. There are some historical sites of importance among the graves, I understand?”

Clarissa let out an aggrieved sigh. She took another sip of her coffee. This looked like it wouldn’t be a quick conversation. On the plus side, at least Jon was cute. With a long night ahead, keeping fillies and colts from poking around the scaffolding out of morbid curiosity, any pleasant distractions were welcome.

“Look, Mr. Quill …”

“Please! Call me Jon!” He did have a distracting smile. For the moment Clarissa didn’t suspect he was using it specifically to distract her from what was going on a few meters further down the walk.

“Jon, there’s nothing I can tell you, love. The official story is handled through our precinct’s press office. I wasn’t there myself, and couldn’t comment on it even if I was.”

“Ah, but I don’t need anything official. And, while ... while you weren’t there yourself, I’m sure you must know ponies who were. Have they shared their observations? What of the cemetery afterwards? Have have there been many visitors? How are the repairs coming along? Have any notable figures arrived to see to the restoration? Which graves were affected?”

Jon Quill hoped the constable hadn’t noted the brief stutter in his flow of questions. At least his smile hadn’t wavered.

Jon was in the Whitstable cemetery just off Millstrot Rood, at the start of the public hoofpath leading towards the oldest graves. It was just past the chapel, and the way ahead was blocked with bright yellow caution tape. In the distance, a lone lamp provided a puddle of light. And Cantor had just limped quietly through that puddle. Jon supposed it was marginally better than trying to hop over the low, pointy iron fence … Cantor really didn’t seem the “hopping over” type.

So it was good for him that he had Jon running interference!

Past the lamp, Jon could barely make out a mausoleum, overgrown with scaffolding, and with piles of lumber and cut-stone around it.

Clarissa looked a bit surprised. “That’s a lot of questions, love. I doubt I can answer any of them officially.”

“Unofficially is more than fine, Mrs. Sources Say!” Jon readied his pencil and turned the charm on his smile up a notch.

She grinned. “It’s Miss, not Missus – and it has been busy. Lots of restoration work to do. And with the stories that have gotten around, workcolts don’t want to be anywhere near the mausoleum. If it was day, I’d say they were just being lazy. But night duty here? Gives one the creeps, it does! Downright spooky. Oh, and they brought in some historian bloke from Queen’s College. A unicorn. ‘e wouldn’t even go inside. I hear he suggested walling in the entry with marble.”

“Fascinating! They are still wanting to restore the mausoleum to its former glory, yes?”

“Well, of course! It’s a bit of history – maybe not that well known, but every year Whitstable does receive tourists from Equestria, all wanting to visit the final resting place of Admir-“

A loud crash from the mausoleum in question cut Clarissa off mid word. She switched from holding her thermos to holding a flashlight in the blink of an eye and, with wings half-unfurled, she turned to shine a light over the tomb.

“Bugger!”

A part of the scaffolding had given way. The flashlight’s beam showed that the now open stone door leading into the mausoleum had jarred some of the surrounding wood loose.

“Wait here, sir. I need to check this out.”

“After what you said about spooks? No thank you! I’m sticking to you like your feathers!”

Jon’s heart was beating rapidly. But with excitement rather than fear. Cantor had said that whatever arcane disturbance was active in the tomb would be well worth looking at … and that regardless, after getting his look, Cantor would come clean with Jon about his so-called madness.

The two ponies approached the open door cautiously. As they did, both felt a disturbance in the air – the tomb seemed to be drawing it in, pulling loose leaves and dust and light debris. There was a soft sound, low … something felt in the bones more than actually heard. A faint, silvery light began to flicker somewhere inside the mausoleum.

Somepony hadn’t even bothered with the multiple pad-locks, they had simply cut the chains. The bolt cutters lay discarded, half buried beneath the new pile of lumber and rope. The bars which had been pressed against the door to hold it shut were stacked to one side of the entry.

Jon and Clarrisa looked inside. She let out a strangled gasp, dropping her flashlight and clinging to Jon. He drew in a breath for a scream that he couldn’t choke out around the sudden lump in his throat as he, in turn, clung to her.

The room was stone, the walls lovingly carved with scenes from the admiral’s life – many of them blackened and damaged from the recent fire. His sarcophagus, again lovingly carved, lay in pieces around the floor. It looked like something had exploded out of it. In the center of the room, directly over where the sarcophagus had stood, a vortex of dark magic swirled and hummed, sucking in dust and leaves like a small tornado. Leaves, twigs, and scraps of paper decayed in the darkness there … the blackness slowly eating away at them like a creeping fire.

The walls were cracked. The cracks were bleeding. And somepony … something … had been clawing at them, the desperate marks of iron horse-shoes were everywhere: on the floor, the walls, even the ceiling.

Cantor stood directly before the vortex. His horn was glowing silver. Streamers of silver light lifted from both it and from his body like wisps of fog from a lake on a cold morning. The light, aurora like, drifted slowly into the swirling darkness.

Hovering there, in the center of the magical disturbance, was the fire-blackened skeleton of a pegasus. It flared its bony wings and turned its eyeless skull to gaze directly at Jon and Clarissa.

Clarissa fainted.

Jon froze, his scream still building.

The skeleton opened its jaw … no sound emerged, just the clicking of fire-blackened bone on bone.

The Trotting Dead.

It was one the Trotting Dead.

At the moment Cantor’s own eyes were as black and empty as the skeleton’s. No sign of his earlier blue iris’, it was all pupil now. A small part of Jon’s mind wondered if that was how he could see in the dark. Most of his mind, on the other hoof, was screaming at him to run … or, barring that, to kill the dead thing with fire.

Although, judging from the shape of the room, “killing it with fire” had been tried with considerable enthusiasm by whoever first found the awakened corpse. While the bones (and the room) were scorched, the whole “killing it” thing clearly hadn’t taken.

Cantor was singing. His full attention was on the floating skeleton. There was magic in his voice, golden and sweet, like honey dripping from a comb or a warm shaft of sunlight shining through stormclouds. The skeleton turned its gaze from Jon back to Cantor, tilting its head as though listening to the lullabye.

It slowly reached one skeletal limb, chipped and cracked from both fire and from weeks of fruitless, desperate pawing at the interior of its sealed tomb, towards Cantor’s own outstretched hoof.

The scream finally forced its way out of Jon’s throat. And his hooves, which had been trying to run away in all directions at once, at last settled on directly away from the undead pony. The sound of his scream faded into the night.

“Well, ‘e’s gone.” Magpie sounded rather satisfied.

“Keep an eye out. If somepony else shows up, we’ll need to let Cantor know. And we’ll need a quick way out.” He, in turn, was all business.

“An’ you?” Magpie was curious.

“I’m still trying to see if there’s anything about this vortex that’s substantially different from the one we found you trapped in, Magpie.” From the frustration in his voice, Magpie guessed he wasn’t seeing anything particularly useful.

There was a brief silence. Magpie eyed the drifting, whimpering spirit of the Admiral, watching as the vortex surrounding it slowly began to fade under the influence of Cantor’s spell. Individual bones were dropping away as the ghostly haunt that had been wrapped around them relaxed. The shade, unstuck from its mortal shell … no longer clutching at it in terrified desperation, was still shuddering. Cantor held him gently in his fore-legs and continued to sing songs of reassurance and peace, his magic flowing from the living into the dead.

“I … I wasn’t that far gone, was I? I don’t … I don’t really remember it. Just ‘is voice … singing the screams away.” Magpie sounded unusually subdued. Even a little scared.

“You weren’t that far gone,” the old scholar lied. Both he and Magpie knew it to be a lie, but she was reassured anyway.

“I’ll sing out if somepony comes,” and away she went. Out the door rather than through the walls. Somepony had thrown up all sorts of wards of containment and forbiddance around the mausoleum probably just as soon as they had realized it contained one of the Trotting Dead. Magpie had bounced off of those magics once already. It had stung.

“Where … where?” the Admiral’s voice was deep and a little gravely. It suited him well. He sounded like somepony struggling to wake from deep sleep … or terrible nightmare. Perhaps both.

“We’re in your tomb, Admiral. Yes, you’re dead. You have been for quite some time. But that’s something we can deal with later.” Cantor’s voice no longer dripped with power and compulsion. It was still reassuring. Cantor helped the ghost of the admiral find his feet.

“He is dead too.” The admiral looked at the spectral unicorn standing by one wall. The admiral looked at Cantor, “You are not.”

“Quite right! Oh, and how rude of me, introductions are in order.” Cantor swayed slightly. He had used quite a lot of magic in calming the spirit, and was feeling drained in more ways than one. Cantor took a deep breath. “I am Cantor Mortalis, spiritualist … medium in training … speaker for the dead. Most of the living can neither really see nor hear you now that you’re out of your bones, so if you need something told to them, I’m afraid you will have to use me as your messenger.” Cantor’s smile was pale and wan. “At least until we can find someone else with my sort of magical gifts who is better suited to the job.”

Across the room, the ghostly unicorn snorted and rolled his eyes.

“That shade over there is the scholar, linguist, enchanter, and historian Morari.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Admiral Fairweather.” Morai’s soft, low voice, with its pleasant burr, managed to sound both polite and interested while Morari himself was clearly distracted by his studies. Morari ran a spectral hoof over one of the cracks in the walls. It had stopped bleeding. They all had. Indeed, the blood was drying up and vanishing away. So, some sort of ectoplasmic residue rather than true blood. That was somewhat reassuring. But only somewhat.

“You know me, sir?”

“But of course, Admiral. In this modern day the Wonderbolts are still ‘soaring higher’, and they are still based from the barracks you built for them back when you headed the squadron. Your name and deeds are remembered.” Morari cracked a smile, “Without my biography, which Cantor assures me can still be found tucked away in some of the less reputable libraries, the same could not be said for me.”

“Outside, keeping watch, is what remains of a young mare – we know her as the Thieving Magpie. Her manner may be rough, but her heart is golden.”

“One wonders who she stole it from,” Morari muttered. Cantor shot him an exasperated look.

“Right now, Admiral, I must humbly beg your pardon. I confess I am not entirely sure about the … manner of your … awakening. With your permission, I would like to conduct a thorough investigation of your tomb to see if I can determine how it was done.”

“You mean you didn’t awaken me?”

“No! I would never!” Cantor didn’t sound insulted so much as horrified. “I speak to those risen, I help them return to their rest. Disturbing the long sleep of the dead is … is …” words failed Cantor. His face spoke of his abhorrence eloquently enough.

“My apologies, sir. I meant no offense.” Fairweather’s tone was sincere.

“Cantor – best if we’re not interrupted, yes?” Morari gestured towards the unconscious constable in the doorway.

“Uh … yes. Right.” Cantor considered the fallen mare. Then his eyes brightened. “Hang on a tick.”

A few moments later she had been carefully dragged to one of the wrought iron fences in the cemetery. Cantor hoof-cuffed her to it. He used one of her kerchiefs and her belt to gag her. It was an inexpert job, as Magpie pointed out, but it should keep the constable from raising too much of a ruckus when she came too. He also removed her whistle and keys and set them carefully in her hat, which now lay some ways out of reach. Magpie seemed to find the sight of Cantor tying up the unconscious mare a little too amusing.

Hopefully Jon Quill wouldn’t go running straight to the police. With luck, they might have an hour or more of uninterrupted examination. Cantor only hoped that this time around, they’d find some hint as to why the dead had begun to rise in this unprecedented … and most distressing … fashion.

With a sigh, Cantor dug a well worn book of spells out of his satchel and flipped it open to a series of rituals designed to allow the perception of magical auras.

A few minutes of concentration later, and Cantor set about a search of the fire-blackened tomb with determination.

“A question, sir. Can you return me to … sleep?” The Admiral was frowning at the state of his tomb. He poked experimentally at one of his fallen ribs. It shuddered slightly at his touch, sliding an inch or two across the floor.

“I can try. It … well, my usual methods haven’t worked on Morari or Magpie. I may not be able to help you.”

“If you can not? What then?” Fairweather was curious.

Cantor winced.

“Then … well … then we would need to go get help.”

“From your mysterious friends in Albion?” Morari made no effort to hide his interest.

“Yes. They’ll have resources that can be of great assistance. Horsepower, money, contacts, access. They can help search for leads, for other disturbances, for information and solutions. And they might even be able to keep us safe during the process.”

“Safe from what, sir?” Fairweather frowned.

“The living have an unfortunate tendency to want to lock our dear friend Cantor away in madhouses.” Morari explained.

“What? Why?” Fairweather was startled.

“He talks to ponies who aren’t there. Ponies like you and I. Oh, we know we’re here. He knows we’re here. But they? They don’t know we’re here. And given the choice between believing Cantor is mad and believing Cantor talks to the dead, most find the former hypothesis more comforting. Wouldn’t you, if you were still alive?”

“Most like.” Fairweather frowned suddenly. “If this is the case, then can we trust these friends of yours not to lock you away, too, Cantor?”

“We can. Well ... that is ... even if we can't, it's not like we have a lot of other options. Or any other options, really. My friends in Albion are … uh … exceptional in a number of regards. Some of them would do almost anything for me. Far more than they should, in truth. And all of them already believe. Indeed, my special talent is how Dozy and I first met. No, belief wouldn't be the problem ...” Cantor, his eyes glowing faintly under the influence of the ritual magic he was employing, blinked twice. He continued thoughtfully, “And speaking of believers …” as glanced out of the open door.

“What? Oh no. What do you have in mind for Jon Quill?” Morari's tone was one of worry.

“I have an obligation to check up on him. Most of the living react … poorly … to encounters with the dead. If he doesn’t get his head around the idea properly, he could wind up in jail. Or Bedlam. I wouldn’t want that.”

“Obligation? Cantor, he jumped into this with all four hooves! You couldn’t have beaten him away from this story with a stick. You don’t owe Jon anything. Meddling with him could put you in danger. You take on enough work as it is, you don’t need to help him come to terms with what he saw here tonight.” Morari did not sound pleased at all.

“I don’t see it that way, Morari. Once we finish here, we’ll go check up on him.”

“I see sir is a Gentlecolt. Gentlecolts repay their debts and follow through on their obligations.” Fairweather gave Cantor an approving nod.

Morari sighed. “Very well. Admiral, it has been … some time … since either of us were alive. I have been working hard to catch up on recent events. If you like, I could help you to understand some of the changes the centuries have wrought. It will make your transition a bit easier.”

“Many thanks, sir …” Fairweather suddenly blinked in surprise. “Did … did you say centuries? As in more than one?”

“I did indeed!”

7. Crossroads

Cantor poked his head into his third pub since leaving the graveyard.

“I’m looking for a … uh … friend, he’s … probably not doing too well.”

The unicorn bartender continued polishing mugs, holding the rag with magic. The room was oddly quiet for a Friday night. Well, technically Saturday morning, Cantor supposed. The bartender jerked his head towards the back room. He gave a little grimace as well. Already this looked more promising than the last stops.

“Oy! Found ‘im!” Magpie poked her head through the wall from the rear room. That was always a bit distracting, even when she wasn’t emerging from a framed poster of Luna.

Cantor hobbled to the back. His limp was always worse when he was tired, and right now he was bone weary.

The back room was deserted, save for Jon Quill. The reporter was slumped over a bar-table, half-empty bottle in hoof, weeping. His hat, and the press-pass he usually had tucked into the brim, were stuck to a dart board by a dozen darts. Most of the stools around his table had been knocked over. His note pad had fallen to the floor, and his pencil had been broken in two. A fruity smell hung in the air.

Cantor took a deep breath and steeled himself. If Jon snapped, it wouldn’t be the first time Cantor had received a beating for acting as a go-between from the great beyond.

“Hey, Jon … are you all right?” Cantor packed as much soothing concern as he could into the phrase … well, as much as he could apart from using magic. Jon was in no fit state to lean on that way. The backlash when a minor friendship charm wore off would undoubtedly be far worse than just taking up front whatever fear or rage Jon needed to let loose.

Jon’s head snapped up from the table. His eyes were wide, red and bloodshot … from tears and drinking both.

“You!” Cantor had rarely heard somepony slur a single syllable word. That took skill. And dangerous amounts of booze.

“Yes, Jon. It’s me.”

“You knew!” Jon sounded outraged. “You knew!” He sounded hurt. “You … knew ….” He sounded betrayed. He was also swaying on his seat.

Cantor hobbled over and took hold of one of Jon’s shoulders, steadying him. From the growing bruise on the side of his face, the reporter had already slid to the floor, hard, at least one time too many this night.

“I knew. I’m sorry.”

Jon started to cry again.

“Sh-shut up … you … you …” Jon took another long swig from his bottle. Peach schnapps. That was a little surprising, Cantor would have figured Jon for a cider stallion.

“’e a lightweight or sumthin’?” Magpie sounded curious.

“I doubt it, judging from the shattered glass in the corners, I’m guessing that’s his third bottle. Maybe his fourth. Even little earth ponies can usually hold their liquor surprisingly well.” Morari sounded reflective.

“I say, Morari, will I become thirsty? I had not even considered that. How would I go about eating or drinking?” Fairweather was suddenly a bit worried.

“No, Admiral, you shan’t become thirsty, nor hungry, nor sleepy. Many of the ruder drives and passions that come from having a body are no longer a source of trouble or inconvenience.”

“Ey, now! Don’t’cha glare at me when yer talkin’ about ‘rude passions.’ I ain’t that sort o’ filly!” Magpie was all affronted marely dignity.

“I wasn’t … hmph … you’re incorrigible.”

Jon finished his drink, “You … knower!” The amount of schnapps in the bottle had noticeably diminished.

Cantor carefully removed the bottle from Jon’s grip and used his magic to screw the cap back onto it.

“Easy, there Jon. You’ve had quite a shock. You’ll pull through, though, I’m sure of it,” while Cantor sounded sure, his expression seemed a bit doubtful. “Right now, though, we need to get you back to bed. It’s late.”

“’s early.” Jon corrected him somewhat petulantly.

“Quite right. It’s very early and you ought to be sleeping.”

“Sleepin’? S-sleep? ‘e’s …” one of Jon’s hooves shot out in an accusing manner, “ ... tha one what … what ought to be sleeping!”

“Why is he pointing at you, Morari?” the Admiral’s expression was quizzical.

“I have no idea.” The old scholar was mystified.

“Prolly ‘cause that’s the direction of the corpseyard.” Magpie squinted one eye and looked over at Morari, calculating the relative position of the drunken reporter, the graveyard, and ghost. She shrugged and added, “… roughly. Pretty good sense of direction fer somepony five sheets to tha wind.”

“Is it not ‘three sheets?’” The Admiral raised one eyebrow in an inquiring fashion.

“You see ‘ow legless ‘e is? That’s more ‘n’ three I reckon.” Magpie nodded sagely.

“How ‘m I s’posed to sleep knowin’ … knowing … know. No. Thing. Nothing!” Jon giggled and leaned heavily against Cantor’s shoulder.

“Easy there, Jon. Easy. I’ll get you home. Where are you staying?”

Jon mumbled something largely indecipherable.

“Did any of you catch that?” Cantor quietly asked. Had any other ponies been present, they would have likely found it strange that Cantor was addressing what appeared to be the empty places in the room.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Magpie answered.

“Magpie!”

“Wot? ‘s wot Master Quill just mumbled. ‘e don’t know and ‘e don’t care.”

“Oh.” Cantor sighed. He thought for a moment. Then he grimaced. “Well, Jon, I wager the floor of my suite is more comfortable than this place. It’s certainly less sticky. And there are pillows to go with the carpet.”

“’illos!” Jon smiled. Then frowned. Then glared. “Knower!” he hissed, which was, Cantor thought, rather impressive given that under normal circumstances that word had no sibilants whatsoever.

Cantor got one of Jon’s forelegs over his shoulders. Between Jon’s drunken state (legless, Cantor found himself thinking, was a very good term for it) and Cantor’s old injury, the two of them made quite a sorry sight as they began a slow, lurching progress out from the back room. Cantor had fetched Jon’s much perforated hat and pass with his magic.

Thankfully, the bed and breakfast was only about two blocks away.

Less thankfully, the bartender interrupted their progress towards the door with a very authoritative sounding, “Excuse me, sirs.” It wasn’t a yell, as such, but the tone was on the harder, louder, and more unfriendly side of ‘civil.’

Cantor stopped, Jon’s head came up and cracked Cantor a good one in the temple. Wincing, Cantor replied, “Yes?”

“Shite. ‘e want’s money. Shoulda tried ta find a way out the back.” Magpie muttered more to herself than the others.

“Somepony is going to need to pay for all of that,” the bartender jerked his head to indicate the backroom.

Jon was muttering. Nothing helpful, unfortunately. “’Suppos’ta … ta be a dark ‘n’ schtormy night. Why’snot schtormy?”

“Alas, my friend here is in no fit state to make proper payment. I am sure he will be more than happy to arrange to make it up to you come morning.”

Cantor leaned. He leaned as hard as he could with what mystic strength remained in him.

The bartender’s eyes started to glaze over, then he shook himself a bit and gave Cantor a deeply suspicious glare. “Here now, sir. None of that! Payment. Forty bits.”

“I say! That is some expensive schnapps!” Fairweather sounded surprised.

“It did look like the good stuff, Admiral. Top shelf. And prices have changed a bit since last you had cause to go shopping.”

Cantor winced. This was hardly an auspicious time for that charm to fail.

“I do not have that kind of money on me, sir. And neither does he.”

“Cantor, you do still have that ring I told you to pick up.” Fairweather was frowning contemplatively.

“What? Are you sure?” Cantor lowered his voice, but the bartender’s suspicious glare grew more unfriendly. Ponies who talked to themselves were usually trouble.

“It should more than cover the tab. Leave it as collateral and this … you said his name is Quill? … this Mr. Quill can redeem it come morning.” The Admiral gave Jon and Cantor a considering look. Noting the lateness of the hour, Jon’s stupor, and Cantor’s exhaustion, he amended his earlier statement, “Make that ‘reclaim it tomorrow noon.’”

“What’s this, then?” The barkeeper made a move to come out from behind his bar, but Cantor forestalled him with a raised hoof.

“This should cover it, I believe. And then some. Consider it collateral. Mr. Quill here will be by tomorrow to repay you and retrieve it.” Using a touch of levitation, one of the simplest magics available to any unicorn, Cantor took the ring from his satchel and passed it over to the frowning bartender.

The bartender appraised it quickly, noting the age and the rubies set in it. Both his eyebrows went up.

“If you please, sir, it’s late. I need to get Jon to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day. And it will be here far too soon.” Cantor, in the midst of his exhaustion, spoke with a quiet dignity.

The bartender hesitated for another moment. Then he nodded. He took the ring.

“Very well. Move along, and mind your friend doesn’t make a habit of this. He was raving some nonsense about spooks and haunts when he came in here. We’ve heard far too much foolish talk like that around Whitstable this past month. He could get into a lot of trouble if he keeps it up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It took two stops for rest, and one for Jon to be sick, but they made it back to the bed and breakfast. Cantor arranged an improvised blanket pile, a handy bucket, and some spare pillows for his unexpected guest and then he fell onto the bed.

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

The sun was shining brightly, the gulls making a merry ruckus outside the open window, and the salt sea air was blowing cooly in when Cantor abruptly sat up in bed.

“Jon Quill!”

Cantor looked around. There was no sign of the reporter. The blanket and pillow pile was messily empty. At least it didn’t look like Jon had been sick again.

“He is downstairs, chatting up Mrs. Muir, the mare of the house. As of the last report, he is on his second round of breakfast, and is getting a tray together for you. I hope you are fond of blackberry jam. That disreputable young filly Magpie is keeping a close watch on him. Morari is graciously running reports up to me. I am admiring the view. And you have just awoken after some much needed sleep.” Admiral Fairweather ticked off the points one at a time. He then turned back towards the open window.

The ghost adjusted his hat. Odd that he should still have it, and his formal dress jacket (complete with a considerable display of medals), when the other two wore no spectral clothing, apart from Morari’s glasses. Cantor supposed the attire must have been quite important to him in life.

“The sea remains beautiful. And perilous. The sea never changes, yet it is always changing.” The Admiral was smiling. He looked peaceful. Contented.

So why couldn’t they be returned to their supposedly eternal rest? Cantor shoved that thought to the back of his head. There were other matters of greater immediacy (if not greater urgency) to attend to.

“Is he … coping?”

“He has got two heads on him.”

“Pardon?”

“The aftereffects of too much strong drink. He suffers them.”

“Oh, yes. Hungover. He would be. I meant about last night.”

“He seems to be fine. I could not say for sure.”

“And you?”

“It was a rude awakening. I am adjusting.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“This is far better than remaining trapped in that terrible half-sleep would have been. Thank Celestia I do not remember any of it clearly. No, you have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Mortalis. Thank you for your assistance. I will not forget your aid. And Gentlecolts, as I said, repay their debts.”

The Admiral paused, his expression became serious – almost lost in thought. “Also, when you speak to Jon next kindly convey my deepest apologies for the nature of our … introduction. I … “ Fairweather struggled for words, and concluded with a sigh, “… I was not myself.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I gather from what was said that, after your examination of my tomb in the small hours of the night, you gleaned nothing of use or significance from it?”

Cantor winced and nodded.

“So, then, have we a plan for what to do next? I trust I do not overstep the bounds of taste and courtesy by including myself in this ‘we.’ From what Morari says, the researches you are about will be of very direct and personal concern to me. I would be included in your efforts, and render what aid and assistance an old war-horse like myself can provide.”

“I’m always glad of the help. And yes. Unfortunately. The plan at this stage is to fall back to Lunadun and try to make contact with some dear friends of mine there.”

“Pardon, Cantor – but you do not sound enthused.”

“I’m not, Fairweather. I’m not.” Cantor’s voice found a mix of bitter and sorrowful that shaded into wry. “You might not have noticed, but my presence and activities are not universally beloved. The reactions other ponies have to what I do … well … disbelief and ridicule are on the kinder end of the spectrum. Frequently, those who think me mad do so because they are giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

Cantor took a deep breath. “My friends themselves walk upon a knife’s edge. The barest breath … the merest hint of scandal, could push them into the abyss and destroy everything they’ve spent so much time building. A fall would cost them their livelihood. Their place in the world.” Cantor swallowed once, hard. “It would cost some of them their lives.”

“Ah. I understand now. You worry your reputation – whether as a mad-pony or as a consorter-with-spirits – will tarnish theirs and bring them to ruin. I see the time honored tradition of guilt by association is alive and well in this modern Equestria. Would that it were deader than I.”

“That would be a relief, to be sure!”

“Good morrow, Cantor. Glad to see you’re awake. Master Quill is ten paces behind me.” Morari, having walked through the door, settled himself onto the room's lone chair.

“Good morrow to you, Morari. And thank you for the warning.”

Jon Quill didn’t bother knocking. He was juggling a tray that was particularly full of breakfast. There was rather a lot of blackberry jam for the hot buttered toast. Magpie trailed in behind him.

“Good morning Cantor!” Jon sounded surprisingly chipper. Especially considering that he was also obviously nursing a massive head-ache. The sound of his own voice made him wince, but he bore the discomfort like a stallion.

“Good morning, Jon.” Cantor pitched his voice low and soft. Jon gave him a grateful nod, and began unloading the tray onto the table beside the bed.

“Breakfast in bed, eh?” Cantor shook his head in bemusement.

“Least I could do.” Jon settled into the chair. Morari, knowing that Cantor found looking at a pair of overlapping ponies rather disconcerting, sighed, stood up from the chair, and went to stand by the Admiral. It was a nice view out the window.

Cantor started eating. He was a lot hungrier that he had expected. Five minutes into his breakfast he realized that he had never seen Jon Quill keep this quiet for this long. A long drink of tea later and Cantor tried to think of a way to broach the topic of the previous night’s revelations.

“So …” Cantor began, but couldn’t find anything else to say.

“Yes.” Jon nodded. “So, indeed. So about last night.”

“Yes,” Cantor replied.

“The Trotting Dead.” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“Yes.”

“The Trotting Dead!”

“Yes, Jon. One of the Trotting Dead. What about him?”

“Him?” Jon sounded rather shocked. “Don’t you mean ‘it?’”

Cantor sighed and took another sip of tea. It was good. He might need another pot before the morning was over.

“No, I meant him. You saw the vortex of unnatural energy. You saw the blackened bones of a pegasus hovering there.”

“It was horrible!” Jon shuddered and looked away.

Cantor paused for a moment. Long enough for Jon to turn back and meet his gaze.

“It was far worse for him.” Cantor’s tone was solemn, his voice quiet. There was a finality about his statement, Jon felt.

Jon blinked, suddenly unsure of what to say. The stabbing pains in his head didn’t help matters much.

Cantor sighed. “I know what you saw. Do you want to know what I saw?”

Jon actually thought about that for a moment. When he spoke, it sounded almost as if his own answer was a bit of a surprise, “Yes. I do.”

“I saw Admiral Fairweather, one of the great leaders of the Wonderbolts in a bygone era. A stallion of grace and greatness. A gentlecolt. A legend.”

“But … but that … that thing …”

“I saw Admiral Fairweather. He was screaming Jon. I could hear him, even if you couldn’t. He was stuck in that terrible magic and he was screaming. I hope you never have cause to truly understand his terror, his pain, his confusion. The living cannot scream like that. The living have to pause to draw breath.”

Jon said nothing. His face still wore an expression of horror, but the type of horror … the reasons for it … were starting to shift. Jon Quill was concentrating, Cantor saw. He was listening. Really listening. Jon Quill was beginning to understand. To think through the ramifications of what he was hearing.

“Ponies think me mad because where they see nothing … or they see one of the Trotting Dead, I see the pony themselves, whether in or out of their bones. I hear them when they speak, and they respond to me. They listen.”

“Sweet Celestia …” Jon barely whispered.

“Admiral Fairweather asked me to pass on a message to you Jon.”

Jon started. “To … me?”

“Yes. Admiral Fairweather wishes to convey his deepest apologies for the nature of his introduction to you. He wishes you to know that he was not himself at the time.”

“I … uh … thanks?”

Cantor nodded. He took another few bites of fruit.

“I’ve got some questions, Cantor.”

Cantor smiled. “I figured you would. Ask away.”

“You were using your magic on that th- … on the Admiral. What were you doing, exactly?”

“I was helping free his mind and, thus, his spirit from the magic he was trapped in. I soothed and quieted him. I convinced him to rest, relax, and let go.”

“Oh. O.k. … uh … did … did that work? Is he back in the afterlife? Or, you know, whereever?”

“It worked in that he’s not trapped in the vortex any more. And he’s not clinging obsessively to his bones. He has been recalled to himself. But no. The Admiral’s shade has not yet been properly laid to rest.”

“Can you lay him to rest?”

“I don’t know. I haven't had any luck with his particular sort of haunt.”

“Are there others like him around?”

“Yes. At least two.” Cantor looked suddenly distressed, “Possibly more. I don’t know.”

“Is this … normal?”

“No. It’s not. It’s very, very wrong.”

“So, why is this happening?”

“I don’t know.”

Jon paused to consider. Considering make the pain in his head worse.

“Uh. How long has this been going on?”

Cantor frowned, “Hmm. I don’t know – I first found one of those vortexes fairly late last year. I’ve been talking with dead ponies ever since I got my cutie-mark, but I’d never seen or heard of anything like that before.”

“And you’ve found …” Jon labored to recall what had been said moments before, “ … two more, yes? Three total?”

“Yes.”

“Is it … is it something … uh … natural? Or is somepony doing this to them?”

“I don’t know.” Cantor heard his voice crack under the strain – the feeling of helplessness, the lack of progress ... most of the time Cantor tried not to let it show. He took another sip of tea to calm himself. “Sisters preserve, I just don’t know.”

After a moment of quiet. Cantor added, “You aren’t taking notes?” Tone and cadence. It was clearly a question.

Jon Quill began to chuckle, then laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. More the noise accompanying a painful joke at one’s own expense.

“Notes? Notes? And whatever would I do with notes, Cantor?”

Cantor was surprised at the harshness in Jon’s voice, the bitter mirth as the journalist bared his teeth at the world in something that was almost, but not quite, like a grin.

“All my life I’ve wanted a true mystery. A story with teeth. Something real and wild and wonderful. Now I’ve got it. And it’s, like, super important. The Trotting Dead are real! They aren’t fables, or bogey-men to scare misbehaving foals. They aren’t just Nightmare Night stories. They’re real. Really real. Ghosts, zombies, skeletons, spirits ... all of it!”

“The Trotting Dead, Cantor. The Tartarus Damned Trotting Dead.”

“And me? I’m a reporter … a reporter,” and the bitterness dialed up another notch, “… for the Yellow Star.”

There was a brief pause.

“I can’t write about this, Cantor. I can’t.” Jon brushed at his eyes, wiping away the start of tears.

“No one would believe me. And this is too big, too bad, too important a thing not to believe. It’s the story of a lifetime, and I can’t even tell it.”

Cantor considered this for a moment.

“Well … what if you wrote a shocking expose about how, in spite of all the rumors, the disturbances at Admiral Fairweather’s grave had nothing whatsoever to do with the Trotting Dead? Chalk it all up to mass hysteria? School-pony pranks? Swamp gas?”

“Could you get that story printed in the Star?”

Jon’s eyes grew wide. The grin that slowly spread across his face was a delight to behold. He leapt from his chair and gave Cantor a somewhat too enthusiastic hug (much to Magpie's delight), then began to dance around the room, while proclaiming, “Cantor! You madpony! You maniac! You genius! That’s brilliant! That’s perfect!”

Cantor smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“If there’s anything I can ever do …” Jon trailed off.

“Well … actually …”

“Yes?”

“I have to get back to Lunadun. My personal resources are exhausted, and this trail has come to a cold, hard end. To have any real chance of figuring this out, I’m going to need help.”

“You’ve got mine!”

Cantor blinked at the sincerity of Jon’s enthused exclamation.

“Th-thanks, Jon. I don’t usually hear that … well … not from the living anyway.”

Jon nodded graciously, then winced as he sat down hard in the chair again. “Woo … oh, my head. Shouldn’t have oughta have had those last … uh … few bottles?”

“It was a rough night.” Cantor felt this was something of an understatement.

“Yeah. Anyway, what can I do to help?”

“I’ll need somepony to stay in Whitstable and dig up more information about the initial event. Who was involved, what they saw, were there any other ponies that seemed to have … I don’t know … precipitated the whole thing.”

“Like a cult? An evil necromancer?”

Cantor rolled his eyes. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. Regardless, you’re better suited than I to make those inquiries.”

“Will do! Anything else?”

“The Admiral paid for your bar-tab last night with a signet ring. Would you kindly retrieve it for him by making good on your bill?”

Jon blushed. “Of course. What will you be doing?”

Cantor shook his head. This was a path he hadn’t wanted to take, but all the other roads had led nowhere. And it wasn’t like he could just sit at the crossroads and do nothing, nor could he walk away and pretend there wasn’t a very real problem that somepony had to address. Cantor only hoped that this last road didn’t lead to the gallows.

“I’m heading back to Lunadun, as I said. I’ve some friends there who could potentially help, although getting them involved in this kind of mess is very risky. For them much more so than me. But I’m officially out of other options.”

“Excellent.” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Say, you’re not just trying to ditch me, are you?”

“Oy, yes!” Magpie sounded quite certain on that point.

“ … maybe?” Morari sounded more doubtful.

“I say, that is not very sporting you two.” Fairweather was displeased.

Cantor grinned, “I doubt I could manage it if I tried. When you’ve got something to report, go to the National in Lunadun, leave the message for me there. Assuming things go well, it will then get to me.”

“And if things aren’t going well?”

Cantor snorted, “Check the papers! There will likely be some shocking story about it all.”

8. Crimes

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!"

10. Decisions

Backstage it was a party. A very exclusive party. The entrances had security – not the usual pony bobbies, but pairs of zebras in historical costume, complete with pole arms. The overall feel of their dress – heavy coats, fur hats, with colorful fringe and sashes – was more cold-north rather than jungle-warrior. Valentina didn’t have Vivian’s eye for fashion, but she was thinking “Stalliongrad-chic” of a century or three past. The spear-axe-thingies looked worryingly functional and not merely decorative.

Thretan told one of the zebras, a battle scarred mare with considerably more gold hanging off of her than the others, “This is Cantor. Remember him.” Cantor gave the zebra a smile, and she responded with a nod.

Past the velvet rope Cantor and Valentina found themselves amid a swirl of socialites and nobility, along with actors, actresses, and reporters. There was festive music playing, a table loaded down with food and drink, vases of flowers, parts of sets, and piles of props.

Valentina looked around for more changelings. She didn’t see any, which didn’t actually mean anything she supposed. Thretan still looked like a young Katherine Hoofburn. Valentina started trying to spot other out-of-place actors, old legends of stage and screen walking around in young bodies. Again, she didn’t see any. She did spot a few ponies sporting the pins – a beehive, the letter “H” and a zero. Hive Naught. The pins tended to blend in with the jewelry most of those in attendance were sporting.

Valentina began feeling distinctly under-dressed. She brightened up her smile, and the mischievous twinkle in her eye, to make up for it. When you haven’t jewels to wear, make your expression shine for you, her grandmother had told her. Even if you felt out of place, project a feeling of assurance and you’ll usually fit in. Valentina had discovered that just focusing on the fun could take a lot of the sting out of an awkward social situation. So she ignored some of the ruder stares, and started trying to guess at who was who in the crowd of minor celebrities.

Cantor still looked tired. And he was limping more than usual. Valentina remained beside him, holding on to his fore-leg, as much to help keep him upright as to keep from being separated. He gave her a grateful smile. She was still a little angry at him for keeping this sort of secret from her, though he would doubtless apologize far too much if she brought it up. That she understood why he’d refrain from discussing these “dear friends” of his didn’t make her anger any less, but it made forgiving Cantor easier. She also wondered what other secrets he had. What had Thretan meant by this Magpie being one of his “other friends?”

Thretan left the two of them by the punchbowl, Valentina caught something about “Dozy” and “dressing room” and the name “Ziggler” again. Cantor just nodded.

In the ten minutes that Thretan was gone, a rather tipsy baronet hit on Valentina. Which was, she felt, both flattering and rather off-putting. He had a nice set of wings, though. In other circumstances, she would have been quite interested in some flirting with the upper classes at a swank get together. It could be jolly good fun. Especially when one was party crashing! At the moment, though, Valentina was still coming to grips with the nature of the local acting troupe. So Valentina deflected the baronet’s interest, using skills she had honed over her time as a stewardess for the Grav Zeppelin airship lines. Bored, rich, drunk ponies getting a little hoovesy and inappropriate was hardly new to her.

What was new, and quite amusing for Valentina, was then watching the baronet turn to hit on Cantor. Valentina tried not to giggle as even Cantor, who seemed incapable of picking up a hint, began to realize that the noblecolt in question might be … interested.

Ordinarily, Valentina thought, throwing hints at Cantor would be like bouncing a rubber ball off a brick wall. A trivial amusement that made no impression on anypony involved. Valentina was tempted to whisper her naughtier observations about the baronet’s smooth innuendos in Cantor’s ear … but from the way Cantor was acting, it was almost as if somepony else had beaten her to the punch. Cantor, Valentina could tell, didn’t canter that way. He was a stallion for the fillies, not a stallion's stallion nor a colt for all seasons. Cantor handled it all graciously enough. And in the end the baronet, still smiling, drifted off to flirt outrageously with some of the other socialites in attendance. Valentina doubted the noble would be going home alone tonight, assuming that was what he was actually after. Some ponies just enjoyed the game.

Katherine Hoofburn … no, not her, not really ... it was Thretan, returned. She led Valentina and Cantor through the milling swarm of ponies to a small room in the back. Cantor looked relived when the door shut on the roar of the party. He hadn’t looked like he was enjoying either the noise or the crowd.

The dressing room had a small table, a mirror, several bits of costume, and an assortment of chairs. One of them was already occupied. Valentina stared. Another changeling. It wasn’t Dozy. This one was not bothering to wear a disguise. His left eye was dark and covered with cracks – spider-web shatter lines from an old injury. He was also chewing on a … stick? It looked like a stick.

“Cantor, dear colt, and miss Valentina. Bob here will keep an eye on you while I go gather the others.”

“’Keep an eye on them?' Cute, Thretan. Cute. As always, you’ve a cutting wit.” The changeling’s voice had an insectoid buzz, a hum running beneath it.

Thretan gave Cantor a hug. “If you need anything, dear, just let Bob know. He’ll handle it for you.”

After she left, Cantor stepped forward and reached out a hoof, “Hi Bob. I’m Cantor Mortalis. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

The changeling extended a hoof of his own, the limb was oddly riddled with holes. And even the parts that weren’t seemed cracked and pitted – like leather that somepony had accidentally splattered powerful acid upon.

“Hi Cantor. We haven’t. Pleasure’s mine. I’m Bob.” The changeling put an unusual emphasis on his name. Cantor noticed and raised an eyebrow. “I was Bob before I joined Naught.”

“Really?” Cantor sounded extraordinarily pleased. “Did you come up with that yourself? If you don’t mind my asking.” What sort of a question was that, Valentina thought to herself.

“Nah, I don’t mind. And yeah, I did come up with it myself. It’s funny how the Naughts have taken on that tradition. One of the reasons I felt I would fit right in here.”

“Have you been with Hive Naught long? Are they treating you well?”

Valentina thought Bob looked a little surprised by the second question. Even touched.

“Huh. I can see why Dozy likes you. Yes, its been a while now. And they treat me better than my old Hive ever did.”

Valentina decided to speak up, “I’m sorry, Bob, but this is all quite new to me. What was that about your name?”

Cantor looked and Bob, almost as if asking who should explain it.

“I got this,” Bob put down the stick. “Hello miss. I’m a changeling. Don’t know if you noticed,” Bob’s voice seemed uniquely suited to conveying a dry, biting kind of humor. Valentina had the sudden thought that Bob really should try a stint as a stand-up comedian.

“Changelings are hatched into Hives, and Hives aren’t big on individuality. Concepts like ‘pony-hood’ or, rather, ‘person-hood’ are notably absent from the general education and raising of most grubs. They’re not taught to think of themselves as independent creatures, but as parts of a greater whole. Cogs in the machine. And you don’t give gears names. You give ‘em numbers.”

Bob extended a holey hoof for Valentina to shake. She took it. It was warmer than she had expected. He grinned.

“So, now I’m Bob. Pleased to meet ya. But for most of my life I was just Changeling Drone zero-zero-eight-zero-eight. I wasn’t even the first drone with that number, just the most recent one of that number who hadn’t gotten eaten or had an unfortunately large rock fall on them.”

“Names … well, the Hive Queens have names. Hives have names. Drones? Most drones don’t get names. Even the ones who do rarely have names that you'd think were proper – mostly just names that reinforce that they're a small part of something bigger, part of the body of the Hive as a whole. Names like claw, fang, pterothorax, that kind of thing. Me? I didn’t even merit one of those so-called names. So one of the first things I decided to do when I left my old Hive was to get a name. A real name.” Bob took out a pencil and sketched “808” on the back of a discarded program. He pointed to it. “Looks kinda like ‘BOB’ if ya squint at it just right. So, Bob it is.”

Cantor was frowning. “A five digit Hive? That would have been one of the big ones, if I understand what Dozy told me about the numbering schema for unnamed drones.”

Valentina blinked in surprise. “There’s more than one Hive?”

Bob laughed. “Oh, yes. There are several changeling Queens, or at least there were last I heard. All of them competing for territory and resources. Assuming the Hive-Queens are still warring with each other (and none of ’em’s managed to establish dominance over all the Hives, forming a true Swarm) then here are places in the bad lands that you just do not want to go. Bloody war zones. And if a Swarm’s formed, then all the more reason to stay away.”

He began to chew on his stick again.

“Different Queens, different specialties. Most of ‘em nasty. Back in the day I was part of the Brood of Changes, a cog in the machine of the Queen of Transformation – better known to you lot as Chrysalis. She was trying for a Swarm. And for conquest.”

“And you just up and left?” Cantor sounded quite impressed, “I didn’t know that was even possible!”

“Eh, let’s say I got kicked out.” Bob grinned and tapped his bad eye.

Cantor winced in sympathy. “Did the Queen do that to you?”

“Nah! Some pony named Applejack did that back at Canterlot. I guess she must kick things for a living or something. That was a right fur-ball. No plan better than ‘get ‘em.’ Half a dozen Applejacks were dog piling on one of ‘em – and she seemed stronger than just a changeling copy, so I figured her for the real deal. I was an Applejack myself at the time, made a leap for her back end and … well …” Bob tapped his shattered eye. “Like I said. She must buck things for a living.”

“I came to in a pile of my Hive brothers, crawled out of it, stood up and said, ‘I’m alive!’” Bob struck an inspiring pose as he reenacted the moment. Valentina fought not to giggle.

“And then a wall of crystallized love, harder than diamond, hit me square in the face. Knocked me flying.”

“Ouch.” Cantor winced again. “I heard something about that.”

“I landed outside Trottingham.”

“What?” Valentina and Cantor’s shocked response came in unison.

Bob used hoof-gestures to reinforce his words, “I. Landed. Outside. Trottingham.”

He chuckled. “It was a powerful blast.” And suddenly the changeling was serious. “Never underestimate the power of love. There’s reasons us changelings feed on it.”

“Anyway, I survived. Lucky or tough, I don’t know. Chrysalis Hive is more known for its adaptability than its endurance. Goes along with the whole ‘Queen of Changes and Transformation’ thing.”

“I like to say that Applejack knocked some sense into me. Or that losing an eye made me ‘see things more clearly.’ Makes it sound all noble and mystical, some sort of epic tale of self discovery. Ziggler thinks it might just be brain damage and he’s probably right. Regardless, I took one look around, thought about trying to hike back to the badlands and find what was left of the old Hive, to see if somehow the Queen had survived all that … or a new Queen of Changes had taken her place … and then I said, ‘Buck that. I’m out.’”

“Been wandering UnHived ever since. Well, until I joined up with your lot. I like the way they think. You helped build something good here, Cantor. I was originally bred to be a construction worker first and foremost, so I like good building.” Bob grinned and began chewing on his stick again, “That’s probably why they’ve got me in charge of sets ‘n props!”

Cantor’s expression was one of growing amazement. “You did those sets?”

Valentina looked at Cantor in surprise. They had been nice sets, sure … but what was he on about?

“Yeah. What of it?” Bob paused in his chewing.

“But … the play of shadow, the sense of depth, the layering of the backgrounds, the grand illusion of space … the way perspectives shifted when they’d rotate a section. You designed all of that?”

“Yeah?”

“With no depth perception?” Cantor covered one eye. Valentina hadn’t even thought of that! She found herself impressed both by the creative skill that had been on display as well as Cantor’s own odd perspective on life that led him to immediately notice and appreciate it.

“Yeah.” Bob suddenly sounded a bit embarrassed. “It’s just a thing I do.”

“Dozy doesn’t have you in charge of sets and props just because you were a construction drone, Bob. He has you in charge of sets and props because Dozy has an eye for talent. And you’re a true artist.”

The others had drifted in over the course of the past hour. Dozy was out of both of his costumes. Thretan was still in hers, she looked good as Katherine Hoofburn. Ziggler, a particularly jolly and plump earth-pony who Cantor knew to be delightfully, charmingly corrupt, had settled himself onto a fainting couch. He had an impressively pointy mustache and well trimmed goatee – in addition his perpetually flushed face gave the appearance of being made up in a theatrical style. Cantor reflected that Ziggler was his oldest friend out of the lot, and his greatest threat at the moment. Hoofrey Bogart was also here. The real one, in his wheel-chair, with a blanket over his lap, looking more than a century old if he was a day. That old stallion really should be in bed, Cantor thought.

Cantor really should be in bed as well. Was it still only Saturday? It might be Sunday now, judging from the lateness of the show. This weekend excursion already felt like it had taken up at least a week’s worth of time and energy.

Bob had shown himself out. But he had made Cantor a tea-cup before he went. No tea, just the cup. Admittedly Bob did so by spiting up some of the wood-stuff he had been chewing on and molding the resulting mess with hooves and a touch of magic into an artistic and beautiful bit of faux glass-ware. It had quickly dried into something surprisingly hard and light. Cantor noted Valentina had looked both fascinated and a little ill while watching the process. The changeling had been quite forthcoming about his own sort of chew-it-up and spit-it-out construction techniques – much to Morari’s delight. Apparently this was a specialty of Bob’s; something not many other changelings could do.

Prompted by the ghostly scholar, Cantor had asked Bob quite a few questions. What raw materials and chemical concoctions could be consumed, half-digested, and then regurgitated … what properties in terms of color, hardness, transparency that resulted from different mixes … that sort of thing. Turned out Bob could produce surprisingly realistic replicas of nearly anything made from stone, metal, wood, clay, or glass. Even paper. Leather and cloth items weren’t something he could manage. More often than not, what Bob "built" tended to be light-weight, well insulated, fireproof and waterproof – though the right mixture of chemicals could dissolve his creations back into a puddle of goo which, Bob assured them, was itself quite tasty with a little salt and lemon. He claimed it made post production clean-up deliciously simple.

But now everypony was here. As was Valentina. Magpie reported that some Zebras were on watch outside and that Bob was surreptitiously patching holes, insuring there would be no conventional eavesdroppers.

Cantor couldn’t help but smile. The reception was warmer than he could have hoped for. Dozy in particular had given him an extra strong hug … which Ziggler, not to be out done, had followed up on by kissing both of Cantor’s cheeks.

Alas, the good times would not be rolling on much longer. Thretan noticed the gradual fall of Cantor’s smile and spoke up, “So, dear colt, what brings you back to us after all this time? You mentioned needing our help?”

“Help? Help? Cantor asking for help?” Ziggler puffed up in shocked disbelief. “Well I never thought I’d live to see the day. Sweet Cantor, always giving help and never asking for it. So, how bad is it? Are we talking money? Bodies to be made? Bodies to be removed?” Ziggler loved to talk. He rarely used five words when ten could be employed, or better yet, fifteen.

Cantor, though tired, grinned. “Oh, it’s bad. But first … uh …” Cantor’s gaze tracked over to Valentina, who had taken a seat between Ziggler and Mr. Bogart. She was flirting with the old actor, much to his delight.

“She doesn’t know.” Thretan stated. The room stared at Cantor in various states of disbelief.

“What?” Dozy sounded surprised, then he started to chuckle. “Cantor … you sly old rascal.”

“There wasn’t an appropriate time or place,” Cantor couldn’t keep a touch of exasperation from creeping into his voice.

“Well, old friend, then somepony should tell her.” Ziggler turned to Valentina and took one of her forehooves with a smile. He kissed it and said, “Cantor sees dead ponies.”

Valentina stared in disbelief, too shocked to even retrieve her hoof. “What?!”

“Cantor sees dead ponies,” Dozy confirmed. His tone was quite serious.

Valentina looked at Cantor.

He shrugged, “It’s true. I see dead ponies. Ghosts, haunts, call them what you like. I’ve been able to see them since I was quite young. Helping sing them back to … uh … sleep is actually how I got my cutie mark.”

“It is?” Valentina eyed Cantor’s flank. As always, his tattered cloak covered his mark.

He twitched it aside. A black skull, crowned with silver, and surmounted by a spray of colorful music notes.

Her eyes met his, then widened. “Oh … so … when you say the voices aren’t 'in your head' …”

“Then yes, he’s talking … or more often listening to … one of his ‘other friends.’” Thretan answered Valentina’s unfinished question.

Cantor sighed, “As I mentioned, Valentina, there is some doubt as to my sanity. Plenty of ponies are more comfortable with the belief that I’m cracked and the voices are all just in my head. Others, including the ponies here, are willing to take my apparently unique mystical gifts at face value.”

“Balderdash!” It was Ziggler. He was clearly pleased to have the opportunity to deploy such a grandiose word. “My sweet young filly, trust me in this, if in nothing else: Cantor is precisely what he has, on occasion, claimed to be. He is a spiritualist. A medium. A speaker with spirits from the great beyond. I have, in my exceedingly checkered past as a stage manager, dealt with frauds and con-colts, gypsies and fortune tellers, confidence tricksters, hustlers, stage magicians, crystal gazers, tarot readers, spirit board savants, proponents of automatic writing, swindlers, resurectionists, cheats, ectoplasmists, dowsers, crooks, performers, musicians, actors, artists, adulterers, prostitutes, and thieves of all varieties. I know every lying trick in the books. I know lying tricks so scandalous that no pony writes them down in books! As a result, I also know every word of double-speak and vague half-truth designed to convince the gullible that they too can hear one last message from dear, departed grandmother for a modest sum of bits. I’ve dealt with sane ponies and mad-ponies, the very wise and the very foolish, the entirely corrupt,” and here Ziggler proudly pounded his own chest, “and the entirely incorruptible,” and here he gestured, with a hint of hesitation, at Cantor, “So I can speak with considerable authority when I say this:

“Cantor is the real thing. The. Real. Thing.”

Ziggler dropped Valentina’s hoof and gave a sad sigh. It had been a good rant. “If only he weren’t entirely crippled by the possession of scruples we could have made so much money,” he turned his eyes on Cantor and his expression was comically sad. A tear even rolled down one plump cheek.

“I can vouch for him too,” Dozy added, dryly. “It’s how he first unmasked me back in my bad old days.”

“I … see.” Valentina gave Cantor a small, distracted smile. Thretan poured her a stiff drink. Valentina took it and tossed it down.

Cantor’s return smile to Valentina was intended to be reassuring. Cantor wasn’t sure how well he managed it.

“Yes. And my ‘other friends’ as Thretan calls them are the reason I’m here tonight.”

“Indeed, dear colt, would you be so kind as to introduce us?” Thretan smiled.

“That would be the polite thing to do, old boy.” Admiral Fairweather remarked.

Cantor nodded. “At the moment I’m traveling with three spirits, and have been working with one of them for going on a year now. Two of them accompanied me here from the mainland.” Dozy gave a little start and frowned. Cantor continued, “The first is a scholar by the name of Morari.”

“Morari the Maneless?” Ziggler’s eyebrows shot up.

“Er, yes. Read his book have you?”

“’The life and times of?’ More or less. It was assigned reading back at Oxherd for a sixth century literature class I studiously avoided.”

“How nice, somepony else who’s heard of me. Cantor, is Ziggler really what you’d call a friend? He seems … unusually disreputable. Even for this crowd. And I say that after having taken careful note of how the modern ponies of Albion react to the presence of changelings.”

“Morari is pleased you have heard of him, Ziggler. And yes, Morari, Ziggler is both a friend and entirely disreputable. His combination of being disreputable coupled with his being highly skilled at all the behind the scenes wheeling and dealing that makes a theatre … or any ‘entertainment industry’ endeavor ... run, and run well, is the reason Dozy and I first approached him about setting up Hive Naught.”

Ziggler grinned. He had been about to consume another cup-cake. He ate with surprising daintiness. “Quite right, Master Morari. A reputable agent would have taken one look at a changeling would-be actor and would have laughed them right out of his office.” Ziggler giggled, “Right out of his office, down the street to the constables, and straight into jail ... or the gallows.” Ziggler’s grin settled into something that managed to be both pleasant and wicked. “And, in doing so, they’d have lost out on being involved on the ground floor, so to speak, of an extremely lucrative business.”

Cantor nodded.

“Next we have a young filly I know as the Thieving Magpie. From her mannerisms, skills, and speech, I suspect she had a … checkered past … probably in the less reputable parts of Manehattan …”

“Ah,” Mr. Bogart nodded. He was fond of the city.

“… back when it was called New Amsteerdame.” Cantor continued.

“Ah?” Mr. Bogart frowned. “That was, what, a hundred years or more ago?”

“Oy, closer ta two.”

“She says it was closer to two hundred.”

“The third?” Dozy was quite interested.

“Admiral Fairweather. He’s been with me for … uh … almost a day.”

There was a moment of silence. Amid a chorus of “Whats?” came some specific questions.

“The Admiral Fairweather?” That was Bogart, who went on to mutter, “I’ve played that role a time or two.”

“Only a day?” That from Valentina.

“Cantor, dear, what have you been doing?” That was Threatan.

“Blessed Luna, not grave robbing! Please, Cantor, my sweet! Not again!”

It was the “again” in Ziggler’s wail that caught the room’s attention.

In the momentary pause as those assembled looked from Ziggler to Cantor and back again, Admiral Fairweather said, “Please convey my kind regards, and tell them it is a pleasure to make their acquaintance.” He said it with dignity and sincerity.

“Admiral Fairweather conveys his kind regards to the company, he says it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“That’s nice,” Dozy’s tone was the sort of bland that also said “but moving on to the real issue.” He continued, “Not exactly your usual sort of spooks, are they Cantor?”

Cantor shook his head.

“What do you mean?” Valentina asked. Others were looking to Dozy as well.

He tilted his head at Cantor in a considering fashion. “Cantor and I discussed his … calling … in great detail back when we first met. I was curious about it. He was kind enough to provide considerable insight. And this is sounding disturbingly unlike what he described then.”

“How so?” Bogart gestured towards a bottle. Thretan fetched him a drink.

Dozy hesitated, but Cantor nodded at him. He relieved he wouldn't have to go over all of this on his own.

Dozy sighed. “Well, first off, I've never heard of Cantor dealing with more than one ghost at a time. Two would be a stretch, but three? Nor do they usually wind up having to travel all that far, a few miles, a few tens-of-miles maybe. Across an ocean? Never.”

Dozy gave a little shrug, he seemed to be trying to decide how best to explain matters. “As I understand it, generally speaking when ponies pass on, there isn’t any sort of haunt or ghost left behind. I once tried figuring the odds. It’s rare. Not one-in-a-million rare, but rare. Back when he was actively traveling around looking for spirits in need of his help, he could go a month or more without meeting any. Other times it could be four or five in a week.

“But there were things in common with just about every one of the haunts he’s dealt with. One being that they usually hadn’t been dead all that long. Days, weeks, years … decades at the outside. Only rarely did he encounter old ghosts.

“You said the youngest of these three is two centuries in her grave? And we’re looking at, what, four and five centuries dead spirits as well? Any one of them would be some sort of oddity, just on that point, right?”

Cantor nodded. And he winced. “That’s not all, Dozy. These three haven’t got any … issues.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Valentina was speaking for quite a few of the assembled pony-folk, Cantor could tell.

Dozy nodded. Cantor thought he was looking increasingly concerned and distressed. Admittedly, Dozy's armored carapace was thicker and bulkier (looking in some ways more like an old suit of plate-mail – a real knight of a changeling) than the slimmer forms of Thretan or Bob. It was part of his having been one of Queen Chitin's brood back in the day. Both "Old Ironsides" (as that Queen had been known) and her Hive had a reputation for being unusually tough, hardy, and well armored. It still hadn't been enough to keep her Hive from falling in the wars.

The end result of Dozy's heritage made reading his expressions more difficult than it was for other changelings, those hatched to less bulky broods, but Cantor thought he knew his friend well enough to pick up on his growing distress. Although it was strange, Cantor thought, somehow Dozy's chitinous form seemed ... shinier ... than Cantor remembered it. Cantor stared, puzzled. Could it just be a trick of the lighting? No ... no, something about Dozy did look different from when Cantor had first seen his true form.

“That’s another odd thing then.” Dozy paused and then continued the explanation for the others, “As I said, most ponies … go on. The ones who, uh, linger do so because there is something deeply personal, strongly felt, and unfinished they are compelled to try to complete before they can let go and rest.”

Dozy got up and came around behind Cantor’s seat. The changeling rested a forehoof on Cantor’s right shoulder, it was a gesture of reassurance that Cantor found himself appreciating deeply.

“Most of the time, from what Cantor told me, they had somepony they loved. And they had some final message they needed, desperately needed, to pass on to that loved one. On rare occasions it was something practical – an otherwise unknown legacy, a hidden treasure, a secret life insurance policy. Mostly it was just a simple ‘I love you.’ Or one of its variants.”

The room was quiet. Ziggler betrayed himself by looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was a venal and immoral pony, but he wasn’t as entirely corrupt as he liked to pretend. Almost, perhaps, but not quite.

“Cantor would then track down the appropriate pony ... which is not usually too hard. You see, such is the nature of a haunting that the ghost tends to manifest quite near to wherever ... or whomever ... it needed to deal with to resolve its issues. Cantor would then convey the message or accomplish whatever tasks were involved in easing a troubled spirit’s mind. Then, voila!” Dozy waved a hoof. “The spirit would fade away.”

“They aren’t supposed to linger.” Cantor said. He could hear the tiredness in his voice. “When whatever so preyed on their mind ... the guilt for something unsaid or undone ... once that was properly addressed they just go back to sleep.”

Cantor eyed the three specters in the room. They had been talking among themselves. Cantor hadn't really been paying attention to what was said.

“They’re supposed to just … go back to sleep.”

“But these three.” Cantor sighed, “None of them have any unfinished business from their lives that would keep their spirits bound to this world. I’m sure of it. And not just because they say so. Ghosts with such business tend to be … fixated … fixated is a good word … on whatever it is they've left undone almost to the exclusion of all else. They’re so focused on that one thing that conversation with them will spiral back around to the object of their obsessive concern over and over again. Not so with these.”

“And,” Cantor swallowed hard. “None of these three were just standing or wandering around. Which is usually how I find ghosts.”

“What do you mean? How did you find these three?” Thretan asked.

Cantor shuddered.

“Easy there, my friend, just tell them. I know you’re tired, and I know it’s very distressing for you to remember, but if they are to help then they, like I, will need data.” Morari’s voice was soothing.

“The first one I found was Morari,” Cantor had shrunk back into his seat, his face had fallen. He looked and felt truly haunted by the memory. His tone, though was emotionless. Expressionless. It was the only way, Cantor thought, he could possibly get through a recitation of that event, given his current state of exhaustion. “Morari was still clinging to his bones … or what was left of them after all the centuries. He was … caught … in some sort of arcane vortex. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any sort of magic exactly like it. It was …” Cantor’s voice lost its dispassionate tone for a moment, “… it was evil.”

Cantor drew a breath, returning to a more clinical recounting of events, striving to once again keep some sort of emotional remove. But even Valentina, who had known Cantor barely a week, could tell “evil” wasn’t a word he threw around casually.

“Morari was screaming. He was terrified. He couldn’t stop. It was like he was caught in a perpetual nightmare, just on the edge of waking up, and the nightmare he was caught in was he, himself. There was no escape.”

“I had to help him,” Cantor’s eyes were leaking tears. He was so tired. He really should have waited until morning to tell them all. His voice was starting to go raw.

“Of course you did, my sweet colt. Of course you did.” Most of those present found it very strange to hear Ziggler striving to offer comfort. And even more strange to see he was good at it.

Cantor swallowed and nodded. He continued, “I tried talking … singing … what I usually did. It was like Morari could almost hear me, but that my words meant nothing. He was too frightened to do anything but scream. He couldn’t understand me. Couldn’t understand that it was going to be all right, that I was going to try to help him."

Another deep breath, “At Nighthaven I studied magics of compulsion and charm. Enchantment. Bewitchment. I wasn’t half bad. Against somepony weak willed, distracted, or simply unlucky, I can, in theory make them my very good and dear friend … for a few minutes at least. If I throw some real power into it, that can stretch out to an hour. Also, I can suggest outlandish courses of action. The words will worm their way deep into the mind, and twist the hearer’s thoughts until it all seems oh so reasonable. A century ago one of the Masters of the School got burned at the stake for dabbling in unconventional methods of mind control, as you may know. But there are plenty of perfectly conventional methods of mind control available for the discerning wizard. And while I may not truly be a wizard, per se, I always had a bit of a talent for … leaning … you could say … on the minds and spirits of those I spoke with. I learned several such tricks in my college days.

“So I leaned on Morari’s spirit. I leaned hard. I drew in my power and threw my most potent enchantment at him. I am your friend, it whispered in his mind. Your best friend ever. You should love me and listen to what I say. It is a magic that is ethically dubious to use. I employ it as rarely as I can.

“And it worked. I had his attention. His undivided attention. And he thought of me as his oldest and dearest friend. The sort of pony he would do anything for. The screams started to falter.

“So I tried compulsion … suggestion. You don’t want to be afraid any more, I said. You don’t need to fear. Just relax and let it all go. It will be all right. And I sang. I sang him children’s lullabyes.”

“It worked.”

“His ghost was like a pony just waking from sleep. He was himself again. He couldn’t remember what had happened though. What had … awoken him. He didn’t even know how long he had been …” Cantor trailed off.

“You don’t have to continue,” Dozy said. The changeling still had hold of one of Cantor’s shoulders.

“Oh, but I do. I must.” Cantor patted Dozy’s hoof.

“I don’t know how long he had been like that. After I recovered my mystic strength, I tried several varieties of compulsion to return him to sleep. With his permission of course. Morari had no reason to be awake. No unfinished business. And he rather wanted to return to wherever it is spirits go when they pass on. He couldn’t remember that either, his last memories were of dying. Then of ... something terrible. Then of my voice singing to him and his return to sanity.”

“Nothing’s worked. He’s still here. He has been very gracious about my total failure to aid him.”

“To quote Mr. Ziggler, that’s Balderdash. Even if I roam Equestria bodiless forever, you’ve already done more for me than I could ever hope to repay just by prying my mind loose from that … phenomena.”

“Thank you, Morari. That’s kind of you.” Cantor smiled. “He basically said I’m being a bit too hard on myself.

“We started doing research together. Looking into what could be causing this sort of thing. Theoretical magics involving the dead and the spirits of the dead. The sort of libraries I had access to didn't have anything as exotic as practical works on the dark arts. As you may expect, we had very little luck. Well, that is to say, I found a ritual in a very old book that purports to ward a corpse so that it cannot rise as one of the Trotting Dead, for a ten-day or thereabouts, but it’s had no discernible effect on these … unquiet haunts.

“While researching, we heard rumors about some fantastical hauntings. Oh, it was the dark of winter – and plenty of ponies see imagined horrors in the long nights of the year. We checked them out. Mostly it was imagination, frauds, hoaxers, charlatans of the sort Ziggler knows so well. One involved a particularly clever unicorn who was a skilled puppeteer, some black wire holding together bones, minor levitation, a come-to-life spell, and a ridiculous plan to scare folks away from an old cotton mill. That sort of thing.

“But there was a haunted house in Manehattan where we found a second vortex. And in it? Thieving Magpie.”

Cantor blinked a couple of times. Morari had just given Magpie a hug. Given how those two usually bickered, it was rare to see such an obvious show of compassion from the ancient scholar. Even rarer to see Magpie accept it and give the old unicorn a quick hug back.

“Her circumstances were … much the same. She, too, was stuck to her bones ... and while I can see spirits, anypony can see a skeleton thrashing about in a whirlwind of black magic. I managed to break her free in the same manner that I had freed Morari. She’s been a great help to us since then. Fearless. Clever. And an extra set of eyes and ears when and where I’ve needed them most.

“There were a couple of other disturbances that looked promising. But I was running out of resources quickly. This wasn't the sort of work one could do while holding down odd jobs. One lead involved heading south, towards the badlands. Another out Seaddle way. And one …” Cantor rubbed his eyes. “One in Whitstable. A cemetery fire where initial witnesses, in a state of panic, swore up and down that one of the Trotting Dead had risen and been trapped in the mausoleum. A cemetery fire that was rapidly contained, walled in, fenced off, and no pony was allowed near.”

“So I borrowed money from my sister, caught the fastest form of travel I could from Equestria to Albion, and last night I … uh …”

“You went grave robbing, my sweet.” Ziggler’s voice dripped sympathy.

“I crafted an entry into his sealed tomb and pried the good Admiral free from a most horrible and unnatural mystical event. He has thanked me for it. Repeatedly. I have his permission for everything I did there.” Cantor managed to strike a tone that implied all of that was quite proper.

“But ... even though this time Morari and I were able to study the vortex that held the Admiral, and searched his tomb afterwards for any sign of a disturbance that might have precipitated his awakening, we found nothing.” Cantor hoped he didn't sound as defeated as he felt. Judging from the expressions of the ponies around him, he suspected that hope was a vain one.

All was quiet for a moment. Then Ziggler, his tone all honeyed sweetness, asked “And Cantor, dear Cantor, how many of Whitstable’s finest are looking for you as we speak?”

“All of them Ziggler. All of them.”

“An’ Fether,” Magpie chimed in.

Cantor winced, “And … er … a Psychiatrist from Bedlam is hunting for me too. One who knows about me. My mother may have kind of, sort of, arranged to have me involuntarily committed … again … as a mad-pony.” He grinned, though there wasn’t much humor in it, “There’s a rumor going around that I think I can talk to the dead, you see. How ridiculous is that?”

“I helped smuggle Cantor off the Zeppelin and away from Doctor Fether!” Valentina had brightened up at the thought. She smiled at Cantor, “You poor dear. You need some rest. It’ll be all right, just as you said.”

“So,” Ziggler ticked off the points, “Out of money, out of energy, out of friends, hunted by Bedlam, and hunted by the police for crimes you’ve actually committed, your only defenses for your actions being that it’s ‘the right thing to do’ and that ‘the dead told you so,’ (because goodness knows it’s not like anypony else can actually verify your claims) … and you’ve come here for our help?”

Cantor grinned, “Quite right, old friend. I’m hoping you’ll be outvoted.”

“Outvoted?” Valentina was surprised.

Cantor nodded. “Yes. I haven’t approached my friends here at Hive Naught Productions because I know all too well the sorts of trouble this could get them into. It’s not like an association of actors which openly employs changelings is exactly on the right side of the law. I’ve been following what news about Hive Naught that I could, and I know enough to know that there are still more than a few areas where Hive Naught's practices are on dubious legal footing. If, indeed, they are on any kind legal footing at all.

“There are plenty of ordinary ponies who hate changelings on principal. And others in the theatre business who hate the competition that a really extraordinary group of actors could provide. As Thretan said, the reason Katherine isn’t here is that she’s back in Caster, where Hive Naught is based, keeping their enemies from bringing them all down.

“Helping me is … risky at best. A foolish, unprofitable, extraordinarily dangerous risk for them. That’s why I only came here as a last resort. I wouldn’t have come at all if there had been any other options for me.”

Cantor smiled. He might just nod off here while they argued the matter. Because there was going to be an argument, he felt sure of that. But first, “Ziggler is a dear old scoundrel of a friend. Part of what makes him perfect for his role here in Hive Naught is that he is able to be utterly cutthroat, as much as dear Thretan, when it comes to protecting his interests. And right now? Right now helping me is a threat to Hive Naught. And therefore, a threat to his personal prosperity and his golden, bright future.”

Cantor turned to address Ziggler. “Am I wrong in thinking that your argument will be something to the tune that I’m clearly wildly overstressed, possibly delusional, and that the best thing for all concerned is that I get a nice long rest in Bedlam where they will give me proper medical and psychiatric care … allowing Hive Naught to stay on the right side of the law and giving the rest of you time to look into the matter a bit more, just in case I might be correct about the whole ‘Return of the Trotting Dead’ thing?”

“Not at all wrong, Cantor, dear poppet. I love you like one of my own foals … but …” Ziggler sounded a bit sad.

“Ziggler, I’m two years older than you.” Cantor barely mustered up enough energy to be annoyed.

“True, and right now it looks more like twenty. A little vacation somewhere quiet would do you a world of good. And save us all from a world of trouble. I’m going to have to vote that we turn him over to the authorities. You will go quietly, won’t you, my sweet? Save us all the unpleasantness?”

“If that’s what you decide, I will. I don’t really have the strength to run right now. Even if I had somewhere else to go.”

“Who else gets to vote?” Valentina was giving Ziggler a genuinely angry glare.

“Dozy, Thretan, Bogart, and Hoofburn. Katherine’s in Caster, we’ve a quorum here, so she counts as an abstention.” Ziggler answered her question.

“We could alert her!” Dozy seemed quite willing to send somepony off that very minute.

“Too much time. Ziggler’s right. This has to be decided now. Tonight.” It was Bogart.

“Quite right! Listen to Mr. Bogart.” Ziggler rubbed his hooves together.

“And you forgot one, Ziggler.” Mr. Bogart went on.

“Eh?”

“Cantor gets a vote too.”

“What? He does not!” Ziggler did outrage well.

“He does so. This whole business was his brainchild. And even if he walked away from it all, he’s still listed as one of the co-founders. I’ve dealt with shady agents, too, Ziggler. Long before you were born. I know how to read a contract. And I know what ours says. Cantor.” Mr. Bogart leaned forward. “Gets. A. Vote.”

“Quite right! Listen to Mr. Bogart,” Dozy’s impersonation of Ziggler was spot on.

“Fine. Dozy?” Ziggler gestured at the changeling actor with a cupcake he had just picked up.

“I vote we help Cantor.” Dozy spoke with firm conviction.

“Thretan?”

Thretan didn’t answer. She looked lost in thought.

“Cantor, dear colt, how much risk to Hive Naught are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know. Harboring a wanted fugitive, aiding and abetting a pony on the run from the law. It wouldn’t be good, under the best of circumstance, if it gets out.”

“Worst case?”

Cantor shrugged, “Worst case the Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company would be dismantled and we would all be looking at terrible personal consequences. ... Jail,” he pointed to Bogart. “Jail and the loony bin,” he tapped his own chest. “Double jail plus bankruptcy,” he pointed at Ziggler. “Noose,” he pointed at Dozy. “Noose, fire, dismemberment, and a wooden stake through the heart,” he pointed at Thretan. After a slight pause he pointed at Valentina, “A stern talking to.”

“Your vote, Thretan.” Ziggler was insistent.

“I’m responsible for Hive security Ziggler, I will not make this decision lightly.” Thretan’s eyes were glowing green. Her voice was cold enough to shut Ziggler up. She turned back to Cantor.

“How far does this go? This wrongness? This trouble with the dead?”

“I don’t know, Thretan. Sisters preserve, I just don’t know.”

“Worst case, Cantor. I have to know.”

Cantor shuddered. “Worst case? Potentially all of them. Eventually. Everypony who has ever died in Equestria. Every pony who will ever die. All of them. And more each day until the time comes that no pony rests in peace. I hope ... sisters preserve, I pray ... it doesn't come to that.”

“Ah. I vote with Dozy. We help Cantor.”

“What?” Ziggler was outraged.

“You forget our place, Ziggler. You always do.” Thretan’s voice was back to poison, ice, and knives. Ziggler wasn't the only one to go pale at the sound of it. “The principals under which Hive Naught operates, the heart of the business which allows us to function at all, are clear to any changeling who joins. Those principals were hammered out by Cantor and Dozy before they ever sought your aid.”

Hints of an old pain, of a terrible despair, entered Thretan's icy tone as she continued, all while her gaze bored mercilessly into Ziggler, “We were UnHived. You are a pony. You do not … you can not know what that meant to us.”

Thretan took a deep breath, and the echo of old pain was replaced with an undercurrent of gratitude – surprised, unbelieving gratitude. “We were UnHived and this new Hive has taken us in rather than simply having us slain and consuming our flesh.”

Thretan sighed, there was a certain annoyance in her tone now, like a teacher who is repeating an old lesson to a particularly slow student. Her eyes narrowed, her unblinking gaze remained on Ziggler. “I remind you: Hive Naught Productions is not the Hive. It is a single Cell of that Hive.”

Pride now, as she continued, and as her turned her gaze on the other ponies in the room.

“Our Hive has a name. Its name is Equestria. Our Hive has no Queens. It has, in that place, four Princesses: Celestia, Luna, Cadence, and Twilight. We serve them. We serve all ponies who are our Hive brothers and Hive sisters. We protect them from the threat of other Hives, and from treachery from within.”

“If Cantor is right, this could potentially threaten all of Equestria. This could threaten the Hive. To speak of saving the Cell by sacrificing the Hive is to speak of betraying of all of our Hive brothers and sisters. Of all of ponykind.”

Thretan’s voice at last softened to something much less dangerous, but still quite serious.

“I shall, of course, abide by the will of this Cell we call Hive Naught. That is how things are done. But I urge you to reconsider Ziggler. Look beyond your personal interest, if you are able, to the good of others.”

Ziggler thought about that for a few minutes in the silence that followed Thretan’s speech. Then shook his head, “You know I can’t, my dear, scary lady. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. The company needs my sort of thinking if it wants to keep from being gobbled up or torn down by others who think and act as I do. I may be voting to save myself, but I’m also voting to save you all along with me.” Ziggler sighed.

Then Ziggler grimaced, “I assume Cantor votes for our help?”

“Correct.” Cantor nodded.

“Which leaves Katherine and Hoofrey, here.”

“I thought you said it would take too long to contact Katherine?” Dozy’s tone was not at all pleased.

“Did I? Well, I think this is far too important to leave up to a mere quorum. The full board needs to vote on something that risks the destruction of the Company! And if Hoofrey and Katherine vote with me, then it’s a tie. And we decide those by coin toss. As I recall, I called the vote, so I toss the coin.”

“You use weighted coins!” Dozy was indignant.

“You haven’t proved that. And even if I do, it has saved the company from many a ruinous financial decision.”

“A coin toss won’t be necessary,” Hoofrey Bogart said, quietly but firmly. “I’m casting my vote to help Cantor out, and bugger our earlier agreement, Ziggy. So even if Kat goes with you, that’s still four to two. Or three to two if you can get Cantor's vote recused by some legal trick or other. Either way, the motion to aid Cantor carries.”

“Fine!” Ziggler threw up his hooves in disgust, “It’s your funeral.” A moment later Ziggler paled and stated, “That ... that was in poor taste, even for me. My deepest apologies, gentlecolts and ladies. It would break my heart should I be forced to don the black on any of your behalves.”

Cantor smiled. He could tell Ziggler was truly sincere with that his last statement, even if Ziggler didn’t quite believe it himself.

Author's Note

For those curious as to the look of Hive Naught's Zebra guard's costumes – the Author would refer you to the broad category of Imperial Russian Army Uniforms in the Napoleonic era (the late 1700's through the early 1800s.)

The Author would also like to note (apropos of nothing) that Harold Ziggler's cutie-mark, while not referenced in the story, is a Red Windmill.

11. Cells

“Hey Copper! Copper copper copper!” Jon Quill tried rattling his cup against the bars of his cell again. It was a paper cup. The result was quite unsatisfactory.

“Hmm? Something I can do for you Mr. Quill?” The unicorn who poked his head around the corner had a perpetually cheerful disposition. His coat and mane were coppery, with a hint of green to them – more so in his mane and tail – and his cutie mark was some sort of hammer. While most ponies would be inclined to suspect it represented a judge's gavel, given the fellow’s profession, Jon couldn't help but think that it was actually a croquet mallet. Jon also found that his train of thought had hit a slight bump and his tongue stumbled along with it.

“Uh … ah … sorry Officer Pennyfarthing. I … uh … wasn’t calling for you in particular …” Jon trailed off, a little embarrassed.

Officer Pennyfarthing took a nibble from a muffin and smiled brightly. Even the color of his magic was coppery. “No worries, Mr. Quill! I’m used to it. The ‘copper Copper’ as it were. Do you need anything?” He grinned.

“I was hoping for another cup of coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Jon did his second best puppy-dog eyes. While he might break out his best puppy dog eyes for Pennyfarthing, it wouldn’t be for coffee.

Pennyfarthing nodded, “Black with two sugars, right Mr. Quill?”

Jon grinned, “Better make it four! That liquid tar you have in the break room is strong! Also …”

Officer Pennyfarthing had already ducked away to get the drink. A nice kid, Jon found himself thinking. By far the nicest of the local constables here in Whitstable. Part of that, Jon found himself thinking, was because Officer Pennyfarthing was an avid reader of the Star.

When Pennyfarthing came back, Jon picked up right where he had left off. “Also, I was going to ask, do you have any tin-cups rather than these flimsy paper ones?”

“Tin cups? I don’t think so, Mr. Quill. If you like, I could pick one up for you on my way home and bring it by tomorrow. Assuming you’re still here tomorrow. I’m sure they will have cleared up this business by then, though!” Pennyfarthing blinked. “Er, why do you need a tin cup?”

“They rattle better against the bars of my cell.”

“Oh! That makes sense.”

“I’m surprised you're still here Pennyfarthing. Wasn’t your shift supposed to end an hour ago?”

“Two hours ago, sir. And that’s being generous.” Pennyfarthing winced. “The wicked don’t rest, and so neither do Whitstable’s finest.” Pennyfarthing lowered his voice conspiratorially, “There was a series of break-ins and a small fire this afternoon. Lots of trouble. And, you’ll be interested in this, most of it was within a block or two of the graveyard. I heard some talk, sir, that they had to pull the guard from the mausoleum for about half an hour … and that right now the Chief is spitting nails because it looks like somepony else got in there while our guard was away.”

Jon perked right up. Unfortunately he didn’t have his pad and pencil. The Chief had confiscated them yesterday.

“That’s fascinating, Officer Pennyfarthing! Do they have any idea who it was?”

“They think it might be that Cantor fellow but they’ve no real proof that I’ve heard of. Oh, and Mr. Quill, right now it’s just Pennyfarthing.” The young unicorn grinned mischievously, “As of ten minutes ago, I’m off duty. Which, from what I understand, means that I’m not technically acting in the role of a constable.”

Pennyfarthing assumed a faux serious expression, “Lots of things constables aren’t allowed to talk about with you, you know.”

Jon’s grin grew wider, “Things like the Trotting Dead?”

Pennyfarthing nodded, “Exactly! Not that I have any first-hand information about it. It was another young officer, Beatrice Blythe – we called her ‘Bea’ – who found the ongoing disturbance. She got a look at the thing inside and promptly started adding to the fire. Poor dear was rattled something fierce! Afterwards, she talked to some reporters – Chief said not to, but she did anyway – and next thing you know she’s been dismissed. Anyway, Bea’s the one who might have seen or known something about what happened that night.”

“Thank you Pennyfarthing! I thought you had said you couldn’t discuss the matter with me?”

“Officer Pennyfarthing is forbidden from doing so, Mr. Quill, sir. Citizen Pennyfarthing, on the other hoof, is a big fan of the Star … and its shining the golden light of truth on amazing secrets hidden throughout Equestria. And, as I mentioned, for the moment I’m more Citizen than Constable. If you like, I can get you Bea’s address for when you’re released.”

Jon blinked a couple of times. Even with how well it sold, it was rare to meet a genuine fan of the paper. Rarer still to meet one who admitted their enjoyment. And Pennyfarthing was the rarest of the rare – a true believer. Jon wanted to pat the unicorn’s adorable, naive little head and tell him not to trust everything he read. It was because of ponies like him that Jon was always careful not to embellish his stories too much … in spite of everything, there were ponies who accepted the strange tales Jon printed.

Pennyfarthing’s voice dropped, “So, have you turned up anything interesting about the Trotting Dead?”

Jon opened his mouth, and then closed it abruptly. That look of hope on Pennyfarthing’s face was painfully familiar. For Jon, it was like looking into a mirror. Pennyfarthing wanted a story. He wanted something extraordinary. Jon suddenly found himself without an easy answer for the first time in a long time.

“Uh. Yes and no.” Jon Quill thought furiously. What would Cantor say? Jon brightened, then gestured for the young officer to lean in closer. “There’s pushback on this story, Pennyfarthing. I’m not sure how high this business goes, but it could be big. Some ponies want it covered up. I’ll try to get what details I can into the paper, but you’ll have to read between the lines to really understand my scoop on Whitstable’s Wight. They want me to say nothing’s going on here. And regardless of what I actually write, that may well be what winds up getting printed.”

Pennyfarthing looked scandalized. “They wouldn’t do that, sir, would they? Not to the Star!”

Jon Quill nodded, “Yes, especially to the Star. You understand about the article?”

“Yes, sir. I do! When it says there aren’t any Trotting Dead, I’ll know better. And don’t worry sir, I’ll let the other true believers know as well.”

Jon blinked in surprise. “Others?”

“Oh, yes sir. Most folks think of the Star as amusing rubbish, but there are some of us who can see that you’re secretly publishing those truths that are stranger than fiction.” Pennyfarthing’s smile lit up the otherwise empty cell-block. “We’ve got a newsletter! And pins!”

Officer Clarissa stepped into the cell block and growled, “The Chief will stick a pin in you if you don’t stop talking to the prisoner.” She looked tired, and smelled smokey.

“Right you are, Clarissa! Ta Jon!” Pennyfarthing went trotting off. Clarissa rounded on Jon Quill, “I swear, Jon, if you get that sweet kid in trouble …”

“Clarissa, love! You know I’m not interested in making trouble for anypony!”

“You don’t have to be interested in making trouble. You are trouble.” She tapped the bars of his cell for emphasis.

“Point,” Jon conceded. He then raised an eyebrow. “Busy day? How are you holding up? Things at the cemetery staying quiet?”

“Yes. Poorly. And I can’t talk about it. Is that coffee?”

“It is. There's a pot in the breakroom.” Jon took a sip. “Any word on my lawyer?”

Clarissa sighed, “Yes, a bit. We finally got word back from the Lunadun office of the Yellow Star. They’ve confirmed that you are, indeed, one of their field reporters. And that poking around graveyards sounds exactly like the sort of ‘investigative journalism’ that they pay you for. They’re arranging legal representation. They sent over a form. With check boxes. Who has a form with check boxes like ‘In jail because of a) changelings, b) pookas, c) breezies, d) ancient curse?’ They had to tick ‘other’ this time around. You’ll probably be out of here by tomorrow.”

Jon groaned. “Another night behind bars?” The second this occasion. He’d lost count of exactly how often his particular researches resulted in a brief stint of confinement. Jon suspected he might be more familiar with filling out the paperwork for his incarceration than some of the officers who had arrested him over the years.

Clarissa, bags under her eyes, still managed a slightly naughty grin. “Well, if you need a little something in there to keep you warm …” Jon’s eyebrows shot up and he smiled. She wasn’t as adorably cute as Pennyfarthing, but she was quite attractive in her own way. “… I’ll get you another blanket.”

Jon stuck his tongue out at her. “Tease!” he said.

“You have no idea, Mr. Quill.” She turned to go.

“Hey, Clarissa.” She looked back. “Are you doing o.k.?”

Jon was genuinely concerned. She gave a little start and looked around. He knew exactly what sort of horror she had seen that night. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and she knew it showed.

“I’m … I’m managing. Thanks. And thanks for not telling the Chief all the gory details. Leaving it at ‘saw something unnatural in a magical disturbance’ was a huge help for the paperwork I’ve had to do on the incident.”

“If you get a chance, I suggest a long talk with Cantor … over a cup or two of tea. If anypony could set your mind at ease about the whole mess, it’d be him.”

“I rather doubt that, Jon.” Clarissa paused, “Also … I’d get ready for some very pointed questions. You’re going to have visitors shortly. They’re meeting with the Chief right now.”

“Anypony I know?”

“I hope not, Mr. Quill. I really do.”

“We’re here to ask you some questions about Cantor Mortalis.”

Jon was glad of Clarissa’s warning. It hadn’t been quite enough to prepare him for the two hulking earth ponies who the Chief let into his cell. Twins, in matching coats. The only difference Jon could find between the two was that one had a brass stud on his left lapel, the other had one on his right.

“I say, weren’t the two of you at the Airport?”

“Yes, Mr. Quill. We were. We are assisting Dr. Fether in his work.”

“I see! Well, I must say you have the advantage of me. Shouldn’t we start with introductions? I’m Jon Quill, reporter for the Yellow Star.”

“You may call me Mr. Knott.” It was the twin who had been doing the bulk of the talking thus far. The other one was busy with a briefcase. He was sorting papers and folders. He was taking notes.

“How nice to meet you, Mr. Knott! And your associate?”

The other pony, without looking up from the folder he was perusing, answered, “Mr. Knott.”

Jon tried not to let his expression waver too much. This didn’t look like it was going to be fun. It brightened a bit when he considered the lapel studs. Already, in his mind, he started thinking of them as Knott-Right and Knott-Left. There was certainly something not right about the pair! One could only hope when they were done, there would be naught left to worry about!

“Mr. Quill. We understand that you are in considerable trouble because of Mr. Mortalis.” Knott-Right continued.

“Am I?” Jon looked surprised.

“You’re in jail, Mr. Quill.”

“I’m a reporter for the Yellow Star. Exotic events division. I wind up in jail rather a lot.”

Knott-Left snorted as he flipped to another page in the paperwork. Jon thought he saw a picture of Cantor attached to the paper.

Knott-Right continued, “Do you often wind up in jail for the desecration of tombs, Mr. Quill? Breaking and entry? Unlawful taking? Grave robbing? It is a rather serious offense, I hope you know.”

Jon grinned. He sipped his coffee. “You might be surprised at the sort of things I’ve spent time in a cell for! And all of that is nonsense. The door to Admiral Fairweather’s tomb was already open when I got there. And I never set hoof inside. So there was no ‘breaking and entry.’ Just trespass, which is barely a misdemeanor worthy of a fine and a stern talking to. It’s a lecture which I could recite for you verbatim, I’ve heard it so often. As for desecration, I never touched anything inside. Which also makes accusations of unlawful taking and grave robbing both simply ridiculous.”

“There is the matter of a signet ring.” Knott-Left spoke up again. Jon winced in spite of himself. That had been his own fault. He had gotten to the pub far too late in the day. The bar-keeper had already contacted the authorities about that bit of antique jewelry. Jon was actually more saddened that he wouldn’t be able to return it to Cantor than he was that he had been snatched up by the constabulary because of it.

“Ah, yes. That. Again, in the absolutely worst case, that falls under receipt of stolen property or, at the outside, an accessory charge of some sort. The Star is quite used to its field reporters occasionally requiring and acquiring the odd piece of evidence outside of the usual channels of commerce. Again – we’re speaking of minor fines. Assuming that I’m found guilty, which I strongly doubt would be the case, we have money for fines in our budget, Mr. Knott.”

“The only thing truly inconvenient and worrisome about my present circumstances, Mr. Knott, is that the beds here are not exactly what one would call comfortable. And the room service leaves much to be desired.”

Knott-Left pulled a sheet of paper from one of the other files in the briefcase, he showed it to Knott-Right, who frowned.

“Dr. Fether would like to extend an apology. He … regrets … that he was dismissive of your offers of assistance regarding Mr. Mortalis when you last spoke. He would like to hear more about what you know.”

“And why, given the way in which Dr. Fether treated me, would I wish to talk to any flunkies he might care to send? Why would I care to speak with Dr. Fether at all?” Jon didn’t have to fake indignation.

“There are several reasons.” Knott-Left spoke up.

“Such as?”

“Mr. Mortalis is almost certainly delusional.” Knott-Right contined, “At best, his hallucinations are such that he suffers considerable personal distress and the actions they lead him to commit range from the unlawful to the personally hazardous. At the moment, he is a clear danger to himself. And while an in depth assessment of his prior committals makes it unlikely that he is currently an active danger to others, his condition is also deteriorating and so we must, in the interest of public safety, also consider that he may be driven by his delusions to act out of his ordinary character.

“So, Mr. Quill, perhaps you would choose to help us because you care for Cantor’s well-being. Or perhaps you would choose to help us because you wish to help prevent the slim, but growing, risk of his bringing harm to others through his actions. Harms worse than involving reporters in misdemeanor offenses.”

“Felonies. At least.” Knott-Left added.

“Indeed.” Knott-right nodded. “And, if neither concern for Cantor nor concern for the public good will sway you Mr. Quill, Dr. Fether has an additional inducement to offer.”

“Two,” Knott-Left broke in, showing another form to his brother – carefully indicating a section circled in red. Jon Quill was a little disturbed to realize that the file they were consulting was apparently a series of notes about he, himself. Dr. Fether had amassed a surprising amount of information in a very short time.

“Ah yes, two inducements in your case, Mr. Quill. The first, of course, is the monetary reward for information leading to Mr. Mortalis’ detention and delivery to Bedlam.”

“The other?” Jon’s curiosity was piqued.

“Answers, Mr. Quill. Answers. It says here you asked Dr. Fether for information regarding Mr. Mortalis’ condition. Dr. Fether has information. Information about the true nature of Cantor's association with the Trotting Dead. Your precise words, as Dr. Fether recalls them, were ‘Our readers want to know.’ Do they? … Do you?”

Oh shit, Jon thought, as shivers suddenly raced up and down his spine, Dr. Fether is good. Jon wanted that information. He needed that information like a drunkard needed his next bottle. Jon almost had the shakes just thinking about it.

“We only require the information to allow us to find and detain Mr. Mortalis.” Knott-Right said.

“He will be detained eventually,” Knott-Left added, with quiet conviction.

“By others, if not by us,” Knott-Right continued.

“Others less inclined to be understanding,” Knott-Left’s tone was carefully bland.

“Or gentle,” Knott-Right’s tone was a perfect match for his brother's.

“There is no need for Mr. Mortalis to know precisely who provided us with the information which leads to his … admittance.”

“To his recovery, Mr. Quill.”

“You would be doing him a great favor, Mr. Quill.”

Jon swallowed hard. He did have questions. And judging from the thick stacks of papers, all meticulously ordered, sorted, and filed which the twins had at their hoofs, Dr. Fether had access to all sorts of information. What did Jon really know about Cantor, anyway?

That he was kind. And not just to Jon. That he had been a good friend when he had nothing to gain by it. That he had stood face to face with horror and did his best to make something bad into something better.

For the moment, that was enough … barely enough … for Jon Quill to choke out his reply.

“Sorry! I’m afraid I can’t help you, gentlecolts. I don’t know where Cantor is right now.”

Jon was sweating. He had so many questions, and right now he had to keep them bottled up. If he started asking, then the next thing he knew he’d be answering Dr. Fether’s own questions in return … and Jon thought that it wouldn’t take too much of that before Fether had enough information to capture a particularly dear and sweet mad-pony and drag him off to Bedlam.

But what, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of Jon’s head, what if Dr. Fether was right? What if Cantor really did need psychiatric help? What if he was mad?

There was a pause. Knott-Left began to repack his briefcase.

“I see. This is unfortunate, Mr. Quill.” Knott-Right sounded unsurprised, with just the right touch of sadness.

“Most unfortunate,” Knott-Left’s tone was a near perfect match.

The two stood and one banged on the bars of the cell. He hadn’t struck the metal with anything like his full strength, Jon could tell, but the whole door rattled. The Chief arrived and let them out. As he did so, the twins continued, “We apologize for any inconvenience our visit may have caused you.”

“Any discomfort.”

“No … no trouble at all, Mr. Knott. Er … and Mr. Knott. Sorry I couldn’t help.”

As the Chief relocked the door, Knott-Right turned back to Jon.

“Dr. Fether would still enjoy enlightening you as to the precise nature of Mr. Mortalis’ condition. For the interest of your readers. And as a gesture of apology.”

Jon froze. He felt exactly how he imagined a mouse must feel when an owl’s shadow passed over it.

Knott-Right was holding out a business card, passing it through the bars.

Jon stared at it as if it were poison.

Knott-Right let it fall. It fluttered to the floor of Jon Quill’s cell. “You will be welcome to visit Dr. Fether in his office any time you wish.”

“Any. Time.” Knott-Left settled the briefcase more comfortably beneath his foreleg.

For long minutes after they left, Jon stared at that small piece of paper.

It was a trap. Jon knew it was a trap. It was bait. Promises. Designed for the sole purpose of drawing him in to Dr. Fether’s parlor to be drained of any information Jon possessed which could help the good doctor find and detain Cantor.

Dear, sweet Cantor.

Jon picked it up.

I must throw it away. I must burn it. I must flush it down the drain. I must eat it. I must destroy it … I must, I must, I must …

Jon Quill’s hoof moved, as if of its own volition, to tuck Dr. Fether’s business card into his hat-brim.

“That went as well as could be expected,” Burl Knott said to his brother.

“Do you think we should have Mr. Quill watched?” Horst Knott asked, glancing back towards the police station.

Burl shook his head, “If Fether wanted him followed, he would have said so. He thinks of everything, does Fether. If Mr. Quill returns to Mr. Mortalis, we can follow his trail then. Assuming that the reporter doesn’t flush Cantor out of hiding. And you saw his face. It’s only a matter of time before we’ll be showing Mr. Quill into Dr. Fether’s office for tea and biscuits.” Burl was frowning.

“What’s the matter?” Horst knew something had been troubling Burl ever since they had talked to the police chief.

There was a pause, then, slowly, Burl said “This afternoon. That second break in.”

“Mr. Mortalis?” Horst’s tone was slightly hopeful.

“No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t fit.” They walked along in silence for a bit. Then Burl sighed, “I wish Dr. Fether was here. He’s the clever one.”

“Too clever by half, sometimes.” Horst sounded amused, as if such mysteries didn’t really bother him. Which they didn’t, at least not as much as they did his brother. Burl was the smarter one of the pair, not that this was saying much. Horst had always been more comfortable letting others do his thinking for him. “Still, a good day over all. We’ve some tidbits to report. And we can catch one of the earlier trains back to Lunadun. We’ve even got a solid hour to spare.”

“It’s good to be ahead of schedule. Dinner?” Burl’s tone said that he had put his worries behind him for the moment.

“I could murder a curry,” Horst agreed.

“Excellent! I think I saw a shop just a block over.”

“Ooo! Think we could stop and grab a copy of the Yellow Star? The Sunday Edition should be out now.” Horst was excited.

“Oy! You and your gossip,” Burl laughed indulgently. “Sure, why not? You do know it’s all lies, yes?”

Horst answered with quiet, slightly affronted, dignity. “Not all of it, Burl. Not all of it.”

Author's Note

The Author would like to note that Equestria's "Yellow Star" would appear to be very similar to a publication found on his own world -- specifically The Sun which, along with its competitor The Weekly World News, were sensationalist publications which advised their readers to "suspend belief for the sake of enjoyment." A useful qualifier for this Author's own tales.

The title of the Equestrian version of this "news"-paper is not intended as a direct homage to either the British tabloid The Sun (as this particular publication is far too mane-stream for the sort of stories a reporter of Jon Quill's caliber would write); nor is it intended as a direct homage to Blueshift's most excellent story The Star in Yellow nor to its haunting character Yellow Star. However, the Author would like to recommend the aforementioned story as being one he quite enjoyed and found well worth reading.

12. Treasures

Doctor Caballeron leaned against a wall, just at the edge of the circle of light thrown by a slightly old-fashioned looking iron street-lamp. To his left, a dozen paces away, was the service entrance leading for the rear of the Ashmulean. Two large wooden doors blocked the drive. Over them, a coat of arms was carved into the stone wall that closed off the alley. The large doors were flanked by a pair of smaller doors sized for ponies rather than carts. Next to the small door nearest Caballeron was a sign identifying this as the museum's service entrance.

Two of the three henchponies he had hired for the nights work were stilling two benches down, on his right. The other was down the road a storefront or two, lingering in front of the bike-rack. With the lateness of the hour there wasn’t a lot of traffic on St Giles street, even this close to Oxherd University.

It was dim inside the Ashmulean. The building was closed. It also occupied much of the block. Oxherd’s museum of art and archeology had been around for a long time and boasted an impressive collection of rare artifacts on display. Some of them hailed from distant lands, or were centuries old, or both. Portions of the museum had been built over three centuries ago, giving the Ashmulean an old-world seeming façade in places, though no parts of the building were all that ancient compared to what lay within. Most of the interior, Caballeron knew, had been extensively renovated and as a result was quite modern. Smooth lines, white walls, pale wooden floors, and soft lighting that left the collections very nicely on display.

The street light flickered. It was overcast and threatening rain. It was a moonless night. The shadows were thick and heavy.

Caballeron glanced at the museum windows. Over the next ten minutes the lights inside began flickering too. Suddenly, entire sections of the museum started to go dark. Room by room, floor by floor, section by section the dull red of emergency lighting flared to life momentarily only to abruptly fall into lightless blackness. Even through the thick walls and thick windows, Caballeron thought he heard the faint sound of screaming.

“Showtime,” Caballeron murmured to himself. He gestured to the thugs. One of them readied a bag, one a rope, and the third a rather substantial looking club. Just in case.

No sirens. That was a good sign.

The streetlight flickered again. Then, with a hiss and a pop, the light crystal burned out. From the far side of the wall, down the alley that ran behind the bulk of the Ashmulean, came the sound of a door bursting open as a pony hit it, shoulder first, at a gallop.

The sounds of the fleeing pony, gasping and panting in terror, rattled up to the side entrance. The sound of fumbling keys and whimpering followed. The door opened.

Caballeron took out a cigarette.

The security guard who tried to run out the door tripped over the rope one of the thugs had stretched just below knee-high across the exit. A second thug clubbed him hard across the back of the head. The third started to stuff him in the bag.

Caballeron held the door open and waved the lot of them inside. Dragging the half-bagged officer with them, they entered the alley.

“Grab his card and keys,” Caballeron’s orders were clipped and swift. He eyed the dark building looming over the alley. “His flashlight too.”

As the thugs started to strip the fallen officer, Caballeron noticed the fellow was covered in blood.

“How hard did you hit him, you imbecile?” He growled at the club wielder.

“Not that hard, Mr. Belloc, sir! He … he was like that when he came out.”

Caballeron frowned. He rather liked that particular alias. It would be a shame to have to retire it for a while. If there were serious injuries or, sisters preserve, deaths involved in this night’s work, that ‘for a while’ might need to become ‘permanently.’ But an alias had been necessary. These thugs were going to all be caught, sooner or later. This little job was going to have a lot of ponies hunting for the perpetrators. He couldn’t have them pointing hooves back to Caballeron himself.

About the only thing that would get local law enforcement even more riled up would be casualties among the Ashmulean’s staff.

Caballeron wasn’t fond of casualties. Less from any sort of personal squeamishness or code of honor and more from the cold calculus that said when somepony got killed, then the danger for Doctor Caballeron himself tended to go up. Ponies angry about theft of priceless artifacts and the destruction of ancient sites were one thing, Ponies angry about somepony being murdered were another thing entirely. Employers rarely rewarded the increased risk when such bloody and regretable events happened in Caballeron’s line of work. Ahuizotal certainly didn’t.

Caballeron checked the fallen guard’s pulse. There wasn’t one. Caballeron sighed around his unlit cigarette.

There were going to be a lot more ponies than Caballeron had planned on hunting for the perpetrators of this crime.

He glared at the club wielder. If possible, Caballeron would arrange for him to be found first.

The three henchponies, hardened criminals all, gasped and cowered back.

Caballeron knew he could be imposing. He also knew he wasn’t that imposing. So, over his shoulder, and with a casualness he certainly didn’t feel, he said, “Took you long enough. I trust things are quiet inside?”

“Like the grave,” came her icy reply.

Caballeron felt his skin crawl. There was an undercurrent of twisted delight, of sated satisfaction, in her voice that he didn’t like at all.

Mon dieu, he thought, perhaps the guard’s death hadn’t been that club-wielding brute’s fault after all.

Caballeron turned and, with a flick of his wrist, ignited his lighter and lit his cigarette. He felt a moment of satisfaction at seeing the way the cloaked figure’s yellow eyes widened as she flinched back from the sudden light.

No matter. There was a job to do. Caballeron turned his attention back to his henchponies.

“You. Keycard. Open the door.”

The club wielding thug stowed his truncheon and proceeded to slide the key-card through its slot. It hummed and the door’s lock made a rather satisfying click as it unlocked. The thug pushed it open.

Bloody bare hoof-prints on the door handle? Check. That thug wouldn’t last long on the run. Not with the sort of investigators Oxherd would have looking into the theft from their museum.

“After you,” Caballeron half-bowed to his henchponies and to the shadow creature in her cloak. As the thugs filed in, Caballeron pulled a new set of shoes – knee length boots of supple leather – on over all four hooves. Each was about a size and a half too large for him, but each had been padded to fit snuggly. In addition, he draped a set of satchels over his shoulders. They were rather heavy. Then he took out his tool-kit and slung it where he could get to it easily.

“What is that for?” She sounded curious. And a little tired. Whatever she had done to the lights and to the guards had clearly been a strain.

Caballeron grinned, reaching out a hoof to catch the door before it could fully shut, and making sure none of the blood droplets got on his new boots.

“Why, mon cher,” he whispered, “to throw off pursuit, of course! I may be good, but even I am not capable of moving about like a ghost, leaving no traces at all. This way, what traces I leave behind will have the authorities hunting for a pony nearly a meter taller, and half a stone heavier, than I.”

Inside the rear entry it was pitch black. Not even the emergency lighting was on. After the door shut, the glow of Caballeron’s cigarette was all the illumination to be found.

Cabelleron coughed softly and cursed under his breath. The cigarette was a brand he never smoked. Another bit of miss-direction for the authorities.

“Let’s have some light and see if we can make our way to our prizes.”

The henchpony with the guard’s flashlight turned it on. He gave a choked gasp and dropped it. The third thug, the fellow who had held the bag, growled and picked it up.

“I left you a path to follow.”

Caballeron looked down at the splattered trail of blood leading through the chamber. It clearly originated from deeper in the museum and led directly to the back door. Caballeron double checked that he hadn’t accidentally stepped in it already.

Mercifully, he hadn’t. Two of the thugs had.

Caballeron grunted. He then gestured at another door on the far end of the room. One of the thugs obligingly opened it too. Oh, there would be trace evidence left all over the place. None of it would lead back to him, if he could help it. The one dead guard was a complication he hadn’t expected, and, in the long term, it would make things harder. Hopefully, though, he, the shadow creature, and the diamond could all be out of Albion before the authorities knew exactly what they were looking for.

Into the main building.

On the way, Caballeron noted a familiar wooden box sitting near in the back, near the exit closest to the conservation area. It was open, it's top lying near by with a prybar resting on it. The iron case (measuring a meter to a side) that had been packed within the box was open as well.

In spite of himself, Caballeron lingered for a moment to gaze at the rock inside. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it when they absconded with it from that dig in the badlands. They had been too busy locking it in its case.

By most measures, the rock was ugly – pale gray, blackened as if by fire; twisted, melted, and pitted. It was larger than Caballeron’s head. It lay packed in straw and sand.

It was exceedingly rare. Rarer, by far, than diamonds, rubies, or emeralds. Rarer than gold or silver or platinum.

“Such a pretty thing. A pity we can’t take it with us. How many stones like it are known in the world?”

“Very few. Very, very few. It takes a rare impact for an asteroid to propel a piece of the moon into any orbit that doesn’t just circle back in on itself and redeposit all the debris on its parent body. A rare impact indeed. Just the right force, not too much, not too little … just the right angle … and to knock a moon-rock free so that it flies and lands on Equestria rather than being lost in the vastness of the void? That’s even rarer.

“You have a keen eye for exotic treasures, Caballeron. Fragments of the moon are very rare. Fragments from the dark side of the moon are even rarer still. And all of them hold … power.” The shadow’s cloak brushed over the moon-rock. She sighed – sounding as if she were drawing pleasure, or perhaps strength, from the burned stone.

“But we’re here for something else, Doctor. And the clock is ticking.”

“They didn’t set off any alarms, did they?”

“No. But the loss of power will soon be noted if it hasn’t already. We have no more than twenty minutes. At the outside.” The way her eyes narrowed showed that she was grinning, though, as always, no part of her face was truly visible. “Make them count, Doctor.”

Caballeron glowered. He set off at a trot, following the trail of blood through the conservation area, up the back stairs for one flight, and then out into a display on the ancient Pegasi kingdoms of old.

There was blood splattered everywhere.

So much for the soothing white walls and the pale wooden floor, Doctor Caballeron thought, as he tried to balance the need for haste with the delicacy required to avoid the occasional puddle. From the nature of the spray, it looked like the guard had at least one nicked artery as he ran.

Through galleries about the ancient pegasi, including an intact set of Commander Hurricane’s own battle armor, and into the section devoted to the lost unicorn lands.

Two more ‘little complications’ lay in the first of these galleries. There was no need to check their throats for pulses. Between the obvious, brutal wounds and the spray patterns on the walls, cases, and ceiling there was little chance these two guards would making any sort of report about the disturbance at the museum. Not unless the authorities knew somepony who could speak to the dead.

Caballeron looked from the scene of bloody murder to the shadow in the cloak, then back to the sprays of blood.

“Oopsie,” she giggled, “Did I make a mess?” There was nothing at all innocent about her tone.

Caballeron didn’t dignify her comment with a spoken reply. He just flicked his lighter on and off.

She flinched again. He smiled. Then, carefully noting which parts of the ceiling were still dripping, he continued on, avoiding the intermittent fall of blood droplets.

More unicorn regalia, most of it well over a thousand years old. Ancient tapestries, a few pieces of furniture, some portraits, and some beautiful personal items – combs, brushes, mirrors, boxes for cosmetics – were in glass cases. The blood trail led back to a tall glass case, the center of a room, in which was an unadorned mannequin wearing a fur cape and holding a silvery scepter set with gems.

“That’s it,” the shadow whispered, “You will want the large diamond from the scepter’s tail … not its head. The rest is unimportant.”

Caballeron’s eyebrows shot up. He was impressed.

“That’s Princess Platinum’s coronation regalia. A piece of it anyway. I hear the crown’s in Canterlot. But … that’s her father Bullion’s scepter, yes? The Rod of the North?”

“Yes. Take it. And then look for a few other things. But be careful what you take, you don’t want to leave any … loose ends.”

Caballeron grunted. He gestured at the case. “Boys, open that.”

The glass was supposedly shatterproof. But that just meant you needed enough of the right kind of force. The right kind of leverage. Spikes and hammers; crow-bars and horsepower; diamond-tipped drills, liquid nitrogen, and a touch of acid. In a little under two minutes the case was opened.

Caballeron removed the scepter. Cool. Heavy. Absurdly ornate. The thing was priceless. He pried at the egg-shaped diamond on the bottom of the handle. It popped off into his hoof. It felt unusually cold.

He tucked the diamond into a pocket. He tossed the scepter to his thugs.

“Take what gems you want from it. Divide it however you wish. Sell the rod itself. And you have five minutes to open any of the cases you like and take whatever else you want.” Caballeron gestured at the remaining ancient jewelry on display.

The resulting looting was brutally enthusiastic.

Caballeron, on the other hoof, went to investigate a fallen pony lying in the corner, concealed by the shadows. There hadn’t been any great sprays of blood here, nor, as he approached, did he see any obvious wounds. Also, this pony had been staff. Not security. And, while he was soaked with blood, none of it looked like his own.

Caballeron hesitated, but checked for a pulse anyway. There wasn’t one.

Not that Caballeron expected to find one. The fallen stallion’s face was a twisted mask of fear, a terrified snarl so intense and distorted that Caballeron would guess the fellow had genuinely died of fright. The ruptured blood-vessels in his eyes and the little trickle of blood from his ears certainly made it look as if his heart may have, in fact, exploded. Caballeron had seen a lot of corpses in his time, but this was very unusual.

“The poor dear,” she didn’t sound at all sympathetic. Caballeron looked up at the shadow creature and raised an eyebrow. She understood his unspoken question. Her answer wasn’t at all reassuring, “The moon is at full dark. Storm clouds block the stars. No light shines. And, in the right circumstances, I can have a strong effect on the weak minded.”

The trailing end of her cloak brushed across the corpse’s forehead. Caballeron tried not go to pale as the dead flesh twitched and shivered beneath her touch … the corpse, though very thoroughly dead, seemed to be recoiling as if in revulsion … or terror. Its clenched jaw, teeth bared, sagged open in a silent scream.

I am not being paid enough for this. I am not being paid nearly enough for this. But, looking at the slain earth pony, Caballeron wondered if walking away from this latest job for Ahuizotal might not be more dangerous than seeing it through.

Caballeron’s gaze fell on the corpse’s right-front hoof. It held a dagger there. Simple in form, unusual in material – the blade looked like some strange alloy of iron, bright red (even before its recent heavy use) set into a golden hilt wrapped with black leather. A museum tag was still attached to the pommel – though the tag was stained with blood, Caballeron could still make out the symbols indicating that the knife was taken from the restricted section … one of the sealed vaults in the back ... and its warning label categorized the blade as an “eschatological hazard.”

You should take the knife.

Caballeron couldn’t seem to look away from the blade … some part of his mind felt like a bird trapped by a serpent’s gaze. Staring at the blade, he almost thought he heard the distant echo of a bell ringing. Not an alarm, but a jingle-bell … like you would find on a festive winter-time harness.

“I … I should probably take that.” He spoke softly, as much to himself as to the shadow that was now looming behind him, yellow eyes grown wide and shining, staring with supernatural intensity at the back of his head. Faint shreds of darkness rose from beneath her cloak, shimmering and glittering with various hues and shades of black – some dull and some shining, some deeper and some less dark. They floated like wisps of fog from a lake on a cold morning. The shimmering darkness, like the tatters of a monochrome aurora, drifted slowly into Caballeron.

You should not leave the murder weapon here for all to find.

“We wouldn’t want to just leave the murder weapon here. It will make the investigator’s job too easy.” It had sounded oh so reasonable, that suggestion. So easy to mistake for his own thoughts. Had Caballeron been less rattled … less shocked … less frightened … by the bloody trail he had followed, by the fear-slain corpse, perhaps he might have realized that thought hadn’t been his own.

But she had judged his level of fright perfectly, she had sculpted and crafted it. Caballeron suspected nothing. Not yet.

Take it.

Caballeron’s hoof slowly reached out. He gathered up the blade. He was clever enough to have prepared for something like this. He didn’t touch it with his bare hoof. Even protected by a layer of leather he reacted to grasping the handle. His eyes widened, his skin shivered, his limbs quivered. But, even though she was standing there, her power focused upon him and flowing into him, Caballeron still didn’t lose himself. Not like the staff pony had.

Cleverness and strength of will like that should be rewarded, the shadow thought. She would let him live. For now.

Keep it.

Her attention left the archeologist and settled on the henchponies. The shimmering display of power faded.

Caballeron gave a sudden start. He clenched his teeth and slowly took out a case.

In his mind he could distantly hear the faint jingling of a bell. And, fainter than that, just at the edge of hearing, voices. Voices crying out in terror. Voices whimpering. Voices laughing maniacally. Voices whispering.

They’re coming for you!

Look out!

You have to stop them!

They’re going to kill you!

They are monsters!

Fight back!

Save yourself!

As Caballeron opened the case, blade still in hoof, his eyes (like those of the shadow creature) tracked over to his busily looting henchponies. He could feel the laughter bubbling inside him, ready to be let loose … ready help make him safe from all the ponies who would ever threaten his interests. He could make them all so very, very safe ... all still and quiet and such a pretty, pretty shade of red.

The three henchponies (hardened criminals and murderers all) took one look at Caballeron – at the expression on his face as he crouched there, holding that bloody knife, with that terrible shadow looming over him and her yellow eyes staring at them as well ... and all three fled. They bolted for the front door and raced out into the night, rings and jewels trailing behind them. They galloped away surprisingly quietly. They had been weeping in terror, gasping for breath, but were too frightened to scream.

Caballeron dropped the knife into a lead carrying case and shut it. The laughter, the bell, the voices … all faded. Caballeron felt exhausted. He was sweating heavily. And he was suddenly, profoundly grateful that … unlike the corpse lying at his feet … he hadn’t touched the thing with his bare hooves.

“Very good,” she sounded pleased.

Caballeron gave her a long look. A very long look that was noticeably devoid of humor, trust, or happiness.

She hadn’t warned him about the knife, he noted to himself. In his future dealings with her, he would have to remember that. He would have to remember that very carefully indeed.

And, recalling the tag on its handle, Caballeron now suspected there had been extremely good reasons that the item had been locked away in the restricted section.

“We should go. Ahuizotal will want to be informed of your progress.”

“We should indeed, mon cher. But first …” Caballeron reached into a pocket and pulled out an age blackened piece of metal wraped in a torn bit of hoofkerchief.

“What’s that?” the shadow creature looked intrigued.

Caballeron grinned wickedly.

“More misdirection. I took it from Admiral Fairweather’s grave Saturday afternoon.”

“What? Why?” The shadow creature jerked as if startled.

Interesting, Caballeron thought. She usually didn’t react like that. Something about the mention of Fairweather had genuinely surprised her.

As he let the token fall, bouncing across a blood splatter to come to rest beneath one of the toppled cases, Caballeron grinned.

“It seems I’m not the only pony who was doing a bit of grave robbing near Canterbury over the weekend. With luck, the authorities will start off trying to pin this night’s work on a mad-pony I met. One Mr. Mortalis.”

Author's Note

As is usual for this story, the Author is once again basing a place in Equestria off of a place in his own world – in this case the Ashmulean is Albion's counterpart to the Ashmolean, Oxford's Museum of Art and Archaeology. It is possible that he does so out of laziness as much as for the value of a good Equestrian pun.

The placement of exhibits on the ancient pegasi lands would correspond to the Ashmolean's exhibits on ancient Greece and Rome while Princess Platinum's Coronation Regalia was housed well back in what would correspond to the ancient Egyptian exhibits.

13. Stories

Cantor leaned back in the overstuffed chair and rubbed his eyes, letting out a sigh. The table in the hotel suite was awash with paper, all of it covered with varying degrees of scribbled notes. It was, he reflected, a mess. Lots of information, almost no organization, and impossible to tell what (if any) of it was actually relevant to the issues at hoof.

As if on cue, a steaming hot cup of tea was placed beside him. Cantor glanced up and smiled gratefully.

“Thanks Valentina.”

“My pleasure!” Bubbly, Cantor had decided, must be her default state of being. Cantor shook his head slightly, as the thought struck him that being worried was fast becoming his own … and this was, in itself, worrying. The irony was not lost on Cantor, whose self-deprecating smile put in another appearance.

She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. “Sorry, Valentina. Just thinking to myself.”

“Ah! Sometimes it can be hard to tell when your mind is busy chasing one of your own thoughts in circles or when you’re listening to your other friends chatter on.”

“Oy! As if he listens!”

Cantor glanced at Magpie, more amused than annoyed. “I do so listen, Magpie.”

“If’n you did, you’d be out on the town, that pretty young thing tucked against yer side, ‘n’ a couple o’ drinks in ya. There’d be music, ‘n’ shows, ‘n’ dancing. … Well, maybe not dancing fer you, ya lead-hoof. When’re ya gonna learn that ya need ta relax ‘n’ have a spot o’ fun once ‘n’ a while, ya big lug?”

Cantor rolled his eyes. “Magpie thinks I should take more breaks to enjoy life.” Valentina’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows indicated that she agreed with the ghost.

“Technically, Master Mortalis, I believe she thinks you should take pleasurable excursions of any kind. ‘More breaks’ implies you have taken at least one. I do not count rushed meals while reviewing notes, nor falling exhausted into sleep to be ‘breaks,’ as such. I may only have accompanied you for a few days, but I would say that the pattern of pushing yourself to exhaustion, and then fretting endlessly over things you can not yet affect is hardly productive.”

“You’re right, Admiral. I think it might have something to do with his training at Nighthaven – ‘always learning’ also means always thinking … and thought can be the enemy of joy. I know this only too well. I struggled to turn my mind from constant observation and obsessive analysis to simply being in the moment, as it were. To enjoyment. These days it’s less of an issue for me – what with not having a body that becomes tired and cranky. But I agree, Cantor needs to take better care of himself. Perhaps, Cantor, you might try considering the pursuit of pleasure as much a duty as your pursuit of answers? It does one’s spirit good to see one’s friends happy.”

Valentina chimed in, “I take it they have opinions on the matter?” She had learned to watch Cantor. The way his eyes shifted from one empty point in the hotel room to another empty point, the play of expression on his face – sometimes it wasn’t that hard to tell when he was listening. But given that he also worked through entire conversations with himself in his head, especially when he was trying to either reason through a problem or track down a half-forgotten memory, Valentina couldn’t always be sure what was causing Cantor’s perpetually distracted state.

Cantor sighed again. “They do. Indeed, they all seem to be in full accord with one another.” Cantor’s tone was wry as he continued, “And they have good points. I find myself agreeing, in principal, but …” Cantor tapped his head, “… getting my fool brain to cooperate isn’t always as easy!”

Valentina chuckled and gave Cantor a pat on the shoulder. He took another sip of tea and looked at her again. Really looked at her. Usually he registered her presence, and strove to project an air of friendly interest – that part was easy and natural, given that he did rather like her – but, as he had found himself thinking before, bodies could be distracting. In some ways, focusing on them took away his awareness of the spirit of whatever pony he was dealing with. Looking at spirit alone was somehow easier. But she was here. Physically present as well as present in Cantor's mental perceptions. And that started a train of thought Cantor wasn’t entirely sure he liked the looks of.

“Valentina … uh …” Cantor was frowning. “I don’t quite know how to say this in a way that doesn’t come out sounding very, very wrong … but …” he cocked his head to the side in confusion, “What are you doing here?”

“Reading the newspapers and keeping you supplied with tea, of course.”

“I know that. I mean … it’s been a couple of days. Wasn’t there something else you were going to be doing in Albion? Friends and family? Or just taking in the sights and enjoying the nightlife of Lunadun?” Cantor hurried on before she could reply, “I am very grateful for your help, and your presence … but you don’t have to be here … and I don’t want you to feel like … uh …”

“Like I’ve been pony-napped and am being held against my will? Forced into assisting you in this mad business of the Trotting Dead?” Valentina’s response was reassuringly light-hearted.

“Well … uh … yes.”

“Oh, la! No worries there, Cantor dear. I’m intrigued – and while it’s not been the most exciting few days (other than going to see the play) I’ve found that it’s important to me.”

She grinned.

“Besides! If I left Thretan would probably kill me just to make sure I didn’t accidentally blab about your current whereabouts to the authorities or to Doctor Fether.”

Cantor’s expression of shocked horror caused Valentina to break into laughter again.

“Oh, don’t look like that! I hardly feel like a captive. Except possibly of my own curiosity. My own affairs are in order. I needn’t report back to work for at least another week – and probably two. My sister is on holiday abroad, so you’re not keeping me from her. I haven’t any close friends half as interesting as this mystery is. So while it may be quite wicked of me to ditch them to hang around and eavesdrop on your work, I find it too delicious an opportunity to pass up.

“Oh, and my sister’s house and her trinity of devil-cats are being looked after by one of your other changeling friends. While I’ve been here, with you, since Saturday evening … somepony who might as well be me, for all anypony else knows, has been popping by to keep the little furry beasts fed.”

Cantor was starting to look a little relieved. “Oh. Good.”

Valentina smiled, “It’s sweet that you care. I think that’s one of the things your friends like about you. You do care. You wouldn’t be doing all of this if you didn’t.”

Cantor blushed, but his expression was deepening in thought. “Thretan hasn’t made you feel unsafe about leaving, has she?”

Valentina considered that. “Well, maybe a bit. I gather from her suggestion that Doctor Fether could cease to be a concern (and your strong reaction to that suggestion) that she … er … is familiar with that sort of work?”

“Thretan was the personal assassin of Queen Vespid of Hive Venom. Dozy said that back in the day Hive Chitin called Thretan the Lady Glittersting – beautiful and deadly. So, yes, I suspect Thretan was being serious about permanently taking care of the problem of Doctor Fether. I think I managed to talk her out of it. Sweet Celestia, I hope I did.”

“I’m sure you have.” Valentina then frowned, “Didn’t Dozy say something about a war with Hive Venom?”

“He did. Hive Chitin and Hive Venom were neighbors. They were both expanding. They started battling one another. Later on, once it was too late, the survivors learned that the conflict was led on by Chrysalis Hive – manipulating these two rivals into increasing and prolonging their war, ultimately weakening both sides far more than would have happened in the ordinary course of such things. Then, after enough of their resources were expended fruitlessly striving to take down one another, Queen Chrysalis moved in, killing both the weakened Vespid and Chitin and annexing their territories.”

“Dozy was one of Chitin’s better scouts. Trained for deep-cover reconnaissance of other changeling Hives. He wasn’t at the home-hive during Chrysalis’ surprise assault in the last days of the war. It turns out that Thretan was undertaking an assassination mission in Chitin’s home-hive at the time of the assault. She completed her assigned mission and then fled the battle successfully, but when she returned to Vespid Hive she found it had been overrun by Chrysalis as well. The Queen of Changes and Transformation had gathered the remains of both Vespid’s and Chitin’s territory into her own Hive. Some of the drones she kept, adding to her own forces. Others …”

The way Cantor trailed off let Valentina know that none of the other outcomes were pleasant. Cantor sighed again and shook his head before continuing. “Lots of changelings don’t do well when they suddenly become UnHived. Dozy and Thretan both had enough … I guess you could call it a kind of ‘sense of self awareness’ … and the right training … to escape and survive on their own.”

Valentina nodded. “I’m guessing that having two changelings from historically warring Hives joining forces for this Hive Naught experiment of yours helped sell the idea that Equestria could be seen as a ‘new Hive’ … a sanctuary for lost changelings, and a place where old rivalries were put aside?”

Cantor smiled, “Quite! And the fact they’ve even recruited refugees, like Bob, from Chrysalis’ subsequent assault on Canterlot shows that Hive Naught really is available as an option for any changeling willing to put the old – and rather wicked – Hive system of the badlands behind them.”

“I do have a question, though. Something I’ve not been exactly comfortable asking either Thretan or Dozy,” Valentina poured herself a cup of tea. Her tone was questioning.

“Please. Ask away!”

“Why those names? I get ‘Bob’ … but I’m at my wits end trying to figure out those two!”

Cantor blinked. “Oh! Uh … well, they’re related to their old Drone Numbers – as you probably guessed. Both of them had been numbered drones rather than named drones.”

Valentina nodded.

“When I was first getting to know Dozy I sort of felt that having a name rather than just a number would be a good step in, uh, I guess you could call it ‘integrating’ into Equestrian society. Finding a name that also had links to the number they had grown up associating themselves with … the number they thought of as who, or what, they were … would be an easier transition that just trying to give them any old name. Or asking them to pick one for themselves.”

“That makes sense. But I still can’t see the origins. Oh, Dozy can be dizzy enough … and Thretan is threatening, even when she’s trying not to be.”

Cantor grinned. “Dozy was Drone Zero-Zero-One-Two. One-two. Or Drone Twelve …”

Valentina’s eyes grew wide, “He’s a Dozen! Dozy from Dozen, yes?”

Cantor nodded. “And Thretan was Drone Zero-Three-One-Zero.”

Valentina groaned. “Three-Ten. Thretan. Now it’s obvious.”

Cantor smiled. “Some consider my sense of humor to be a bit … odd.”

Valentina stuck her tongue out at him, “You make puns when you’re happy, did you know that?”

Cantor grinned. “It has been noted by others.” His eyes fell on the table full of papers again. His smile faded.

Valentina watched him for a moment or two. “How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here? I strongly suspect you’d feel better if you were actually out there doing something … researching this matter … than you are here. Even if Bogart has gotten us a very pleasant suite!”

Cantor shrugged. “Don’t know. Hive Naught is making arrangements. Looking for possible leads. Admittedly, I would almost certainly need to get my own eyes on resources to determine if they are helpful or connected to this situation. That means access to places. And after Whitstable, getting that access (or even just getting around the country) will require use of aliases. It’s risky for me to go out and about. But …” Cantor trailed off.

“But staying here is risky too. Eventually somepony will figure out where you are. Doctor Fether is quite keen to have you under his care, from what I gather.”

Cantor’s face fell. He nodded at Valentina.

“Here now, buck up! He doesn’t have you yet. And with the friends you have helping you out, he may not ever get his hooves on you.” Valentina’s optimism was comforting.

But Cantor’s tone was distracted, and there was an undercurrent of sadness, of frustration, and of fear, as he added, “He thinks I’m mad you know. Or worse.” Cantor looked a little sick. “And he has some persuasive arguments on his side. He might even be right.”

Cantor looked apologetically at the three ghosts in the room.

“Fether doesn’t believe that I can see the dead. He doesn’t believe in things like ghosts or haunts at all. I don’t think he can believe in them.” There was a significant pause, before Cantor added softly, “And I think that’s my fault.”

Valentina wasn’t the only one in the room to find themselves staring at Cantor, suddenly intrigued. He didn’t like talking about Fether. And on the rare occasions when he did speak of the Doctor, it wasn’t as if Cantor thought of Fether as an enemy, which – Valentina felt sure – the Doctor certainly was. No, from what Cantor said, and how he said it, it was as if Fether was somepony Cantor had wronged.

Cantor sighed and reached for the papers again. “Well, no matter.” It was clear he didn’t want to talk about the good Doctor now either. “Time to see if there’s some other connection we can tease out of the available data.”

“Ooo! Can I play secretary?” Valentina snatched up the quill and paper.

Cantor chuckled. “If you like! Now, Morari – going back to that spell you were telling me about …”

Cantor looked up from the newspaper, his expression was one of complete dismay.

“Don’t worry, Cantor, it’s been taken care of.” Bogart had been the one to deliver the bad news. The old stallion was resting comfortably in his wheelchair.

“As much as it can be.” Dozy added. Dozy had been the one pushing Bogart's chair along.

The two had arrived at Cantor’s hotel suite and made themselves comfortable while a pair of Hive Naught's zebra guards stood watch outside. Valentina and Cantor had gathered from their greeting that there was both some sort of new trouble on the one hoof, but on the other hoof plans were coming together to get the investigation into the return of the Trotting Dead back into motion.

Which was when Bogart had tossed the evening Times to Cantor.

“Murders? At the Ashmulean? A break in?” Cantor pointed to a sentence buried half way through the article, “And … this … this …”

“Yes, the ‘mad-pony’ suspected of being involved was a reference to you,” Bogart nodded.

“But it’s been taken care of.” Dozy added.

“How do you ‘take care of’ something like that?” Cantor was still somewhat in shock.

Bogart grinned and gestured to Dozy who gathered up the cup of tea Valentina provided with a grateful nod.

“I spent the afternoon chatting with an Inspector from Shetland Yard.”

Cantor sat back. He still looked stunned.

“Given the business of this new (and horrifying) rise of the Trotting Dead that Cantor brought to our attention, we decided that we’d take advantage of Hive Naught's situation to open up a dialogue. It was quite profitable.”

“Open up a dialogue?” Valentina’s request for clarification was obviously a sentiment shared by Cantor, even if he couldn’t quite get his mind around the words.

“Oy, what she said.”

Cantor nodded at Magpie. Fairweather and Morari were talking quietly among themselves.

“Well, pretty much from its inception, Hive Naught has been of considerable interest to the authorities of Albion.”

“Dozy,” Bogart commented, “Has a gift for understatement.”

Cantor chuckled in spite of himself. Dozy rolled his eyes, and continued, “We’ve known for some time that the Yard has plants in our organization.”

Cantor shook his head, more to settle his thoughts than from disagreement.

“Hive Naught has grown quite a bit since you left, Cantor. Back then, we had four changelings total, two other actors, one lawyer in addition to Ziggler, three big name living celebrities, and the permissions for likeness rights from the estates of two other actors who had passed on.”

“We’re up to eleven changelings today, a staff that’s pushing fifty ponies, and quite a lot of fodder for faces – big names and small, living and dead. It’s been a good time. But it’s been challenging as well. Naturally, a growing organization of changelings in Equestria isn’t the sort of thing to go entirely unnoticed. For most of our existence we’ve been monitored, and monitored closely.”

“How closely?” Valentina’s curiosity was, Cantor reflected, just what he needed right now. She asked the questions he would have, if only he weren’t still reeling from the description of the Monday night Ashmulean break in, the realization that he himself was believed to be involved, and the interest of Shetland Yard in the whole affair.

“Three of Hive Naught’s employees are also employed by Shetland Yard. They don’t know we knew about any of their plants. Or, at least, they didn’t know we knew about any of them until a few days ago.”

“We’ve taken it as an opportunity rather than a threat,” Bogart broke in. “Kat’s idea, and it’s a good one. We’ve carefully put those three ponies in positions where they have excellent oversight on Hive Naught’s operations. Keep’s the Yard reassured that we aren’t up to some sort of funny business. Well, funny business in the illegal and dangerous way. We do put on the occasional comedy.”

“And,” Dozy continued, “We’ve taken advantage of that relationship to feed information about changelings we’ve identified who are either Hived agents or, while UnHived are …” Dozy trailed off.

“…‘Deeply Unsuitable’ is the term Thretan used.” Bogart supplied helpfully.

Dozy nodded, “Deeply unsuitable for an invitation into Hive Naught.”

“What happens to such agents … or unsuitable changelings?” Valentina asked. Cantor, on the other hoof, winced – he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Well, if they don’t present a clear and present danger to the pony-folk … and if they don’t seem at immediate risk of flight, we’ve arranged to discuss them in front of a pony we know is not just working for us, but is also a double agent. She works for us officially, for Shetland Yard unofficially, and for S.M.I.L.E. very, very unofficially. When possible, we let S.M.I.L.E. or the Yard deal with them.” Dozy took a sip of tea. “If they do pose an immediate danger, or look likely to escape, Thretan makes sure they won’t threaten the ponies of Equestria.”

Valentina looked startled. More confused and bemused than shocked. “S.M.I.L.E.? As in the Mares from S.M.I.L.E.? They don’t really exist, do they? I thought they were just … comic book nonsense.”

“What’s S.M.I.L.E., Cantor?” Morari was interested.

“It’s the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria, Morari. A secret society of intelligence agents who deal with extraordinary and supernatural threats to the realm. The Mares in Black. Officially they don't exist.” Cantor clarified for the benefit of the haunts.

Dozy put down his cup. His tone was dead serious, “As a survivor of one of the earlier iterations of Operation Swiss Cheese, I can assure you, Valentina, that the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. are both very real and are exceedingly good at their work. The popular perception that they are nothing more than a fiction is a tool they employ regularly to keep their activities secret.”

Dozy sighed, “At any rate – we opened up official negotiations with Shetland Yard two days ago. They weren’t exactly pleased to learn we knew about one of their plants in our Hive-Cell. We have thus far neglected to tell them we know about all of their plants in our Hive-Cell, as that might make them a bit more recalcitrant in their dealings with us.”

“We asked them for information about the Trotting Dead. Old case files, things spoken of off the record, both modern and historical,” Bogart added. “We let them know that you were interested in the subject and in possession of unique magics that could potentially aid in unraveling some old and arcane mysteries.”

“Naturally they weren’t that receptive to the idea,” Dozy grinned, “But they were considerably more receptive than we had thought they would be. Apparently there have been the occasional bits of ‘odd business’ back in the day that they’ve had to gloss over, bury, or shelve that could be best explained by ‘ghosts.’

“The point is, right now they know where you are, Cantor. They’re not interested in following up on this Whitstable business. And they seem reasonably convinced you weren’t involved in the tomb-breaking at Canterbury Saturday evening. But what they really wanted to know where you were Monday night.

“You see, what the paper doesn’t say is that a fire-blackened medal from Admiral Fairweather’s tomb was found at the scene of the murders. And at least two of the murders were committed by some sort of mental magic. A fear spell strong enough to drive somepony mad … or stop their heart. Such fear based magic is usually categorized as a sub-set of ‘enchantment’ or ‘compulsion’ magic, and enchantments or bewitchments are (generally speaking) something you are unusually, perhaps innately, skilled at invoking. Your record from Nighthaven Academy reflects this.”

Cantor made a strangled noise.

“No fear, Cantor!” Dozy hurried to add, “We provided proof that you never left the hotel, much less Lunadun, and thus couldn’t have been directly involved. Apparently somepony else broke into Fairweather’s mausoleum after you left.”

“So, the good news is that while Whitstable authorities might be interested in snatching you up for breaking and entering, the Yard considers that to be relatively unimportant in comparison to some of the other things now going on … and our cooperation with their investigation is yielding both a bit of breathing room for you, and some information as well. They’re satisfied you’re not directly associated with the murders or the thefts. And they should be sending over copies of potentially relevant ‘unexplained phenomena’ files in the next few days. I expect part of the delay is that they're busy redacting those files to their satisfaction before handing them over to somepony outside the agency.”

“Plus,” Bogart smiled, “I heard back from those requests I had my agent make. Much sooner than I had thought reasonable, actually. We’ve got a plausible excuse to get you into some of the local libraries. The interesting and old ones, where there are books of magic dating back centuries. Books that might have information on the Trotting Dead.” Bogart gestured at Dozy, who produced a folder and slid it across the table to Cantor.

Cantor started flipping through it as Bogart continued.

“You’re going to be doing some research for a historical adventure novel. The author herself isn’t able to make the trip over here, and she has recruited you – through my agent – to do some digging in various archives. Starting with the Bodleian.”

“Who’s the author?” Valentina was looking over Cantor’s shoulder at the paperwork.

“A.K. Yearling. I don’t know why she responded so quickly, nor why she’d want to be involved in this, but she apparently jumped at the offer.” Bogart chuckled, “Unlike Thretan, I didn’t feel it appropriate to check the teeth of this particular gift horse.”

“Valentina? What’s wrong?” Dozy sounded concerned. Cantor looked up to see she had gone pale. In a daze, Valentina walked over to an unoccupied chair and sat down.

“It’s … it’s just … I was thinking …”

“Yes, Valentina?”

“Well … if you’d asked me a week ago if ghosts were a real thing, I would have said no – they’re all story-book fantasies.”

“Yes?” Bogart watched her intently, clearly trying to follow along – to understand the source of her sudden shock.

“And then, if you’d said that the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. existed outside of a comic book, I’d have laughed at you. Those stories aren’t real, I would have said. But … here you’re telling us that they do exist and we may shortly be dealing with one of their agents.”

“Indeed,” Dozy tilted his head to one side, his own expression mirrored Bogarts.

“Now A.K. Yearling has leaped at the opportunity to be involved. She's jumped in to help with extraordinary haste. So … I had a sudden thought – are there any other stories hiding in plain sight?”

The room was quiet. Cantor looked back at the article in the Times. Valentina could tell from his expression that he understood her completely.

Cantor sounded quite thoughtful as he said, “Somepony in Canterbury broke into a tomb no one knew was there. They can’t tell if anything was taken. Within three days the Ashmulean has the worst robbery in its history – priceless artifacts stolen, a fire set in their back room, and seven ponies found dead. And here we are discussing ponies widely believed to be fictional but who are, in fact, real.”

Cantor looked around the room.

“It may be relevant to mention that one of the other passengers on the Westphalia was an archeologist who called himself Doctor Caballeron. In addition, when I was passing through Canterbury on the way back to Lunadun from Whitstable, I had to dodge a hue and cry about some sort of graverobbing. What we later learned was that tomb break-in had just happened. At the time, I thought Canterbury's police force had heard about Admiral Fairweather’s mausoleum from earlier and they were after me. So I hid. Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, hiding five paces away from me was Doctor Caballeron himself.”

“Oy, ‘e had that briefcase too. Clutched it right close.”

Cantor nodded, “Magpie just reminded me that he was clutching a briefcase. He was hiding from the chase too. If he was the pony who had just committed the Canterbury theft it would explain his actions then.” Cantor tapped the Ashmulean story, “And this reads like something right out of one of Daring Do’s novels.

“So … how well do you know A.K. Yearling, Bogart?”

Bogart frowned. “Not at all. My agent knows her agent. This wasn't something I sent specifically to her, I had him blanket every writer, producer, and director who might be willing to provide you with a believable cover story to do some digging. I honestly hadn't expected to get any replies for at least a week or two, much less to get a letter back within two days from somepony who could provide you with as perfect an excuse for your researches as Ms. Yearling.

“You really think Ms. Yearling might be a ghost writer for a real Daring Do? That the chronicles of Daring's adventures are only semi-fictionalized?”

“Cantor, this talk of ‘ghost-writing’ has me intrigued. Remind me to discuss the matter with you a bit later.” Morari, who had been listening with considerable concern, had been struck by a thought which pleased him.

“Maybe,” Valentina said. “Doctor Caballeron looked and acted awfully like the descriptions.”

Dozy grimaced. “Ugh. Sounds like a complication. Well, assuming that you ran into the real Doctor Caballeron, and he's a likely candidate for the perpetrator of these crimes, we should probably pass that tidbit of information along to the Yard. And to S.M.I.L.E. I don’t suppose you’ve made any headway on figuring out the whole Trotting Dead mystery, have you Cantor?”

Cantor grimaced in return. “I don’t know. I’ve been talking with our three spirits. Taking and comparing notes. One of the things we started looking into were any commonalities regarding their lives or deaths that might account for why they have risen while other ponies haven't.”

Cantor sighed. “There’s nothing really concrete we’ve come up with yet. Just some intriguing areas of overlap, hints of connections. Morari and Fairweather both died of natural causes, at different ages and a considerable distance from one another – both in terms of time and space. Time of death, in terms of part of the year, day of the week, and time of day are all quite different too.”

“What about Magpie?” Bogart asked.

Cantor winced.

“Oy, it’s done now. No need to fret! And leastwise it didn’t take long.”

Cantor nodded at Magpie.

“She was murdered. Throat slit by a serial killer known as Laughing Jack. Or Jack of Blades. From what she’s said of his reputation, it’s probably a good thing we don’t know what happened to her body afterwards.”

“Both Admiral Fairweather and Morari report having had dealings with the Trotting Dead of their own time.”

“What? Really?” Dozy’s interest echoed Bogarts own.

“Yes. The Trotting Dead were much more commonly believed in four and five hundred years ago. Fairweather was in charge of the Wonderbolts when somepony known as the Winter Queen wound up hiring a mercenary army from the griffon princes (from several of their independent city states rather than just one of them) to invade Equestria by air and by sea. Apparently the Winter Queen sought to destroy Equestria, and considered Celestia a personal enemy. There were some nasty battles back in the day, griffon raiders versus the ponies, with Albion on the front lines. Fairweather defeated the enemy in the sky and on the waves, ultimately bringing the battle not just to her griffon pawns but to the Queen herself. It was an ugly fight, in part because the Winter Queen was already dead. As near as we can determine, she didn’t maintain her grip on her old bones or flesh, but somehow had wrapped her spirit in ashes and snow. It made defeating her quite a challenge. Fairweather was the one who held her semi-bodiless spirit pinned in a chamber beneath the earth with a magical spear – one provided to him by Celestia, and looking like the crudely sharpened branch of some sort of crystaline tree – while a coalition of Equestrian Unicorns pooled their power to use multiple castings of Trotwine’s Ward to bind her there. They sealed the barrow up and warded it further. In addition to the Queen herself, she was guarded by half a dozen of Trotting Dead. Zombies and skeletons, who fought like they were demon possessed.”

“Morari’s own dealings with the Trotting Dead were much more removed. One of the Trotting Dead emerged in his era and started a murderous cult, one that seemed poised to strike against the heart of Canterlot itself. The leader – known as the Red Reaver – was undead. In addition, a small force (perhaps a hundred total) comprised of skeletons and zombies aided the ghost. Like the Trotting Dead Fairweather fought, they too seemed mad, insane, berserk. Barely controlled engines of destruction that the Reaver would drive into battle. Morari never fought them. But Morari had worked with a council of unicorn wizards who were looking at what magics could be used to contain them. Morari substantially improved upon Trotwine’s old wards – his personal embellishments drastically increased their efficiency. When the Reaver was finally put down, they used Morari's version of those spells in a spiritual binding to make sure there would be no more murders. No more long red nights when the moon was dark.”

Cantor sighed and took another sip of tea. Valentina had taken the opportunity presented by Cantor’s explanations to refresh everypony’s cup.

“So, Fairweather personally pinned a Ghost Queen to her grave in the last moments of her reign. Morari’s magic is wrapped around some other undead villain …” Dozy was thinking aloud.

Bogart picked up where the changeling left off, “That sort of personal contact – physical or magical – might explain why they would be especially vulnerable to some kind of arcane influence that was raising the dead. But not so for Magpie.”

“Oy, unless Jack was possessed ‘r’ sumthin’.” Magpie offered.

Cantor added, “Unless her killer was possessed, she says. Do you think he could have been?”

“Dunno. Didn’t really know that cutter. Had a reputation fer bein’ cracked. And it got worse after he got that knife.”

Cantor continued to speak for those who couldn’t hear the spirit. “She says Jack was supposed to be mad. And so it would be hard to say for certain if there was some sort of possession thing going on. Oh, and his madness got worse after he got a knife?”

Magpie shivered. “Right ugly thing it was. Whispered to ya, he said. I coulda swore it rang just like a jingle-bell when it went in me throat. Bright red iron blade, gold hilt wrapped in black.”

“What did you say?” Admiral Fairweather was shocked.

“Uh, Fairweather – do you recognize the description of that knife Jack was using?” Cantor’s question certainly caught the interest of Valentina, Dozy, and Bogart.

“I most certainly do! The Winter Queen wielded a knife exactly like that. I should know, she cut me with it a time or two. Whispering voices, sound of a bell, the terror you felt in that blade’s presence was more deadly than an army. Only myself and two other Wonderbolts could do anything but scream and flee when she took the field. Even the Wizard Council could not get within a dozen paces of her. The unicorns I was serving with, the ones who survived, said it was a relic from old, old times. A thing of evil and death. One of the Four Blades of Fear they called it. After the war, I was given assurances that all of them had been destroyed.”

Cantor, as was his habit, had begun to relay Fairweather’s speech, word for word, mirroring the spirit’s tone and cadence.

Fairweather was frowning. More than unhappy, he was angry. “Of course, I never saw the remains of any of the three supposedly broken blades. And even if they were shattered, rather than hidden away for study (which I would not have put past some of those mages) one of the four blades was with the Queen when she went into the barrow. I know nopony opened that tomb to retrieve and destroy her knife afterward.”

Morari chimed in, he too sounded worried. Cantor continued to relay the spectral conversation for the benefit of the living. “I seem to recall somepony mentioning that the Reaver favored blood red knives in battle as well. Thus the ‘red’ part of Red Reaver. Well, that and all the gruesome murders. I can’t be certain though. But this is sounding less and less like coincidence.”

“You’re right. This doesn’t sound like coincidence,” Bogart sounded grim.

“And it sounds like you’ve got something else to research, Cantor.” Dozy added. “When you’re in the Bodleian, see if you can turn up any information in their archives about the Four Blades of Fear. It sounds like we might need to know more about them. Oxherd University has been around a while. Their libraries might have information on more than just the Trotting Dead. They might have books or scrolls that talk about such old relics.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Valentina spoke. Her voice held a tinge of fear. She was looking at the evening paper.

“Oxherd has been around for a while. You … you don’t suppose the Ashmulean actually had one of those knives … do you?”

Cantor's replied by relaying Morari’s own comment, and both the living scholar and the dead one were clearly deeply distressed, “Even if they did, what sort of horror would want to take it? And why?”

14. Cracks

“We will need to gather more information before we depart Albion,” the shadow still sounded tired. Caballeron suspected that the power she expended at the Ashmulean had pushed her past her usual limits. After seeing what she could do, it was a relief to know she could also become weak.

“I still don’t like it, mon cher. This detour, this delay. Perhaps you noticed, Ahuizotal wasn’t pleased.”

“Not at first. But Ahuizotal is very focused on short term gains. You did note that understanding the potential usefulness of the gate rings, should they be restored, changed his mind.” Her cloak twitched in a fashion Caballeron had come to interpret as a shrug. “Besides, he already has the other ring. It was buried deep in the jungle long, long ago.”

Caballeron frowned. “We could still set off for the frozen north today. Make a run directly for the vault. That is something you can find, mon cher. You already have that information. And now, with the diamond we stole, we can deactivate the guardians and gain entry. Assuming your information is correct.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed. “We could.” Her tone implied that she considered this a bad idea. A stupid idea. “And then once we have the treasure Ahuizotal seeks, how long would it take you to transport it to him? Torn apart as I am, I can convey his words to you, and yours to him – but physical objects will not pass through me. Not like they would through an active pair of gate rings.”

Caballeron made a hmm-ing noise that didn’t sound terribly convinced. She changed her tack, it was time for a carrot.

“Then there is the matter of all the other treasures remaining there. Ahuizotal only wants the diamond. That lost vault contains so much more. How much could you carry out on your back? How much would it slow you down? With the gates, you could have it all dumped at Ahuizotal’s feet for safe-keeping. Oh, the old devil might keep some for himself, but what I said earlier is true – Ahuizotal isn’t concerned with gold, he’s concerned with climate. You’d be able to recover vastly more of the treasure by first transporting it to his ruined jungle temples.”

Caballeron growled, “Which is why I am considering this detour at all, mon cher.”

That, and a magical relic that let him converse directly with Ahuizotal over distances of hundreds of miles would largely remove the necessity of keeping the shadow creature, Ahuizotal’s messenger, around at all. The sooner he could be shot of her, Caballeron had decided, the better. He knew better than to mention that little plan of his to her. Not now, at least.

Her eyes narrowed further, time for a stick. “And then there is the matter of pursuit. It is inevitable.”

“Yes, now, with seven bodies at the Ashmulean!” Caballeron’s anger was quite real. Those corpses, unnecessary corpses as he thought of it, put him in danger.

She chuckled. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “There were eight bodies by my count. The authorities just don’t want to discuss one of them. And pursuit is inevitable. It always has been. My actions are unlikely to have hastened it. The bitch that nips at our heels is there all because of you.”

Caballeron drew breath to interrupt, but she – raising her voice – continued to talk over him, and her tone was harshly accusatory. “Did you honestly think that you haven’t been watched in your ‘retirement?’ That certain extraordinary ponies do not stay apprised of your movements? Before Ahuizotal recruited you he and I talked, and talked extensively, about exactly what sort of baggage would come with your vaunted ‘expertise.’ He was somewhat reluctant to involve you in this, given how things worked out … or rather didn’t work out … last time. But, feelings aside, you are the best at what you do – and to get this done, Ahuizotal will need the best. So it was for that purpose I advocated on your behalf.”

“You’re talking about Daring Do.” Caballeron’s face twisted with anger.

Sarcasm dripped from her reply, “Yes. Of course I’m talking about Daring Do. We have an advantage, a lead in this recovery operation. She will have to catch up to you. She will have to figure out where you are going, what treasure you really seek to uncover, whether you are working on your own behalf or if you were recruited at another’s bequest. A detour will throw your true goal into doubt. It will buy us more time.”

“Not that much more time! So why the detour? Detours usually don’t help win races. Why not push hard for the finish line?” Caballeron glowered.

“This detour, if undertaken now, moves the finish line much, much closer to us. We don’t have to get his diamond across a continent and back to Ahuizotal, we just have to get into the treasury.”

“Tell me,” the arch of her eyes indicated she had raised an eyebrow … if she had eyebrows that is, “given your history, your past experience, do you honestly think that Daring Do won’t catch up with you if you must travel for weeks or months with the prize in hoof on your way to deliver it? Do you truly believe that with so much time and opportunity, she won’t snatch victory from your grasp yet again?”

Caballeron was silent. Thoughtful. Time for the final nail in the coffin of his doubts.

“This way, you can beat her.” Her voice almost purred with terrible delight. “You do want to beat her, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, damn you. I do.”

“Good. To do that, we need to find a way to reactivate the rings. I have some general ideas, a rough understanding of the magical theory involved, but there are specifics we will need to know. Specifics that are not common knowledge. Only certain very rare books contain those arcane secrets. You are going to need to visit a library.”

Caballeron snorted. “Really, mon cher? Books? Here I thought you were privy to dreadful secrets. Why don’t you just listen to whispers in the dark and we’ll be done with the matter. Can’t those voices from the great beyond tell you what you need to know?”

There was silence.

It stretched out too long. Caballeron began to feel uneasy – it started out small, but the feeling was growing. He had said something wrong. He looked over at her.

She was staring at him, her eyes narrowed in thought.

Caballeron felt a cold sweat start up on the back of his neck. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew, but something about the unseen form beneath the hood – bodiless body language, the tilt of the head, the slant of the eyes – left him sure she was reconsidering their working relationship.

No, he hadn’t said something wrong – he’d said something right. He had wandered too near some secret she didn’t want him to know. Caballeron swallowed. He recognized that look now. She was evaluating him as a possible threat, trying to decide if he knew too much, if she needed to move now to eliminate him.

She blinked. The danger passed.

For now, Caballeron reminded himself. Only for now. Remember the knife.

He was going to need something more potent than a couple of flash-bangs.

“It isn’t that simple, Doctor. Listening to those whispers is more art than science. Discerning their truth from their lies is more a matter of insight and revelation.”

“Enlightenment?” At least Caballeron kept his voice from cracking. And as long as she was discussing the matter with him, she seemed much less likely to try to kill him.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “No. Endarkenment.”

He pulled out a cigarette. She glared at him. He put it, and his lighter, away. His hoof was shaking.

“The information I can presently draw from ’whispers in the dark’ is fraught with difficulty. Thus far, my information has been good precisely because it is drawn from divergent sources and checked, one against the other. As I said, I have a general idea as to what we might wish to do next. Theory. But we will need more than theory to make this work. We will need certain pieces of concrete, definite knowledge.”

“So. Books it is. Do you at least know which books, mon cher?”

She was smiling again, he could tell from the curve of her yellow eyes. “Why yes, the Iron Book of Shadows should contain all we need. It’s in the Bodleian.”

“What?!” A rush of anger pushed the dread away. Caballeron was glaring at her again. She actually flinched back a little in the face of his sudden recovery. “You want me to try to break into the secure wing of Oxherd’s library … and this when they’ll be supremely watchful because we just finished breaking into their museum? This is madness!”

“Mad or not, it is necessary, Doctor.”

He growled. Caballeron didn’t remember pulling his lighter out again, but he had it in his hoof, she was eyeing its flickering flame with some concern.

After a moment he flicked it shut. He let out a disgusted sigh.

“This will take time, mon cher. Thugs won’t help for this. If there weren’t eight dead bodies to our tally already I would try bribery – some graduate student, a junior librarian, even a janitor. But now, with so much blood in picture, no pony will take that sort of bait. Approaching them for special access would just be asking for them to notify the authorities. I’ll have to find alternative routes into the stacks. With security on high alert, breaking in is out of the question. That leaves lies and a good bluff, backed up by forgery. Forgery takes time, especially if the people who will be looking at your documents are as suspicious as the good ponies at Oxherd are going to be.”

“How long? Delay shrinks our lead.”

“There wouldn’t need to be a delay if there weren’t corpses.” He glared at her. “No more corpses! Not unless I say so.”

She actually considered that. “That will complicate matters, Doctor. It hobbles me unnecessarily. If I am called on to defend myself, or to defend you, I may need to make corpses without your prior approval.”

“Fine. But no more frivolous killing. And as for a time line?” Caballeron spat. “Merde, we can’t risk anything for a week. Minimum. We’ll have to lay low, keep our heads down, and get ready for our literary excursion. If there are any complications there, the authorities will doubtless react much, much faster than they did on Monday.”

Caballeron shook his head in disgust. “This is madness. I can’t believe I’m going along with it.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Quill. I am glad you decided to take me up on my offer.”

Jon Quill smiled and extended his hoof for a shake. “How could I say no to such an invitation? Your offer is most kind. Especially since I can’t help you find Mr. Mortalis.” Jon felt sick to his stomach.

“Please, have a seat.” Doctor Tarrant Fether’s slight smile was the picture of restrained courtesy. His small office boasted a nice wooden desk, chairs, a narrow window, and a shelf full of books. Jon Quill noted the topiary pegasi on one corner of the desk. There was a small vase with fresh cut flowers as well.

Jonquils. Yellow and orange.

Jon Quill swallowed hard and his smile faltered. Doctor Fether raised an eyebrow politely. The flowers were a message. Doctor Fether had expected this meeting, at this time, on this day. He was prepared.

Jon was increasingly certain that he, himself wasn’t.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Quill?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely!”

Doctor Fether took out a bottle of peach schnapps and poured two small glasses. He took a long drink from his own as he placed the other before the reporter.

Jon just stared at it. What composure he had put together for the trip into Bedlam, the trip he had spent days struggling to keep from making at all, was vanishing quickly. At every point since his meeting with the Knotts in Whitstable’s cell, he felt himself outmaneuvered.

A moment of silence passed, then Doctor Fether’s professional smile faded. He raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Quill. You are uncomfortable.”

Jon opened his mouth, but Fether raised a hoof – a gesture to keep from being interrupted. “I understand your concerns and your discomfort. Allow me to reassure you – I will not, at this time, ask you any questions whatsoever concerning Cantor Mortalis’ current activities or whereabouts. It is irrelevant to the discussion at hoof. I will, of course, welcome any information you choose to volunteer, either now or after you have heard my professional assessment of Mr. Mortalis’ condition.”

“If you grow uncomfortable at any time in our conversation, if you decide you would rather leave than stay and listen, well – the door behind you is open. Mr. Knott and Mr. Knott have instructions to escort you safely from Bedlam. For now, you are welcome to leave when you wish. And to return if you wish.”

Doctor Fether’s brow furrowed in a slight frown.

“In the final analysis, Mr. Quill, you are here because you want to be here. You will need to accept this fact, to make your peace with it, if you wish to move on with your life.”

The worst part, Jon Quill thought, was that Doctor Fether was right. Jon didn’t want to be here – being here felt like a betrayal of Cantor’s trust. And Jon found himself hating the thought of betraying Cantor. But, even more than that betrayal, Jon couldn’t stop himself.

No ... no that wasn’t right. As Jon looked at Doctor Fether’s clinically dispassionate gaze, Jon realized that lying to himself wouldn’t do any good at all. Jon could have stopped himself.

But he didn’t really want to.

“I … I think I have a problem,” Jon admitted.

“The word you are looking for is ‘addiction.’” Doctor Fether produced a pamphlet and slid it across the desk. “Addiction comes in many forms and I am far too familiar with its many and devastating effects.”

Jon felt a shiver run down his back as he took the offered paper. Something seemed to lurk behind the good Doctor’s eyes. A faint waver in his keen focus, a suppressed surge of emotion, when he spoke of addictions. Jon decided that he would be willing to bet good money that Doctor Fether knew more about those “devastating effects” than many other Professors of Abnormal Psychology.

“You,” Fether went on, “are addicted to knowledge. To secrets. To mysteries. That is why you are here. To feed your addiction. That is why you are suffering. Because even when they are feeding their addictions, addicts always cause suffering. To themselves, if no one else is around to suffer for them.”

Jon Quill said nothing. He felt there was nothing to say.

Doctor Fether’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Moralis will forgive you for coming here today, you know.”

Jon nodded. He could already see Cantor’s face in his mind’s eye. Disappointed, but understanding. The Doctor continued, “Neither I, nor the Knott twins have any emotional investment in your search for sensationalist stories or your relationship with Mr. Mortalis. So the first question you need to ask yourself is this: will you be able to forgive yourself?”

Jon stared.

“Well, will you?”

Jon thought about it.

“I … uh … yes.” It was a little surprising, but it was true. “Yes I can. I do.”

“Good. If you couldn’t, then this interview would have been over.” Fether’s smile was tight and small. Controlled. “I do have a sense of professional ethics. ‘Do no harm’ is a foundation of my vocation. My work consists of healing hurts, of mending breaks, of preventing harm when and where I am able. My chosen field of endeavor is the mind.

“And while Cantor Mortalis needs to be confined, to be treated ... to be healed, I will not lightly damage another pony’s mental well-being to make that happen.

“I strive to fix broken ponies, Mr. Quill. I do not try break them.”

Jon nodded. There was another pause.

Doctor Fether cleared his throat in an understated cough. “I believe you had questions for me?”

Oh. Right. Jon Quill took out his notepad and pencil.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Mortalis’ condition, sir?” There. It was done. And, like a dark cloud lifting, Jon suddenly felt better about things. He assayed a grin. It didn’t feel nearly as forced as he had feared it would. “Our readers want to know!”

Doctor Tarrant Fether pursed his lips and frowned. As with all of his expressions, this too was restrained. It took a moment for Jon to properly identify it.

Pity. Doctor Fether pitied Cantor.

“There are several potential diagnosis’ for Mr. Mortalis’ condition. Of the available possibilities, there is only one which goes beyond the unfeasible and strays into the territory of the impossible. So let us cover that one first:

“Cantor Mortalis does not talk to dead ponies. He cannot see, nor hear them. There are no such things as ghosts.”

So great was Doctor Fether’s conviction that Jon Quill paled. At that moment, Jon believed Fether – and this in spite of having seen the floating skeleton of Admiral Fairweather.

Doctor Fether pulled out a series of files and a few books. Some of them looked exceedingly old, and far more mystical than medical in nature.

“The simplest diagnosis is some form of what is commonly termed madness: schizophrenia, post-traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder, or major depression … listed in order from more to less likely to result in hallucinations. The best case scenario is that Cantor Mortalis truly believes he can see and speak with the spirits of the dead – and that they are present, invisible, at various times and places – but that he is mistaken. He is broken. He needs treatment to heal. To recover.”

“Assuming he is deluded, Mr. Quill, is it your impression that his delusions are harmless? Think carefully. Does Mr. Mortalis live a normal life? Or, if not normal, a happy one? Is he stressed? Worried over the perceived needs and problems of his imagined companions? If there are no ghosts, Mr. Quill, in your own assessment do Cantor’s delusions aid or hinder his enjoyment of life?”

Jon’s face fell. “You know the answer to that question, Doctor Fether.”

“I do. Do you?”

Jon nodded. “If he’s wrong, he needs help. He’s a good pony!” Jon was surprised with the fervor he felt as he said that last part. He was even more surprised to see Fether nod in agreement.

“True, he strives to be a good pony. His heart, as they say, is in the right place ... even if his judgement is critically flawed.”

“But, Doctor, if the voices are all in his head, then how can he acquire information from them which he didn’t know beforehand? Doesn’t that alone say that he sees and hears something more than a delusion?”

Doctor Fether nodded.

“It does. And, on rare occasions, Mr. Mortalis has exhibited just that kind of supernatural knowledge. But there are possibilities more real than his having discussions with ghosts. And this is where things become complicated. How familiar are you with magical theory, Mr. Quill?”

Jon blinked. “Er, a bit. Unicorns do magic – moving things, making lights. Most have some additional magical abilities tied to their special talent. A few have a special talent for magic itself and can learn to do all sorts of interesting tricks.”

Fether sighed. “Well, true – but limited. If that’s where we must begin, then that’s where we must begin.” He pulled out another book.

“First, Mr. Quill. All ponies are magical. Our cutie marks appear by magic. Our special talents are a form of natural magic. Pegasi walk on clouds and bend the weather to their will with magic. Earth ponies’ strength, endurance, and their heightened ability to manipulate the natural world of earth and stone, plants and animals is likewise magic. Unicorn magic is tied to the mind – to mind over matter, to the production and control of energy, to the heavens and the astral realms. Each type of pony has their own strengths and, in most cases, their natural magic fits comfortably within their archetype. Sometimes it doesn’t, and that can lead to a kind of magical stress or fatigue. Not always, mind you, but sometimes.”

“Your magic, Mr. Quill, your special talent is to take that which is ethereal, illusory, imaginary, exotic or unreal, and then (through the alchemy of words) distill it into something real, tangible … grounded. I’ve recently begun to read your columns. You’ve a gift. You can bring the unbelievable into perspective … to capture and cage it with pen and ink, to tie it up and put it on display in a way that normal ponies can then understand. You search for exotica … for the mysteries of heaven and earth … you put ideas that cannot be contained into boxes made of words and bring them home to sit on your mantle for every visitor to your house to admire. You have found a true vocation in your work with the Star. I commend you.”

“There are many magics. Many forms of divination, of prophecy, of looking to the future ... or to the past. Of perceiving distant events. Unicorns do not have a monopoly on such powers. There are ponies who read cards, consult crystals, or even twitch and shudder in ways that foretell upcoming events. While many, perhaps even most, are fakers, some are not. In theory, Cantor could be using a variation of this magic, channeled through his delusions, to acquire information he otherwise shouldn't have. He could be practicing such magic naturally, as innately as a pegasi naps upon a cloud. This is the very best case scenario. If there were no other factors involved in Cantor's personal history, in his pursuit of mystic knowledge and power, I might be willing to leave my diagnosis here. But there are other possibilities. Other scenarios. And they are in no way what one might call good."

“So pay attention now. This is important.”

“Cantor Mortalis was a shy foal. He was, and is, clever. Gifted. He is also insightful and empathic. He relates to well to ponies, and cares for the well-being of those around him. He is kind. He is also gifted with considerable presence – charisma, a warm demeanor that others respond well to. Not all who meet him like him immediately of course. Many ponies are entirely indifferent to him. But even those who dislike him don’t tend to view him as a threat … or as somepony dangerous. As an introvert, he prefers limited social interactions – but as a high functioning one, he can mingle in the public sphere, he can smile and make small talk, he can speak to crowds, and he can do it very, very well … better than I ... it just exhausts him to do so.”

“Like many ponies who share these traits, he was highly imaginative as a foal. He found more joy and fulfillment in books and stories than in play with his class mates. His self-consciousness made it difficult for him to truly accept the friendship of other ponies and cultivated a hyper-sensitivity to the casual cruelties of his fellow foals, so he turned to imaginary playmates as his real ones disappointed or hurt him.”

Doctor Fether’s face had been expressionless through most of this recital, the slight shift from dispassion back to pity was all the more visible.

“Cantor was good at imagination. Very, very good at it. One might say that turning his mind, his thought, his musical gifts towards playing with these figments created by his own mind had become his special talent. That this was the first crack in Cantor’s thinking ... his perceptions. A flaw. And his magic, his special talent, was tied to it.”

“So he began to imagine he could see and hear dead ponies. This offered him the chance to do good in the world. Uncomfortable dealing with the living, fearful of rejection, he turned to these figments. He wanted to help, so they provided him with problems. Solving those problems made him feel better, and so the figments vanished.”

Doctor Fether’s tone hardened slightly.

“And then came Nighthaven Academy. They believed, foolishly, that Cantor could do what he believed he could. That he was gifted as a spiritualist. A medium. That his magic wasn’t tied to the dark side of his own imagination, nor to his golden voice, but to the spirits of the dead. They sought to teach him, to learn from him, to seek to develop … to rediscover … the mythical art of necromancy.”

“So they trained him. As one would expect for a pony gifted with imagined friendships, Cantor’s studies blossomed in the fields of enchantment, charms, and compulsions. He could change how ponies thought or felt, for a time. He could make them like him. One might say that his delusions were a method by which his magic worked upon his own mind, Cantor thinks he sees the dead because that helps him like himself.”

Doctor Fether’s gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed. His frown deepened.

“What I’m about to tell you, Mr. Quill, I will subsequently deny. Nighthaven Academy is rife with secret societies. Compare college catalogs and you will discover an oddity: official student groups are scarce at that university. This is because most of the student groups are unofficial. Something like the Chess Club is just a gateway so that various cabals of would-be magicians can sort out which ponies will be part of which clique.”

“Most of it is nonsense. But there are groups interested in knowledge. In power. In … the exotic. I had the honor of being brought into one such group. I was brought in based on cleverness. My sharp mind gained me entry. Cantor was not as sharp, but he was a member as well. He was there on strength of personality, an area where he outshines me far and away.”

“Do not think me jealous, Mr. Quill. Cantor earned his place and I earned mine. I admire what he achieved. Especially with the handicap of his delusions.”

“We were young, Mr. Quill. We were foolish. We sought knowledge. I, to better understand the mind so that I might heal what others had so thoughtlessly broken. He, to gain the secrets of the dead – to better understand the spirits that he imagined he dealt with.”

“There are rituals Mr. Quill. There are magics that unicorns can do in search of exotic answers to unanswered, unanswerable questions. They are not illegal, per se. No official laws govern them. But these rituals are forbidden. Those magics can press against the walls of our world. They can distort them. Bend them. They can crack them.”

“On the other side of those walls lie territories unimagined and unimaginable. Places we think of as dark because what we know as light is fundamentally natural. When one steps entirely outside nature, outside of the universe as we know it, we enter a realm that is wholly unnatural. When we crack the walls of this world in search of answers, what lies beyond can sometimes bleed through.”

“That other realm is not empty, Mr. Quill.”

Doctor Fether’s voice dropped. Jon had to lean forward to make out what he was saying.

“There are things there. Entities. They … whisper. The speak through the cracks to those who wish to listen. To learn.”

Jon Quill reached one trembling hoof for his glass. He downed his schnapps. Fether refilled the reporter’s glass.

“I learned much of madness from that experience. I learned more of madness from watching what it did to the minds of those who pushed too hard at the walls of reality.”

“Reality isn’t the only thing that can crack under that sort of magical strain and let those whispers in. Minds can crack too, Mr. Quill. Especially minds that are already weakened … already flawed … minds that already believe they hear other voices.”

Jon shuddered.

“So, when Cantor speaks of hearing voices, and they tell him nothing he did not already know himself – we may safely chalk that up to mental instability.”

“But when some imagined speaker gifts him with information he could not know otherwise … when those voices begin to subtly, or not so subtly influence a pony's actions ...”

Doctor Fether trailed off.

Jon’s expression began to twist in horror.

“You’re talking about demonic possession, Doctor. And not the nicer sort of demons you find caged in Tartarus. I think I’d rather believe in the Trotting Dead.”

Doctor Fether paused. He paused for just long enough to imply that what one would rather believe does not change the underlying reality of an unpleasant situation.

“Do you know how many verified cases of the Trotting Dead, unexplained by other magics – charlatans misusing the come to life spell, hallucinations, miss-identifications of exotic creatures or phenomena – have occurred in the past three hundred years, Mr. Quill?”

Jon shook his head.

“None. Mr. Quill. None. I checked. I checked very thoroughly. I have spent years checking,” and there it was again, that hint of buried rage, a touch of obsession, wrapped in the unyielding iron of Doctor Fether’s mind.

“Do you know how many verified occurrences of demonic possession have happened, not in the last three centuries, but in the last fifty years alone?”

Jon just stared. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“Twenty three, Mr. Quill. Twenty three.” Doctor Fether leaned forward. “We have two of them locked away here in Bedlam as we speak.”

Fether leaned back in his chair.

“Not all of these alien entities, these voices from beyond our spheres, are what you would think of as evil, Mr. Quill. But even the bright and beautiful ones are dangerous and terrible. Even ones that like ponykind and are inclined to help us are so very strange that interactions with them are fundamentally damaging to the sanity of those who converse with them. Such damage can usually heal, given time and proper care, especially when the entity in question is being careful and gentle in their handling of us. But the ones with ill intent ...”

Another pause. Doctor Fether took a drink himself.

“And how can a pony truly tell the difference? Until it’s too late of course. If the crack through which such an entity, or entities, operates is found in a pony’s own mind, how can that pony tell if an effect they observe is real or illusory? And, even if an effect is real, seen by other ponies, how can observers tell if it was caused by some outside, independent force … rather than (in the case of a semi-possessed unicorn) evoked by their own magic, without them even knowing they were doing it. Given time, the whispers in such a pony can overpower the pony entirely ... or at least parts of them, so that some of their thoughts, aspects of their magic can rip free, can take on a false life of their own.”

Jon shuddered. But then a curiosity struck him. He smiled.

“Doctor Fether, if what you’re saying is that the spectacular displays of the Trotting Dead that Cantor thinks he’s trying to fix are actually caused by his magic, then how is it that they occur long before he arrives on the scene?”

Doctor Fether looked steadily at Jon.

“Did I ever say that Cantor Mortalis was the only unicorn to be cracked in this way?”

Jon’s face fell. Fether continued, “No. What I said was we had two ponies currently restrained here who were being treated for bona fide demonic possession. And we are not speaking of ancient times and dark ages, where every mental illness under the sun or moon was laid at the hooves of devils. We identify and treat mental illnesses here. We are quite skilled it at. So when I say that we have two demons contained on the premises, you may be assured, we have two. And they are contained.”

“There are others out there, Mr. Quill. Other tatters from beyond our world who have crawled in through the cracks in the walls. Other broken ponies. Other vehicles for those whisperers in the darkness to deceive and work through. Many of their aims are terrible. Their masks can be pleasant or fearsome. And when one has worked its harm on a place, why wouldn’t the report of strange events lure a mad pony like Cantor there? Once there, why wouldn’t the cracks in his own mind … and the things that use those cracks to their own advantage … then reach out. And in reaching out, what might they do?”

“Create a vortex of dark magic, drawn from Cantor’s own fears? His nightmares? His worries about what might be wrong with his imagined friends?”

“Bringing bones to a false semblance of life? So that other observers, arriving later on the scene, witness something they take for one of the Trotting Dead? While he sees something he believes to be a lost soul in need of help?”

“And, once he helps them, is his mind better or worse, Mr. Quill? Are the cracks greater or smaller? Can those things that whisper beyond the edges of our world speak more freely to and through him? Are there more of them with him?”

“If so, we can rightly say that his condition is deteriorating.”

Doctor Fether sighed.

“At best. At absolute best, Cantor is just mad. No more. His seemingly prophetic abilities are natural divination channeled through his delusions. And his madness worsens, putting he, himself in danger.”

“But if what Cantor did back in Nighthaven, back when he mastered the ancient art of ritual magic on one dark and terrible night … back when he lost the ability to call on light and instead learned to see with darkness itself … if that experience left cracks open between his mind and what lies beyond … then Cantor is not just a danger to himself.”

“He is, or he will become, a terrible threat to all of Equestria.”

“In either case, he must be stopped, Mr. Quill. Cantor Mortalis needs to be brought here, to Bedlam, for treatment. Before it is too late.”

There was a long pause. Jon Quill didn’t want to believe Doctor Tarrant Fether. He really didn’t. But Jon Quill hadn’t wanted to betray Cantor’s trust by coming here at all. Sometimes, in the face of the truth, what a pony wanted didn’t matter.

Jon thought about that for a moment. There was something with Doctor Fether ... something in his intensity. Jon twisted at that thought, certain that it was important. Then it struck him.

Doctor Fether didn’t want Cantor to be right. He didn’t want to believe that Cantor could speak to the dead. He didn’t want that to even be possible.

And sometimes, Jon found himself repeating his earlier thought, sometimes, in the face of the truth, what a pony wanted didn’t matter.

So Jon said it. He asked the one question that he was certain he shouldn't even be thinking after being buried beneath the weight of Fether's much thought out arguments, smothered by his well researched logic, caught in the web of his studies and deductions.

“But, Doctor Fether, what if you’re wrong?”

Jon Quill had never thought to witness anything more terrifying than Admiral Fairweather’s skeleton twisting in the air, hovering in a vortex of dark magic, his eyeless gaze staring at Jon while Jon fought to scream and flee.

Watching Doctor Tarrant Fether crack was more terrifying by far.

“I AM NOT WRONG!”

The shriek shook the windows of the room. Sparks flew from Fether’s horn. And the expression of anger, of fury, of wrath on his face would have sent far stronger stallions that Jon fleeing for their lives. He felt that rage strike his mind like the blow of a hammer. It stunned Jon, staggered him. The force of it was so great Jon feared his own mind might crack under the pressure of it.

A single breath later, iron control. A will harder than diamond. And Fether's anger was reigned in. Bottled up. The pressure on Jon's mind was gone.

“I am not wrong. I know that there are no haunts. And no ghosts. Cantor himself taught me that. If you don’t believe me, ask him. Tell him I have given you my express permission to learn exactly why I do not believe that he is, as some think him, the real thing.”

“Tell him that, ask the question, and he will answer you, Mr. Quill.”

Doctor Fether poured himself another glass of peach schnapps. Jon found himself sitting utterly still, breath held, watching the faint quivering of the Doctor’s hoof like one might watch the bubbling of lava … wondering if it presaged an eruption.

“Have you more questions Mr. Quill?”

The Doctor’s tone was normal. So very professional. Too professional.

Jon Quill fled.

Doctor Fether took a sip of the fruity alcohol. He looked at the toppled chair left by the reporter’s sudden departure.

“Mr. Knott. Mr. Knott.” Fether’s voice was calm, but pitched loud enough to carry into the hall. A moment later the twins appeared in the door way. They didn’t enter the office.

“Have Mr. Quill followed. He should lead you to Cantor soon. Or to clues to Cantor’s whereabouts at least.” Doctor Fether took another sip from his glass.

“Find Cantor Mortalis. Bring him here to me. To Bedlam. I need ... I need ... to help him.”

The twins nodded. They left surprisingly quietly, considering their size. Doctor Fether looked down at his glass. When had it shattered? No matter. A touch of magic would remove the shards of glass from his hoof and quell the slow drip of blood.

A touch of magic could solve many problems.

15. Books

Cantor looked up to find Valentina smiling at him. She had on a pair of reading glasses. Less, Cantor suspected, because she needed them and more because she thought they looked cute. Cantor agreed, though he wasn’t about to mention that to her.

She looked amused. She looked the particular sort of amused that let Cantor know he was so thoroughly distracted by reading that he had, once again, entirely missed whatever it was that she had just said. And that apparently, “Um-Hmm” wasn’t an appropriate response at all.

He blinked. “Uh, sorry Valentina. I missed that.”

“I’m quite sure you did, Mr. Luggage.” Her tone was far too prim.

Cantor glanced at his other companions. Morari had Magpie in a headlock, holding her mouth shut. She was wriggling about, not so much trying to escape as trying not to fall down laughing. Admiral Fairweather was mid double face-hoof.

No, “Um-Hmm” clearly had been exactly the wrong thing to say. Cantor desperately tried not to imagine exactly what sort of conversational miss step could evoke such a response from the haunts.

“I do apologize,” Cantor began.

“A bit too often,” Valentina added.

“… er … yes, probably.” Cantor strove to re-rail his train of thought, “Would you be so kind as to repeat yourself? Er … again?” His grin managed to be both apologetic and particularly awkward. “I promise to pay attention.” With a flick of his magic, he closed the four books he had open on the table before him.

“Jolly good luck for you that I find you likable. Repeating oneself becomes tiresome.”

Morari relaxed his grip on Magpie, who slumped to the floor gasping and holding her sides. Ghostly tears were sliding down her spectral cheeks. He looked at Cantor and just shook his head. Fairweather muttered something about “bad influences.”

“For the past few minutes, Mr. Luggage, I have been attempting to direct your attention to the hour, and to the suggestion that you should take a break for a nibble of something.”

Magpie, who had almost recovered, started laughing again. She had to lean on Morari to remain upright. The ancient scholar rolled his eyes.

Valentina was continuing, “It is lunch time. And Thretan would kill me if I didn’t make sure you stay properly fed.”

Cantor snorted. “Thretan is unlikely to kill you for any reason, Valentina. And certainly not on account of my own personal failings. She seems quite fond of you.” Cantor’s stomach, on the other hand, had started growling at the mention of food. He glanced at the clock. Where had the morning gone?

Cantor tried not to blush, especially since this would be the fifth day in a row somepony had to drag him out of the restricted section to get a meal. “And you’re right of course. Thank you for your persistence. It’s just all so … so …”

Cantor gestured around the room with one gloved hoof. Old shelves full of older books. Rare folios and scrolls covering rare arcane topics in detail.

“Magical?” Valentina’s grin was impish. She took Cantor’s left fore-hoof and said, “Well, while nourishing your mind is one thing, you should really remember to nourish your belly as well. You’re not a ghost yet, Mr. Luggage. You do have a body you need to take care of!”

“The young lady makes an excellent point,” Morari noted.

They had to show their passes to two guards on the way out. The chief reference librarian, a black and tan earth-pony stallion, went out of his way to catch Cantor’s gaze. It wasn’t a friendly look, and the gesture that accompanied it said, all too clearly, “I’m watching you.” Cantor rolled his eyes and sighed.

In retrospect, asking if he could spend the night in the restricted section conducting obscure arcane rituals with their spell books had been … enthusiastically optimistic. It had taken a bit of talking to keep from getting thrown out of the Bodleian entirely. That had been two days ago, and the librarian clearly hadn’t forgotten. The security officers had found it amusing, at least.

“I take it you have made more progress, Mr. Luggage?” Valentina's tone was hopeful.

Cantor grinned. “Yes! I found another reference in Trotters Tome of Reliquary that I’m sure I saw in the Index. Which reminds me …” Cantor limped over to the librarian. The stallion’s eyes narrowed, his expression said he wasn’t going to like this.

It could have been worse, though. It wasn't until Cantor was first entering the Bodleian with his false I.D. identifying him as “Mr. Luggage“ (which had been Valentina's idea) that it occurred to him that it only been about two decades since he had was admitted here as a young transfer student from Nighthaven. Librarianship was a career to which many ponies devoted their whole lives. Cantor had been sweating bullets until he learned, from a few careful inquiries, that those staff and faculty who he once knew here as a younger, and less crippled, pony had subsequently retired or moved on to other positions. The general wear and tear of time could serve as a disguise, but it was a very poor mask to hide from ponies who would have looked at Mr. Luggage and seen an older, though no wiser, Mr. Mortalis.

It had been a stupid mistake. Luck alone had saved them from a great many very inconvenient questions. Unfortunately, luck did little to help when a pony was as determined to put their hoof in their mouth as Cantor had seemed to be those first three days. He was still paying the price. From the librarian's lowered brow, it was clear his account (so to speak) would not be back in the black for a long, long time to come.

“Pardon me, sir,” Cantor continued to be the soul of courtesy and respect, “but could I trouble you to retrieve the Iron Book of Shadows? Ms. Yearling would like me to reference a few details from it. I should only need it for the afternoon. And possibly tomorrow as well. Would it perhaps be available after we return from lunch?”

He stared at Cantor for a full minute. His answer was actually considerably more helpful than Cantor had come to expect. “If I ever find out, Mr. Luggage, which of my assistants provided you with a copy of the unexpurgated Index for our rare book collection, there will be retribution.” His gaze shifted to Valentina. “You may pick it up, from me, upon your return.” His gaze returned to Cantor. “Mind you don’t drop this one.”

Cantor winced. “That was an accident, good sir.”

“Accidents don’t happen thrice. In. A. Row.”

“I say, Cantor, were you always that clumsy? Or is it a problem with your bad leg?” Admiral Fairweather was ambling along beside the two “literary researchers.” Magpie accompanied him. Morari had stayed behind to keep an eye on the books.

“Oy, ‘es graceless all right! Clever mind, silver tongue, ‘n’ four left hooves!”

The librarian continued, “And if you even think about bringing another black candle into the building, Mr. Luggage, I will have security escort you to the sea and throw you in, ‘special permissions’ from the Dean be damned.”

“And me without me bathing suit,” muttered a nearby guard. She looked quietly amused. The stallion beside her was trying not to laugh.

“I wasn’t going to ligh– “ Cantor couldn’t finish the word before the librarian threw up a hoof and said, “Ah! Not a word. Not one word. Your books will be ready in an hour, Mr. Luggage. No sooner. No later.”

“Many thanks sir! Although it would help if I, uh, also knew your name?” Tone and cadence, Cantor was tempted to lean a little. He didn’t.

“In this place I am the Lord and the Master. You needn’t know my name.” The librarian made shoo-ing motions with his hoof.

As Cantor and Valentina exited through the front door, she let out the giggle she had been holding in. She followed it up with, “I think he’s warming up to you!”

Cantor smiled back, “I think you’re right!” Then he glanced to the Admiral’s ghost, lowered his voice, and added, “To answer your question, Fairweather, yes – I’m often clumsy. When I remember to move with focused mindfulness, paying particular attention to what my hooves and body are doing, I do … eh … let’s say ‘well enough.’ But when my mind gets racing, my body just doesn’t keep up. Natural ineptitude. Or perhaps too many years focused on the esoteric realms of thought and spirit rather than on moving about in all of this,” Cantor patted his belly in a friendly and amused fashion.

Valentina smiled, mostly from seeing Cantor in such a good mood. Ever since Bogart’s plan had gone into action and Cantor had been able to start doing some serious research in Oxherd’s archives that sense of fretting, worried helplessness had dropped away. Even when he hadn’t been able to find anything directly related to the Trotting Dead, the ability to do something productive had done Cantor a world of good.

“Oh, la! Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me by your side to help steady you, Mr. Luggage.”

“Quite! So where to today, Valentina?”

She grinned. “Ooo! I could murder a curry!”

Over lunch, Cantor had tried to explain the specifics of what he had been working on for the past two days. Morari would have understood and appreciated the theory, had he been there. Fairweather had some questions about practical applications. Valentina seemed to like hearing Cantor talk, but she started out more interested in the small, four-sided gemstone Cantor had purchased. It looked like a three sided pyramid, no larger than a bit, and it was engraved with mystic runes. Magpie was busy keeping a sharp eye out for trouble and could care less about mystical mumbo jumbo.

“So, are going to try it out soon?” Valentina’s curiosity was now a bit more than just polite interest. Lunch was finished, and had been quite delicious. The check had been paid. She and Cantor were just relaxing for a few minutes at their table.

“Well, I suppose I could. It’ll take about ten minutes … and probably be a bit of a waste of time.”

“But it works?”

“Yes! Well, within certain limits. Divination can be tricky. Pulling answers to questions out of thin air is a particularly obscure application of power. Most answers have to come from somewhere, after all!”

“So where do they come from?”

“That part is unclear. It varies from pony to pony, from spell to spell, perhaps even from casting to casting. Some ponies could probably just do it without all the preparation. Either through natural magic or because of wizardly training. Working a ritual, as I’ve mentioned before, takes a bit longer but isn’t nearly as draining. The particular variety I’ll be using this time is adapted from a form cleromancy developed by the Crystal Ponies of olden times.”

“Sounds posh! Give it a toss?”

Cantor had out his leather-bound book of spells. The ink was barely dry on the last of the pages he consulted. Valentina watched as the flickering of magical auras on his horn, his hooves, and the flaring of particular runes in the pages before him all spoke of a slow gathering of magic power.

It did take about ten minutes. The whole display finished with Cantor tossing the crystal in the air. It landed in a fashion that didn’t seem quite natural, with a little spray of silvery sparks. Cantor looked at the symbol displayed and smiled.

“Well! Looks like the researches I will begin when we return to the library will have particularly good results!”

Admiral Fairweather snorted. “Nothing more specific than that?”

“Sorry, Fairweather, but no. Good or bad, both or neither – that’s about as specific as the answers can get. And this magic really can’t foretell anything much more than about a half-hour out. It is a rather petty divination spell. More potent ones could tell you more. Potentially much more. But those become … problematic.” Cantor’s excitement dimmed slightly. He sounded almost troubled, “When you start asking complex questions of the universe, you might not like what answers you back.”

“But, we should hurry back to the library,” Cantor’s expression had brightened again. He was unusually eager. “That was an unexpected result, after all.”

“Oy! How so?” Magpie was a breath ahead of Valentina.

“Unexpected in what way, Mr. Luggage?” Valentina was intrigued.

As they started back towards the Bodleian, moving at a faster pace than usual, Cantor explained. “Well, consider the nature of the magic – what I was able to tell you about it, anyway. We’re going back to the library. I plan to continue my researches there. And by the time we get back there, we’ll only have a few minutes of the whole ‘researching’ thing that I’ll realistically be able to get under my belt before we reach the furthest, uh, temporal distance (I guess you could call it) which that little trick with Crystal Pony cleromancy could prophesy about. I asked it what would come of my researches.”

Cantor’s grin was excited.

“Given that we’re talking about maybe ten minutes of time actually covered by my question, I was fully expecting a result of the ‘neither good nor bad’ variety … the mystic equivalent of the universe answering with a resounding ‘meh.’ Now though, now I’m quite curious to see what’s about to happen in so few minutes that qualifies as ‘good.’”

“That is interesting,” Valentina agreed. “Hmm. Do you think you could ask your pretty crystal again once we’re there? Use that little trick to help hone our researches?”

Cantor said, “Eh,” and gave a very non-committal wave of his hoof. “I could, but the odds of my getting a true answer rather than some random gibberish of a result would be substantially lower. I could wait and ask again tomorrow to be relatively sure that I was getting a solid reply. Admittedly with such a limited glimpse into the future we would have to be very clever about what questions we asked and how we asked them. Asking a second time today is iffy, but if we were desperate for guidance and had the time I would certainly try. Were I to ask even more than that, well, you might as well just be flipping a coin for all the good it would do you!”

Cantor grinned again. Even at his less than swift trotting pace, the library was already back in sight. “It’s good to know the limits of such magics. All too often, if you tell somepony ‘I can foretell the future with my mystical powers!’” Cantor did a rather spooky-voiced impression of a gypsy fortune teller which got Valentina giggling again, “Then next thing you know ponies are expecting you to be able to tell them anything – big or small, terribly vague or utterly specific, about what will happen days, weeks, months, or years from now!”

“And I imagine they become quite cross with you when you can’t!” Valentina helped steady Cantor. He was clearly in a hurry to return to Oxherd. Hurry and Cantor rarely mixed well. Between the knee brace locking into place and her holding him up on one side, he managed not to throw himself flat on a perfectly level stretch of ground just from stepping up over a curb.

“Thanks,” Cantor nodded – both grateful and a little embarrassed. He slowed his pace to something he could actually manage. “And,” he continued rolling his eyes, “You have no idea! When you can’t do the magic ponies want from you, they get cross. The only thing, it seems, that can make them even more cross is when you do do the magic they want from you.”

Once back at the library, Valentina got Cantor settled into a back room. As was usual these days, there was the business with security, passes, and signing in. When she returned with a stack of books it had been twenty seven minutes since Cantor’s invocation.

Cantor and Valentina spent a minute sorting the books, and it was another minute longer of fiddling with the locks on the grimoire Cantor had been most eager to peruse – a massive book with a cover forged of black iron, pitted with age, and no writing upon it at all. The thing was ancient. Centuries old. Possibly older than Equestria itself. The librarian had told Valentina, “Much good it will do him,” when she had taken it.

Cantor, his gloves on once again, undid the latches and carefully opened it. Valentina, whose heart had started to sink at the librarian’s assessment, felt a surge of disappointment.

The pages were nothing more than thin sheets of black glass. Obsidian. They were strung together on rings of iron welded into the spine of that massive cover. But they hadn’t anything written on them at all. They were smooth as mirrors.

“Oh, Cantor. I’m so sorry. It looks like your ritual didn’t work after all.”

“Oy, that’s a spot o’ bad luck,” Magpie commiserated.

“Pity,” Admiral Fairweather chimed in.

“I … I don’t know,” Morari was frowning thoughtfully at the tome, “There’s something about it … I think that this one might be a magical book rather than just a book about magic. We’ll know more once Cantor does that ritual that lets him see auras. Cantor?”

But Cantor was still focused on the book.

“Cantor?” Valentina was suddenly concerned. This sort of focused distraction didn’t usually come on him so quickly.

Cantor looked up from staring, shocked, at the empty pages, flipping slowly from one to another to another, all blank. His eyes had grown wide, his expression was one of amazement.

“Oh no, no Valentina. The augury did work. It worked perfectly. This book … it has … it says … just the fragments I can make out now ... it’s just what I need.” As she watched his pupils seemed to keep growing larger until his eyes were entirely lost in the shiny black. It was a little unnerving to watch.

“Flip the switch off, Valentina, please. And shut the door on your way out. This really is a Book of Shadows. You can’t read it properly in the light. Only in the dark.”

16. Shadows

“You’re sure this all counts as ‘progress’, Cantor?” Hoofrey Bogart’s tone was dubious, he made no effort to disguise his own lack of satisfaction concerning what concrete results the past ten days at the Bodleian had produced.

“Indeed,” Dozy agreed, “What isn’t vague and mystical sounds a bit … well … eerie. Or fantastic. Or both.”

“Oy, we’re talking ghosts ‘n’ demons ‘n’ the changelingawhatsit is surprised it’s ‘eerie’?” Magpie sounded indignant.

Cantor grinned. “As Magpie just reminded me, we are talking about ghosts and haunts and other such occult things. A bit of eerie weirdness is to be expected.”

Valentina raised an eyebrow at Dozy and the changeling gave a little nod of agreement. What had struck her most over the past week had been the growing confidence and purpose Cantor had begun to display. A week ago, Cantor had seemed to be flailing about in the dark – unsure of where to go or what to do … unsure, perhaps, as to whether or not he was mystically gifted or simply mad.

Although Cantor’s progress was also what Valentina would call a mixed bag. Ever since Cantor had begun meddling with the Book of Shadows, Valentina (who shared the suite with him) noticed that Cantor had begun to have night terrors. He’d twitch and mumble in his sleep, so much so that it would wake Valentina. She would try to quiet him, and usually succeeded. Although just last night, while she was sleepily murmuring “shhh’s” and “it’s just a dream” to him, Cantor had sat bolt upright in the bed, his eyes gone completely black. Cantor had then seized her by the shoulder and said something like “markesis!” It had been quite startling, but Cantor had fallen immediately back to sleep again. As with his other bad dreams, Cantor had no real memory of it once morning had rolled around and he actually woke up. Just a few fragments. Someplace cold. Old stones. A beautiful voice.

Cantor’s grin faded. “Sure, you’re right – I’ve not found much in the way of specifics that are immediately helpful in resolving the current problems of the rise of the Trotting Dead. I still don’t know how to return them to rest, or to keep the Trotting Dead from waking up in the first place. But I’ve found corroboration for the tales Fairweather and Morari have told us. Heck, I even found some corroboration for Magpie’s own bit of history.” Cantor’s expression grew more serious. “I’m not sure you really understand how much that means to me – to find some outside source of information that proves, at least to my own satisfaction, that I’m not just … well … mad. That I’m not somehow just making all this up on my own.”

Cantor continued, “We know more about the Winter Queen and her war. We know more about the murderous Cult of the Red Reaver. And, assuming the descriptions are correct, multiple sources – some of them old enough to be contemporary to those events – confirm that both of those were undead, ghostly unicorns who wielded at least one of the Four Blades of Fear. We know, from the newspaper reports in the archives, that there was a mass murderer in New Amsteerdame two centuries ago known as Laughing Jack (who was killed in the attempt to capture him) and that he too had a red knife that required special handling and disposal.”

Bogart looked rather unhappy. “I’ve got some news on that front, Cantor. It’s not good. But carry on. You said you found out something important about those knives?”

Cantor nodded, “Yes. And that’s the big news for tonight. Assuming that I pieced together about three stories properly, those things are old. Very old. They date back to the first century of Celestia’s reign and a unicorn called as Phobe (a name that, itself, indicates fear) who had the four blades made. Their actual magic is much older than that. And, while I would like to think that the source which mentioned them was being melodramatic and symbolic, it said that Phobe intended to use them to ‘slay the sun’ and ‘conquer death.’ I don’t think it is coincidence that those knives have popped up at least twice since then in the hooves of unicorns that have broken free from death’s realm and who have then sought to bring down Celestia.”

“So … are you saying the blades themselves are to blame for things like the Winter Queen? Both her rising from the grave and her compulsion to assault Equestria?” Dozy poured himself another cider and offered one to Bogart, who declined.

Bogart frowned, “Back up a bit. How can the knives’ magic be older than the knives themselves?”

Cantor seemed caught between a grin and a grimace. “Because of what they are made out of!” He started shuffling through his notes.

“And what’s that?” Dozy leaned forward to catch some papers that would otherwise have tumbled to the floor.

Cantor slid a sketch across the table. “That. I copied it from a scroll that was evacuated from the old Pegasi lands when they fled the Wendigos.”

It was a crude picture of a bell. With notations indicating that it had shattered and four jagged fragments circled as if they were important. The sketch was shoddy, at best.

“That’s a broken bell.” Bogart’s tone said this didn’t clarify matters in the slightest.

“It’s a broken magical bell that once channeled the powers of a demonic entity known as Grogar. When it shattered (or by some accounts disintegrated) during a confrontation with him at somewhere called Dream Valley, its loss banished him – and the ruined city he ruled – back to the Shadow World.”

“A demon.” Dozy sounded a bit skeptical.

“Yes, there was a picture of him in the apocrypha for the original printing of the first edition of Daemonologie and Newes from Shetland. You won’t find it in later versions. Valentina’s quite good at copying pictures!” Cantor slid another paper across the table. Dozy and Bogart both frowned at it.

“He looks like some sort of evil ram.” Bogart sounded thoughtful.

Valentina leaned forward and tapped the picture, “Yes. And you’ll notice he was drawn wearing a necklace or collar with a bell prominently displayed upon it.” She was rather proud of her accuracy with sketch-work. Cantor could copy words wonderfully but watching him breaking quills and splattering ink, all while frowning with his tongue between his teeth as he struggled to reproduce a picture, had simply been too much for her. It had been some years since her figure drawing class, but she was still quite decent at reproducing a sketch. As a result, most of the sketches in Cantor’s notes were her work.

Cantor began to sound a bit grim. “Grogar (or mentions of him anyway) pop up repeatedly in the oldest legends regarding necromancy as a magical discipline. I've read quite a bit over the years that touches on him and his magic. Indirectly he’s one of the reasons necromancy has such a bad reputation, not that the discipline needed the help! However this was a demon whose arcane specialty was not raising the dead, directly. No, he never raised armies of skeletons and zombies or conjured up ghosts. At least, not that I've heard. But Grogar was a tyrant, and he was either a native of, or somehow semi-permanently banished to, the shadow lands.”

Cantor, looking at the uncomprehending expressions of those around him, sighed again. “The ancient pony kindreds associated the shadow lands with the lands of the dead. They thought of it as a place of haunts, spirits, shades, ghosts, and ... well ... shadows. Separate from, but in some ways rather like, Tartarus. The first pony necromancers, legends have it, were able to reach into the lands of shadow and begin to pull spirits out of it ... or perhaps through it. In theory, this later became the foundation for the spells that could raise the undead. And much of the power used, and the way it was used in these workings, was based off of Grogar’s work.”

“How so?” This from Dozy.

Cantor shuffled through a few other notes as he continued, “Well, while Grogar’s own recorded uses of power generally focused on his using imprisonment spells and blasting those who didn't bow to his whims – those who didn't become his slaves and servants – one of Grogar's weaknesses was that he, and his ruined city of Tambelon, were both somehow bound into the shadow lands. He was trying to break free, or perhaps return, to rule over all of Equestria.”

Cantor blinked thoughtfully then corrected himself, “Well, technically this was all before Equestria was formed. So I suppose ’all of the pony lands’ would be more accurate. Regardless, he wanted to rule the world – and, in part through his mastery of the magic of the shadow lands, he had the magical power to make a very serious go at it.”

“Anyway, he made use of some ancient relic in Tambelon to channel mystic power to free it, and himself, from the shadow lands on a temporary basis. Once free, he sought to conquer – to establish himself here, in the lands of the living rather than, as the ancients understood it, in the lands of the dead. When he was defeated, his power weakened, he and Tambelon would fade away. But he'd be back, on something like a five-hundred year cycle if the legends are accurate.”

“But Cantor,” Bogart chimed in as he looked over Cantor's notes, “It's been well over five hundred years ... well over a thousand if those scribbles of yours are correct, since Grogar or Tambelon have been heard from.”

Cantor nodded, “Quite right. But the last time he was defeated, that magic bell of his was broken. Some speak of it as having shattered. Others of having melted or dissolved away like frost in the sunlight. However there were rumors that a few fragments of it survived, and were left on our side of the border between here and ... uh ... there. Anyway, the bell was (as I mentioned) one of the chief vessels of Grogar's power. Without the bell, it would be much harder for him to gather and control the power to needed to return to Equestria and make another go at conquest. And gathering the power to reforge another bell like it would certainly add many centuries to his imprisonment. Even without factoring in all the extra precautions that the unicorns of old took to keep Tambelon sealed away in the shadow lands.”

“The unicorns had extra reasons to be concerned. Apparently Grogar, existing in his shadowy ‘otherwhere’ as he did, could ... uh ... I guess you could call it ‘intercept’ a unicorn mid-teleportation. They’d vanish away from here, but appear in a cell in Tambelon rather than at their intended destination.”

“Even with the idea that the shadow lands are a realm of unquiet ghosts, that’s not a very direct connection between Grogar and your haunts.” Bogart still didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“No, the more direct connection – and the relation with the foundations of necromancy – lie in how Grogar strove to use the magics of the shadow lands. Specifically, he developed rituals designed to sacrifice and banish living ponies, sending them bodily to the shadow lands of the dead, and using this exchange to bolster his continuing power and ... well, ‘reality’ I suppose you could say ... here in our sunlit world. Send enough ponies into the shadow lands then he, and Tambelon, could remain here forever.”

“Trading the living, or their energies, for power and knowledge from the lands of the dead? That’s one way of understanding how a traditional medium works – their living consciousness is temporarily traded to the ghost of one who has passed, the exchange allowing the dead and the living to communicate one with another.”

Cantor chuckled, “That’s also not a trick I've ever managed myself, though I have experimented with it a bit, back in my school days. Which is why I usually just qualify myself as a ‘spiritualist’ or ‘medium-in-training.’ I’ve never fully succeeded in getting my conscious mind to step aside or trade places with one of my spectral friends in the way a true medium could theoretically manage.”

Cantor smile faded. He sounded quite solemn, “But that sort of transfer – tapping into the power of the shadow lands ... using that power to rip a ghost free from the ‘undiscovered country from which no pony returns’ and dragging them, wrapped in that shadowy, unnatural magic, here, to Equestria? According to my studies back in Nighthaven, that is exactly the sort of thing pony necromancers studied in ancient times. It’s basically what Grogar was trying to do, just kind of in reverse. And it’s all too much like what these vortexes we've been struggling with are doing today.”

There was a moment of silence before Cantor continued.

“We don’t know much about the forging of the Four Blades of Fear. Heck, Phobe herself may be largely mythical – the stories that come to us out of the first Celestial century of peace are from a time sufficiently distant that facts have faded to legend and faerie tales. Whoever forged them clearly meant for the blades to channel a portion of Grogar’s power over the shadow lands, part of his whole ripping something free from death’s domain schtick. And, judging from what little we do know – again, mostly through Fairweather and Magpie, both of whom felt the blade’s bite – the sound of a bell is part of its magic. Fear and madness are two other parts. Who knows what else Phobe incorporated into their forging?”

“We get it. The blades are bad news. But assuming you are right, I’ve got some questions,” Dozy leaned back in his chair.

“Ask away,” Cantor grinned.

“Oy, who wants ta bet they’re the same questions tha cute stewardess asked? She’s a smart cookie!”

“I do not have anything to wager, young lady. And a Gentlecolt ought not dabble overly much in such things.”

“If the wielders of the blades of fear don’t stay dead, then what was the deal with Laughing Jack? I’m pretty sure we would have turned up mention of some lunatic wight or ghoul murdering their way through New Amsteerdame a century-ish back. That’s way more recent than either the Reaver or the Queen – so there should be more information on him. And from the sounds of it, last we heard he died in the course of being apprehended.”

“One fer one!” Magpie nudged Morari.

“I’m not taking that bet either, reprobate.”

“Laughing Jack didn’t rise from the grave.” Cantor confirmed. “But, unlike either the Winter Queen or the Red Reaver, he was neither a mare nor, probably more importantly, a unicorn. I suspect that the sort of magic caught within those knives can only be fully harnessed by somepony who, like their legendary forger, uses unicorn magic. Possibly who is female as well – though I would be inclined to say that’s less important in this case. For somepony who isn’t a unicorn to wield the blade … well … its power would work on, and through, them – but I doubt they could learn to control it enough to break free of death. It would probably just drive them mad with fear and send them on unfocused killing sprees.”

“I notice some ‘probablys’ and ‘possiblys’ in your theory, there, Cantor.” Bogart didn’t sound particularly dubious, but he clearly felt the need to address that point.

Cantor chuckled, “‘Probable-Possible, my black hen.’” He gave an apologetic smile at the resulting, rather worried, stares. “Sorry! That's from a not-so-old children’s rhyme. But yes, it is theory. Even if we had one of the knives here, testing my hypotheses would be a dubious proposition. But it fits the available data better than anything else I’ve had to work with so far this year!”

Dozy nodded. “No doubts there. But, another question.”

“Ask away!” Cantor said again.

“If these blades of fear are the reason the dead are rising, why are they only rising now? Sure, Fairweather and Magpie were cut by them, but so too were countless others. Likewise Morari’s magic was wrapped around a wielder of one blade, but so too was Trotwine’s … and quite a few other unicorns by Fairweather’s account. Why aren’t more dead rising?” Dozy blinked. “I guess that makes two questions.”

“And it gets me up ta three fer three!” Magpie was gleeful.

“This is hardly a laughing matter, young filly.” Morari scolded.

“Course it ain’t! That’s why I laugh. I, fer one, ain’t gonna let me fear o’ all that be a chain ‘round me already slit throat. I’m gonna laugh at it all. Mock it if’n I can’t fight it. Gotta find yer fun where ya can, scribbler. ‘n Cantor ain’t the only stallion ‘round here what needs ta learn ta lighten up.”

Cantor nodded, “And the answer to your second question is ‘I’m not sure.’ Not to mention,” Cantors face seemed to slide briefly back to an expression of helpless desperation, “I have no idea how many other ghosts have risen like this. I’ve found three. I had two more leads almost as good a Whitstable when I came to Albion. There could be another vortex in Seaddle. Another one somewhere in the Badlands. Who knows how many souls there are out there right now, trapped by this evil remnant of Grogar’s magic? I sure don’t. Sisters preserve, I’ll do what I can to help them, but I’ve no idea how many there are nor where to find them all.”

Cantor shook off his fey mood, although his expression was still grim, “As for why now? Well the best theories I have for that one are … uh … a little on the unpleasant side.”

Valentina rolled her eyes, “A little, Cantor? Gave me the shivers right proper they did!”

“Well?” Bogart tucked his blanket around his legs a bit more tightly.

“Something’s changed with the knives. Or at least one of them. One theory is that somepony … or something … is now trying to actively use their power. As a result – either intentionally or as a side effect – some among the dead who have a direct, one might say a ‘personal’ connection with the magics involved are being … affected.”

“That’s not good,” Dozy agreed.

“It’s not. If whoever, or whatever, it is continues to use the blades, then (whether or not they're trying to) it looks like the situation with these vortexes of shadow-magic will only get worse … to wake more Trotting Dead. And, like our three haunts, they will awaken mad with fear.”

“Yay. More new friends,” Admiral Fairweather sounded distinctly unenthused by the prospect.

Morari looked at him in shock.

“What? I am only taking Magpie’s particularly good advice ...” Fairweather’s face remained solemn.

“Thank ye!”

“… it is rare enough that she gives good advice after all.”

“Sod off!”

“Another possibility also exists,” Cantor continued, “One of the sources of the blades power could be actively exerting itself and (again, intentionally or not) the blades are just serving to channel a portion of that power to raise those among the dead who had a personal connection to at least one of the knives. This could be the case even if somepony isn't actively trying to use the blades for their own purposes.”

“That sounds worse,” Bogart was frowning.

“It could be. If Grogar’s regained his power and is striving to break out of the Shadow Realm again then yes, that's worse. Much worse. Given the age of the spells that banished Grogar there could be cracks between our reality and the otherwhere he rules. Why, the knives themselves might even serve as cracks of a sort. Anyway, assuming such cracks exist, then if he's aware of them and if they are letting him push even a fragment of his power into Equestria ... well, ‘bad’ doesn't even begin to cover it.”

“Agreed,” Dozy added.

Cantor sighed, “For that matter, we don’t know what other powers went into those blades. There might be something else piggybacking on Grogar’s old mastery of the shadow lands for some other ill purpose. Grogar may have been a terrible mythic figure from beyond the spheres, but there are plenty of other wicked … uh … I don’t even know what you’d call them ….” Cantor considered for a moment. “Eh, call ’em entities. Things that lie beyond the boundaries of the natural world. Like Grogar, some of them try to get in. Some ponies,” Cantor sounded rueful, “are occasionally stupid enough to try cracking the walls of time and space to talk to them. Doesn’t really matter which side of a wall a crack starts out on, I suppose. Cracks that let whispers of wicked influence in from outside are bad.”

“Why in the world would somepony try to talk to something like that?” Bogart rarely sounded shocked. This was one of those rare times.

Morari sighed, “Yes, Magpie. Four points to you now.”

“Leaving aside the fact that plenty of ponies do stupid, even self-destructive, things for knowledge and power (and talking to the whisperers in the dark is an old, old source of both), part if it is because not all the things outside of the real world as we know it are bad, Hoofrey. Some of them are very nice. Strange like you or I wouldn’t … like we couldn’t believe or understand, but nice. Heck, a large portion of my own magical gifts are ultimately tied to … uh … ‘the Dead’ I suppose you could say. To my personal relationship with the great beyond. And the Dead are as much one of those strange dark forces ‘beyond the walls of reality’ as anything else out there. Kindly remember, not all that is dark is bad. Luna is dark. Her night is dark. Does anypony here really think she’s evil?”

Cantor looked around the room.

“He makes a good point,” Morari commented.

“Do not judge a book by its cover, eh sir?” Fairweather added.

“Oy! I’m still shocked that tha whole Nightmare Moon legend turned out ta be real! Much less that some ponies managed to break tha honest ta goodness Luna free from it.”

“I say, why do you start every other sentence with ‘Oy?’” Fairweather was frowning at Magpie.

“Do I?” she looked startled, “Ne’re noticed. Just a thing, I guess. Lots o’ ponies talked like that back where I grew up.”

Cantor sighed. “The problem is, when you shout at a cracked wall ‘Hey! Anypony over there?’ You’re never quite sure what’s going to bother shouting back. And what they might want from you.”

“And that brings us around to ‘what shall we do about it,’ yes?” Valentina chimed in.

Bogart’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean we have something as breathtakingly novel and revolutionary as a plan?”

“Yes,” Cantor nodded. “Right now we have theories. Even a second-rate academic like me knows that you need to test theories – to determine which elements of them are right and which are wrong. Refine them until you reach the truth. And without the truth of the matter, the best we can do is treat the symptoms of this problem. Right now, I could spend all my time tracking down disturbances and freeing individual haunts … but that doesn’t lay them to rest, nor stop them from rising in the first place.”

Cantor sighed. “So, we’ve got two possible leads to follow up on. One would be to track down the knives. I’m pretty sure that the unicorn wizards of old flat out lied to Admiral Fairweather. I’d bet that any of the blades they recovered weren’t broken. That leaves three daggers at large and one in the Winter Queen’s barrow.”

“As I said before, I’ve got some news on that front, Cantor.” Bogart broke in.

“Really?”

“It’s not good. First we had some of our contacts check with the Ashmulean. They did have one of the Red Reaver’s knives. They had it sealed away in a vault and under strict quarantine and containment – just touching the thing was apparently very bad for one’s mental health.”

Valentina groaned. “Oh no. The break in!”

Bogart nodded. “That knife is among the things that went missing.”

Cantor grimaced and nodded, “That’s very bad. But not too surprising. At least the authorities are hunting for the perpetrators. And thank Celestia they don’t think I’m one of them! But,” Cantor’s tone shaded to the thoughtful, “unless somepony was fiddling around with the blade while it was in storage, that doesn’t explain the sudden rise of Morari, Magpie, and Fairweather some months back.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Bogart agreed. “But I checked up on Laughing Jack. His knife wound up in the Fort Trotten Officer’s club, the Castle they call it. These days, it’s the Bayside Historical Society – a small museum in Manehattan.”

Bogart’s expression turned grim. “Jack’s Red Blade has been missing from their collection for over two years. No pony knows where it went, or even exactly when it disappeared.”

Cantor was silent for a moment, then he said, “Well … poo. That’s got two blades now known to be at large, one entirely unaccounted for (hopefully, it’s buried with the Reaver but neither Morari nor the other sources I’ve turned up are clear on that point), and one that, by Fairweather's account, should still be buried with the Winter Queen.”

“Pardon, Cantor – ‘should still be?’” Dozy interrupted.

“Yes, should be. Her barrow isn’t exactly on the beaten path. We’d have to sail to the griffon kingdoms and do quite a bit of hiking to find the spot. Nor has it been well maintained from what we can gather. It’s one more pile of rocks in a stretch of country that consists of little more than other piles of rocks. Given that it’s been five centuries, even Admiral Fairweather himself would have some difficulty in finding the precise location again. And we’ll need to check on it to be sure that it hasn’t been opened. While unlikely – as the wards they used were pretty strong – its possible somepony could have broken in to retrieve the knife. If they have, then hopefully the Winter Queen wasn’t accidentally released.”

“Or released on purpose,” Admiral Fairweather added.

Cantor winced. “Or, as Fairweather just pointed out, let out intentionally.”

“So you will be sailing east, I take it? I can have my agent make the necessary arrangements.”

“No, Bogart. First I have to arrange a little private time with the Iron Book of Shadows after hours.”

“What? Why? That could get you in even more trouble.” Dozy was concerned.

“Because the Queen’s barrow isn’t the first thing we’ll need to check up on.” Cantor’s expression matched his tone – very, very serious.

“The worst possible danger we’ve come up with would be the return of Grogar himself – either because bringing him back is what the wielder of the Blades of Fear is striving to do, or as a side-effect of their tapping into the magic of the shadow realm to do ... well ... whatever it is they're using these wicked knives for instead. If Grogar is forcing his way back into Equestria, then there will be obvious and detectable signs. We need to find Dream Valley, to see if the lost city of Tambelon has begun to return from the Shadow Lands. If it has … if the ancient spells that banished Grogar have begun to weaken … then we will need to deal with him first, before he has more time to gather his power. And by ‘we need to deal with him’ I'm thinking run screaming to the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. with a full report and see if the experts can figure out something to do.”

Cantor sighed. “I really hope I’m wrong on this one, folks. But it’s a little odd how many ‘thousand year old’ magical banishments have faded in recent times. Nightmare Moon, Discord, Sombra, Tirek … Grogar’s been gone a long time. One source I found indicated that he may have been one of Tirek’s contemporaries, that part’s unclear though. So if the bindings on those other wicked powers have faded, why not his?”

“That has to be our first concern. That has to be our first order of business. If it turns out that the Shadow Realm remains sealed … that it still holds Tambelon safely away from Equestria … then we can head for the Winter Queen’s barrow and check up on that knife.”

“And do you know where this Valley of Dreams, this Lost Tambelon, is located?” Bogart raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Valentina replied.

“Not yet,” Cantor clarified. “But I am positive that information is concealed in the Iron Book of Shadows. I just need to … uh … read that part properly.”

“What, you can’t just read it?” Dozy’s confusion was shared by Bogart.

“It’s an extraordinary book,” Cantor explained. “As Morari had initially suspected it’s not just a book about magic, it is a magical book. Blank obsidian pages to those who view it in the light, meaning it can only be read by ponies who can see in darkness. There are spells that can make that happen – but those are more difficult, and much less common, than the petty magic that conjures light from a unicorn’s horn. In darkness, seeing by darkness, words become visible.”

“But that’s not all. In confirming our suspicion that the book was innately magical, and not merely filled with information about magic, I discovered that if you can both see in the dark and see magical auras, another layer of meaning appears – different words, different illustrations, different annotations.”

Dozy let out a low whistle. Bogart muttered, “So that’s why it’s been taking you so long with that book – its two books in one.”

“Oh, more than just two, Bogart,” Cantor grinned. “I’m not entirely sure how deep that rabbit hole goes, but we kind of stumbled into the realization that if you’re … uh … looking through a ghost at a page, that acts as yet another filter – leading to yet more text.”

“’Stumbled into’ is right,” Morari muttered.

“And between these different readings, I’ve discovered references that strongly suggest certain magics might be evoked via the tome, magics which would reveal even more information. Those references are closely linked with multiple references to both Tambelon and to the Shadow Realms.”

“So,” Bogart said, “What exactly do you need to do.”

“I need to have the book in hoof as midnight approaches. Then I have to pull the shadows around myself.”

“Do you know how to do that?” Dozy asked.

“I … I think so. I’d need the book in hoof to do it, though. I’ve never done anything like that before. I didn’t really consider that there might be other implications to my ability to … er … supernaturally see in the dark. But from what I’ve read there are.”

“Unicorn magic is somewhat like a muscle – use it regularly and it can grow stronger. Overtax it and you can strain yourself … possibly even damage yourself badly. Back when I … uh … let’s just say when I developed my facility with ritual magic and seeing in the dark … I began building upon elements of my natural gifts of communing with the dead. My innate magic. So while the whole ‘seeing in the dark’ thing is one outgrowth of that, there can be others. The ability to manipulate shadows and shades was strongly implied.”

“What I read about pulling shadows around myself sounded …” Cantor looked like he was struggling for the right words, “… familiar I guess. Like déjà vu? Only not quite. Like something I already knew how to do, but had never actually done, because I had forgotten I could.”

Cantor’s expression looked a bit worried, “Rather like that spell I uncovered.”

“What, the crystal-reading divination? I thought you figured that out from other ritual books.” Dozy was frowning, trying to recall what he had been told.

“Oh, no – you’re right. That trick with the crystal I picked up elsewhere. It’s just …” Cantor sighed.

“When I was both seeing in the dark, viewing magical auras, and looking through Morari’s shade to see the pages there was a spell that was revealed. And it was …” once again Cantor was struggling to find the right words, “Familiar. So very familiar. I don’t know if you’ve ever been studying some subject, or trying some activity, and thinking ‘this is all very difficult’ then just had something seem to ‘click’ and suddenly it all made perfect sense … but it was like that. I’d never seen that particular spell before, but as soon as I laid eyes on it I just … I knew it.”

“What spell?” Bogart sounded suspicious.

“Uh … I can make dead ponies talk.”

“You could already do that Cantor.” Dozy seemed both amused and concerned.

“No.” Cantor clarified, “I couldn’t. I could talk to the spirits of dead ponies that were lingering around. I couldn’t point at a corpse and say, ‘answer me these questions.’ Not and expect their dead body to spontaneously draw breath and actually do it.”

There was a moment of silence before Cantor, rolling his eyes, added, “Yes. It’s creepy. I get that it’s creepy. It creeps me right the fuck out. Knowledge crawling unbidden up the back of my mind from … from somewhere, summoned up by a mystic tome that can only be read in darkness, and gifting me with secrets to draw answers from the dead? Back when Morari was alive, heck back when Magpie was alive, admitting I could do that sort of thing could have gotten me burned at the stake.”

Cantor chuckled. “Tartarus! With some of the angry mobs I’ve run from in my time, it could get me burned at the stake tomorrow for all I know.” He fell silent, contemplating that last bit.

Valentina spoke up. “Only five questions before the magic fades, corpses will only talk for up to ten minutes before the magic fades, trying it again on the same corpse won’t generally work unless a couple of weeks have passed, they don’t know anything they didn’t know when they were alive, the corpse (in answering) is basically the same pony they were in life – so if they aren’t inclined to be of a cooperative disposition to the pony asking them questions they’ll lie or just refuse to talk, and it’s not something that can be done easily or often – Cantor only has enough ‘oompf’ to pull it off maybe twice before he’s shot for the day. It’s not one of those ritual things he can just do anywhere, time permitting.” She ticked off the points one by one.

To the somewhat surprised looks from Dozy and Bogart she replied, “Loves, I was there when he was rattling on (and on and on) about the discovery. Cantor once impressed upon me the importance of knowing the limits of specific magics.” She smiled fondly, “Lest I become annoyed from asking its practitioners to do things their magic cannot, in fact, do.”

“I’ve had a few more hours to get over the heebie-jeebies than you two. And when it eventually occurs to you two colts that the good inspector from Shetland Yard has a morgue full of corpses from the Ashmulean that might be able to shed a bit of light on the break in, if only somepony could ask them nicely to answer a few questions, it would be best if you knew exactly what Cantor can and can’t do with this new spell of his.”

“Oy! Can we keep ‘er, Cantor? She’s good to have around. ‘n’ not just ‘cause she’s easy on the eyes!”

“You could certainly use the help of one of the living for your work. Especially one who isn’t spooked by … uhm … spooks.” Morari chuckled a bit.

“Thank you Valentina,” Cantor smiled. “And getting back to the point. There are things to be arranged. Somepony ought to follow up on the knives, as much as we can. Somepony ought to figure out if there are more of those vortexes out there and, if so, where. Somepony ought to follow up on that Doctor Caballeron fellow, especially if he’s as involved in this as we suspect he might be.”

“And I need to get into the archives tomorrow night to see what I can learn of Tambelon from the Iron Book while it, and I, are wrapped in shadow. With luck, I can walk out of there with enough information to place it on a map. And then it’ll be off to … well … wherever that winds up being.”

“As for why tomorrow – they’re having a small gallery presentation, honoring a gift of several new and rare volumes. There will be ponies in attendance, and I should be able to slip away to the archive reading room for the few moments necessary to get some time alone with the Iron Book of Shadows. It’s really the perfect time to be trying to sneak around in their back rooms.”

“Provided,” Cantor grinned at Bogart. “You can get me a ticket!”

“I’ll get you two,” Bogart said, rather grimly, “You’re taking Val, here. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. If things don’t go as smoothly as we’d like, you may need that. I trust that will be satisfactory?”

Valentina grinned, “Oh yes! Cantor takes me to the nicest places!”

Cantor rolled his eyes as she took his foreleg.

“What? I’m serious! They’re ‘hauntingly’ beautiful!” Valentina’s grin grew when Dozy winced from the joke, “And, best of all, it’s exciting!” She gave Cantor’s leg a squeeze, “I like exciting. It’s why I’m sticking around.”

17. Whispers

Cantor, Valentina noted, cleaned up rather nicely. More so than he realized. The new black cape was a particularly posh accent to his pale coat. Given how much more self-assured he was recently, he lacked only that sense of arrogant haughtiness commonly (and often falsely) associated with the upper classes to seem almost regal.

But, she thought as she clung to his fore-leg (looking quite decorative), as soon as somepony approached and saw his warm, friendly smile as Cantor almost, but not quite, looked at a body … well, that simply ruined the air of high-society reserve and general snootiness he didn’t quite manage to project.

Valentina’s grip looked light, but it wasn’t. She knew Cantor was nervous, which meant his mind was on other things than where he was putting his hooves. The whole point of looking nice was to blend in with the various bibliophiles and society socialites here for the unveiling of a new donation of rare books. If Cantor wound up taking a tumble, then blending in would be right out the window. Possibly literally.

Valentina knew Cantor was grateful for the assistance. Although the sweet dear had, of course, been worried about dragging her into possible trouble. But she wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Cantor ought to be more worried about what would happen to him if the librarians realized that he wasn’t here for the speeches, wine, cheese, string quartet, and polite conversation … but rather to sneak back into the underground office that had been set aside for “Mr. Luggage’s” use.

The two “literary researchers” had stayed late. Well past the final call, until the head reference librarian had personally come to kick them out of the library – with threats that if they were going lose track of time that badly, he might not permit them to return. The end result was that there hadn’t been time for the staff to clean up their assigned reading room prior to this evening’s gala, only to hastily lock the rare books back into one of the cases.

Valentina didn’t know when Thretan had gotten copies of that case’s key, the hall keys, and the room key but the changeling assassin had, and now Valentina had all those copies tucked into a smart black purse that matched her dress perfectly. In theory, she and Cantor could be admitted to the party, mingle, enjoy some wine and crackers, listen to a spot of music, and then – when the speeches began – duck down one of the back stairs, let themselves into the reading room, open the case, and have Cantor do the, admittedly somewhat spooky, magical workings that would, they hoped, reveal the location of Tambelon.

There shouldn’t be any major problems.

But if there were problems Valentina had been relieved to note that there were allies nearby, ready to help them escape to their fall-back position. On their way back to the New Bodleian, after their quick change into their formal wear, she had spotted Thretan (in her young Katherine Hoofburn disguise) apparently doing some sort of “tourist of the evening” walking-about around campus. On earlier visits over the past week or so, Valentina had occasionally spotted a zebra or two … just around, not obtrusive, who she had assumed were in the vicinity should trouble erupt. It was nice to know that Thretan herself had eyes on the building tonight.

Valentina and Cantor mingled. If they had just been here for fun, she would have dragged him into the midst of the crowds of ponies. As it was, they stayed more on the fringes – where Cantor was surprisingly charming to the occasional celebrant who paused to make small talk. Cantor knew his books and his art and his history, and was able to converse about those subjects in a most enjoyable fashion. Perhaps not as a true expert, but at least as a very well informed and interested amateur.

It was a big crowd. Staying out of the way of the chief reference librarian wasn’t a problem. That stallion was far too busy keeping the event running smoothly to pay close attention to a couple of ponies on the fringes of things who didn’t want to be noticed.

Valentina may have had one too many glasses of bubbly by the time the music was done, the horse d'oeuvres were nibbled, and the speeches started. She wasn’t surprised that she had to give Cantor a slight tug to remind him that they needed to take advantage of the crowd’s shift in focus to the guest speaker to duck out rather than listen to a talk on bibliography.

They ran into a security guard almost immediately, but rather than try to avoid the mare, Cantor went straight up to her and said, “I say, do you happen to know where the powder room is?” Valentina giggled. She didn’t need to fake the slightly slurred buzz from the champagne.

The guard answered, quite professionally and with accompanying hoof gestures, “Down the stairs and turn left, sir. You can’t miss it.”

Down the stairs they went, but not towards the facilities. Half way to their destination Cantor tensed and whispered “Guard coming.” Valentina, who had already retrieved the keys, tried two before getting a side door open. They ducked into the office, shut the door, and Cantor – with a touch of magic – flipped the bolt-switch to relock it.

Outside the guard passed by. He (or she) tried the door handle, just as part of the routine Valentina suspected. Perhaps two minutes later Cantor said, “Thanks Magpie!”

Valentina chimed in, “Oh yes, thanks loads!” Grinning at Cantor, she added, “You have the nicest friends.”

“I do indeed,” Cantor agreed, but he also sounded worried. More worried than he should.

“What is it?” Valentina asked. The wine had her feeling good. The excitement had her feeling even better. But something in Cantor’s tone threatened to put a damper on the otherwise quite enjoyable cloak-and-dagger of the evening.

“I don’t know … the ghosts are … there’s something wrong. Magpie says her hooves are prickling something awful, Fairweather doesn’t know what he’s feeling – but it’s not good, and Morari says that there’s some sort of magical disturbance underway.” Cantor paused, “He thinks. He thinks there is some sort of magical disturbance underway. Whatever it is seems to be distressing all of them and …” Cantor frowned at thin air. He sounded quite quizzical, “What do you mean ‘more real?’”

“Cantor, we’re on a rather tight schedule.” Valentina tugged at his leg. “Chatter with them while we trot. We aren’t likely to get two chances at that book.”

Cantor nodded, distracted. As they made their way back out into the corridor and down more steps to the subterranean portion of the archives, most of what he was murmuring sounded more reassuring than anything.

Valentina felt a shiver run down her own back. The spooks were spooked? What would frighten a ghost? From what little she caught of Cantor’s soft and supportive speech he was trying to calm and quiet them. When he focused on being persuasive, as he was doing at the moment, his musical voice really did make one want to believe him, to listen to him.

No more guards, and within minutes they were outside the door to the small chamber that had been repurposed to their study room. Valentina tried the key. A near perfect fit. The door unlocked and swung open with nary a protest.

Valentina flipped on the lights, watching the crystals set into the ceiling start to glow. Cantor might be able to see in the darkness, but she couldn’t. And Magpie was the one best suited to waiting in the halls and watching for approaching trouble.

Cantor went over to the case containing the Iron Book of Shadows. Valentina remained by the door. Cantor looked over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Keys?” Without really thinking, Valentina tossed them to him. They were both a tad surprised that he caught them successfully.

Unfortunately the key to the case wasn’t quite so perfect a fit. Cantor fiddled with it for a moment, then banged the side of the case once, fairly hard. Honestly, he wasn’t all that strong a pony either. Still, it was enough to jar loose the lock and pop the case’s door.

“Thanks, Fairweather!” Cantor grinned at a spot nearby that appeared empty to Valentina. Then his expression began to shade back to worried. “It will be fine. You’ll be fine.”

Cantor looked over at Valentina. “We need to hurry. Something here is seriously, seriously wrong. I’ve never seen them like this. Not since …” Cantor started to go pale, then shook his head. “No. No … would you get the lights?”

He had the Iron Book of Shadows open and was standing behind the desk. The room was as they had left it: a mess. The waste-bin overflowing with Cantor’s failed attempts at sketchwork, loose piles of notes, and two of Valentina’s own drawing pads. Fully a dozen common reference works, all brought down from reference rather than being dug out of the secure portions of the archives, had been left out. Anything rare had, like the Iron Book, been locked away in one of the room’s cases before the librarian had let them set a hoof outside the room.

Valentina flipped off the lights. The room was windowless and underground. The darkness was absolute. A moment passed.

“Well … that was surprisingly easy. And … uh … it works.” Cantor’s voice came from the darkness some paces in front of Valentina.

“That’s good.” She replied. She could also hear the distinctive sound of the book's iron cover being unlatched, and the rattling of it's volcanic glass pages being flipped.

“Apparently the whole ‘pulling the shadows’ around me thing just takes a bit of concentration. And yes, Magpie I’m still here. You can hear me talking, right? Apparently, Valentina, they can’t see me at all when I … uh … do …” Cantor’s voice trailed off.

Valentina had a bad feeling.

“Cantor?” She asked.

“I’m reading as fast as I can you two. With the book invisible like this, I can still see it, and I was right. Entirely different text and images. There’s stuff here about the shadow realms … theory on how to draw in the essence of lightlessness to do … stuff. No, I don’t need transportation or communication … nor concealment … nor imprisonment … wait!” As Valentina listened to the distinctive clicking of Cantor flipping through the obsidian pages she thought that whatever magic he had done may have rendered him invisible, but it hadn’t made him any harder to hear.

“Tambelon … Tambelon – Vale of Shadows … points of planar convergence … Aha!” There came the unmistakable sound of Cantor scribbling frantically as he copied information from the tome. After a few minutes of this, the scratching sound of quill on parchment stopped.

“Got it?” Valentina suddenly frowned to herself. “Did you say Magpie is in here? Why is Magpie in here rather than out there?”

“Yes … got it. And she’s in here,” Cantor’s voice was uncommonly grim, “because she’s terrified.”

Valentina blinked. From what she knew of the ghosts, Magpie was the last of the three she would expect to be terrified. Something really must be wrong.

The dull thud of Cantor closing the book echoed in the room. Valentina heard the distinct off-kilter sound of Cantor limping across the room. “Done. Now we just …”

As he was speaking Valentina heard a distinctive click from just to her left, in the dark of the room.

The door opened.

Before she could do more than reflexively flinch back, the silhouetted figure in the doorway flipped on the light switch.

Doctor Caballeron looked from Valentina (standing beside the door) to Cantor (visible again, and half-way back to the book case) to the Iron Book of Shadows in Cantor’s hooves.

Caballeron sighed and adjusted his grip on the surprisingly large metal-bound briefcase he was carrying.

“Always with the complications,” he remarked to no pony in particular.

Cantor was caught entirely unprepared. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear his own voice saying, “Well, crap.” Time seemed to slow.

“Doc—“ Cantor was in the process of saying Caballeron’s name. A surprised, largely unconsicous reaction to his sudden appearance.

Valentina was unfurling her wings and taking a pace back. Magpie, still shivering, had started snarling at Caballeron in an almost feral fashion. Admiral Fairweather’s face was twisted into a mask of equal parts fear and rage – the whites of his translucent eyes seemed to glow and his smile wasn’t in any way friendly.

And as for Morari, the ghostly unicorn took a half step back and, for the first time Cantor had seen, a spectral glow enveloped the shade’s horn. So Morari had been right … apparently he could tap into the increasing surge of magical power that had been flowing into the haunts.

But all of that was a distraction from Cantor’s focus on Caballeron’s lunge across the chamber. The Doctor swung the steel-bound case murderously hard, catching Cantor high in the jaw with an armored corner of the thing. The case, as Cantor had noted, was large – a little over three feet to a side, and perhaps a foot deep. It was hefty, even without the muscle Caballeron had put behind it. The pain was intense. Cantor’s vision was marred with flashes of light. Cantor thought he felt something crack as his head whipped around.

Cantor wasn’t fast. He wasn’t graceful. And he wasn’t particularly strong. But Cantor had survived the panicked attacks of ponies – singly, in pairs, in mobs – before. While he wasn’t entirely certain it was a good thing, Cantor sure knew how to take a beating.

Caballeron seemed a touch surprised that Cantor was not dropped immediately. That sort of a blow could usually put a more formidable looking pony than Cantor down for the count. It could possibly even kill them. The archeologist hadn’t been pulling his punches. And while Caballeron vastly preferred to have a few henchponies around to do his fighting for him, when push came to shove, the rogue archaeologist felt certain he could handle a bumbling marshmellow of an academic (whether mad or not) and some little filly.

Cantor staggered back, wildly off balance, and Caballeron followed up by tossing the briefcase straight into Cantor’s face.

Now that hurt even worse than whatever had happened to his jaw! Broken nose or not, Cantor’s hooves flew up to his muzzle as he toppled over backwards, blood splatters flying through the air.

In doing so, he dropped the book. Tossed it upwards really, a graceful – soaring arc.

Doctor Caballeron wasn’t clumsy at all. He caught his briefcase on the rebound and caught the Iron Book of Shadows before it could reach the floor.

“And a plea—“ Doctor Caballeron’s intent had been to say “And a pleasant good evening to you too, Mr. Mortalis,” his tone appropriately sarcastic. But it was half way through “pleasant” that Valentina completed her leap and dive and struck him square in the back with all four hooves accompanied by a surprisingly musical shriek of “Hii-yaa!”

That leap and soar had bounced her from the wall, to the ceiling, and then straight down on to the archeologist with as much speed and force as she could build.

Caballeron hit the floor, hard, with an almost comical splat – briefcase spinning out of his hooves in one direction, Iron Book of Shadows sliding away in the other.

Valentina kicked him in the head. She wasn’t pulling her punches either. She went for a second kick and Caballeron caught her hoof and managed to use her own momentum to throw her into the desk.

Cantor was struggling to get up. The toppling desk landed on his bad leg – not pinning it, thank goodness, but chalk up one more serious bruise. Papers and reference books went flying everywhere.

Caballeron was up again, he made a grab for the Iron Book. He got it. Cantor made a grab for the briefcase, he got that too.

Valentina rolled over to get up. Caballeron gave her a solid kick in the head.

But Magpie’s shade had leaped at Caballeron, her hooves had wrapped around his leg as he swung. Her ghostly teeth seemed to sink into his muscle and bone.

That shouldn’t do anything.

But it did.

Cantor felt a surge of horror when he saw that, while not stopped, some of the force of Caballeron’s blow had been sucked away by the angry haunt. And that faint, bloody teeth marks spontaneously appeared on Caballeron’s leg. The blow which struck Valentina was considerably weaker than it should have been. Even though she wasn’t well braced to receive it, it only rocked her back rather than knocking her flying.

Ghosts weren’t supposed to be physical enough … real enough … to actually touch the living.

And as Magpie snarled, Cantor saw faint wisps of dark energy begin to lift from her ghostly form … slowly spiraling around her.

“Oh no,” he groaned. The dark and terrible vortex couldn’t be reforming ... it couldn’t! ... could it? What was this magic? Where was it flowing from?

Fairweather, in turn, leaped on Caballeron’s back, going for a choke-hold. Had Fairweather been alive, the old war-horse would have had the archeologist down in a matter of seconds. The maneuver had been flawlessly executed. As a ghost, the attack should not have worked at all. But it looked almost as if the Admiral’s hooves were digging past the flesh and into Caballeron’s spirit, crushing and squeezing it.

Caballeron gave a little cough, shook his head, and started to go pale.

Morari unleashed a burst of magic. That was another thing that shouldn’t happen. Cantor and Morari had spoken extensively about how, as a ghost, Morari simply couldn’t make his magic work at all. Whatever Morari had tapped into, soaking up the ambient energy like a sponge, it had – Cantor supposed – made him “more real” … just as he had commented upstairs while they were hiding from the night watchpony.

The resulting blast caught the Iron Book and sent it spinning out of Caballeron’s grasp.

Cantor hugged the briefcase tightly to his chest and managed to stagger to his feet. Of course he also put one foot squarely in the overfull waste-bin, but upright was still better than prone.

Caballeron had staggered back three paces. Valentina, shaking her head, snatched the fallen book.

Caballeron produced a handful of small, round objects from one sleeve of his shirt while pulling a lighter out of the other. With an expert flick and pass of the flames, all of the overflowing hoof-full of weapons were hissing merrily. Over his shoulder he gave a shout – not very loud, but pitched to carry well into the hallway.

“Mon cher! Trouble!”

Caballeron threw the objects in a wide spray before him. He had raised one leg to cover his eyes.

Now why would he do …?

Cantor realized they were explosives barely in time to blink his eyes shut.

A rolling series of incredibly loud bangs left him staggered, his ears ringing. The rapid flashes of brilliant light, even through his eyelids, had nearly stripped him of his vision. Valentina had been making a lunge for Caballeron, wings outstretched. Judging from the sound she had missed … possibly been tripped in her passing … and slammed, hard, into one of the book-cases.

Thankfully those were bolted quite firmly to the walls, and the glass was shatter proof. She rebounded, hit the floor, but was still thrashing about.

Worse, at least some of those explosives had fallen among the scattered papers and tumbled reference books. Cantor reflexively kicked off the waste-bin, which was becoming uncomfortably warm far too quickly. The ongoing hissing (coupled with the smell of chemicals and smoke) was, Cantor guessed, an indication that at least one of those tiny bombs had been a small phosphorus grenade. None of the chemicals had gotten on Cantor himself. He was sure even over the pain of his jaw, nose, and leg he would have felt the sort of burns that would have resulted in. And Valentina wasn’t screaming in agony, so it hadn’t splashed her as well.

But there was now, most definitely a fire in this side room. Several small fires actually.

That analytical, removed portion of Cantor’s mind recalled that there would soon be an alarm. When that alarm sounded, they would have exactly five minutes to get out of this part of the archival sublevel entirely before the fire doors shut and the chemical flame suppressants were deployed. When that happened, anything that needed to breathe air had best be outside.

A sharp kick to Cantor’s shin and he was down again. And he dropped the briefcase on hitting the floor. Caballeron scooped it up.

Cantor was blinking furiously. The explosion, or the small fires that were consuming stray papers, books, and a portion of the wooden desk had also done some sort of damage to the lighting. Half the crystals overhead were burned out, the other half were flickering wildly.

Caballeron turned and raised the briefcase, preparing to bring it down on Valentina, she raised a hoof and a wing to try to catch the blow.

Morari let out another blast of power. It was a big one. It didn’t knock the case from Caballeron’s hooves this time, but the force of it did snap both the case's hinges. Armored or not, it hadn’t been designed to take the sort of magical beating Morari had unleashed … especially not on top of its recent heavy use as an improvised flail.

The force of Caballeron’s blow was much reduced, enough that while Valentina was hammered back to the ground, it didn’t look like anything other than the carrying case had been broken.

With the case flopping open, several papers came spilling out. So too did a large clay tablet, wrapped in an old silk cloth, which almost as big as the case itself. The tablet was only two inches thick. It occurred to Cantor that, prior to the loss of its hinges, the Iron Book would have fit snugly into the briefcase along with that tablet, the papers, and whatever else was within.

The tablet hit the floor with a resounding crack. It had landed flat rather than on one edge or a corner. Caballeron swore, “Merde!”, as he dropped to his knees to try to gather it back up.

Cantor didn’t bother to attempt standing, he threw himself across the floor at the cloth-wrapped tablet, seizing one corner. Even half-stunned and flat on her back Valentina managed to grab the other corner. Caballeron released his hold on the baked clay to snatch at the Iron Book while simultaneously throwing the wildly flapping metal case over his shoulder and out the door. It landed in the hallway.

Valentina and Cantor fell away from one another. Both found themselves holding roughly half of a clay tablet. It had pulled neatly apart along a break that ran down the middle of the thing leaving a large golden ring (a little over two feet in diameter) lying there in the floor. Caballeron’s eyes were focused on the ring entirely so both Cantor and Valentina let their halves of the tablet fall.

The next fifteen seconds were pure chaos. The flickering crystals overhead and the flaring light and shadow from the fires caught a wild series of seemingly still images as Caballeron managed to get his hooves on either the Iron Book or the Golden Ring, but not both. Nor could Cantor or Valentina both manage to seize of these items between them without at least one of them being pinned, pummeled, tripped, or cut – for Caballeron had pulled a switch-blade from one shirt-sleeve in the confusion. Round and round the melee spun … Caballeron got his knife-wielding hoof through the ring, kicked Cantor in the teeth, snatched the Iron Book as Cantor went hooves over head, and then Caballeron went down with Valentina gripping one of his rear legs while Cantor’s own wild flailing entangled the other.

But Caballeron was suddenly breathing easier, and his strength was returning. The haunts had fallen free from him and were backing away from the door towards the far corners of the room.

Why would they be fleeing Caballeron? Cantor wondered.

“What is taking you so long?”

Her voice was ice and knives, claws on a chalkboard, the echo of the howl of a blood drenched predator. The contrast would have made Thretan sound warm and fuzzy. Though more whisper than sound, her voice cut through the din of the battle and thrust a chill into the hearts of the living and the dead alike.

A figure stood in the flickering light of the burning fire and the damaged crystals. Seeming to be no more than a hooded cloak drawn up and around a form of pure darkness, in a shape that might have been that of a pony, and with eyes that glowed with a yellow light.

As if on cue, the fire-alarm sounded.

Five minutes. Cantor thought. Five minutes and we’re all dead.

Magpie clutched her head, screaming. She cowered back against a corner of the room. The darkness that was flaking off from her began to swirl more intensely, binding her in place.

Morari blanched, shuddering away from the newcomer, throwing up one hoof in front of his face as, in a choked voice, he began to whimper, “Th-thou arch-sorcerer, thou h-hast attacked C-cantor, let that witchcraft recede f-from him into th-thy marrow and th-thy b-bone …”

It was a very old spell, intended to defend a pony or beast attacked by evil spirits.

Fairweather was snarling in a corner, panting, and starting to mutter the word “no” over and over to himself, the volume soft, but slowly rising.

Cantor had managed to climb, swaying, to his feet. Caballeron rolled away from Valentina who, punch drunk, still clutched at the Iron Book.

Cantor looked at the cloaked figure. His voice was a whisper of disbelief. “You.” His eyes were pure black in the flickering light.

Her yellow eyes widened. Her own whisper was one of equally shocked disbelief. “He can see.”

Cantor spoke again, his volume rising. “You!” Both Caballeron and Valentina turned their head to look at him. No longer disbelief, but recognition.

“Caballeron! Kill him! Kill him now!” Her icy voice howled like wind over the tundra.

Valentina and Caballeron both reflexively cringed backward, not from the shadow’s wail, but from something entirely unexpected. Something truly shocking.

Rage. Wrath. Kind, sweet Cantor’s scream of “YOU!” was murderous. The unfettered anger of a gentle stallion is a terrible thing to behold.

Cantor and the shadow threw themselves at each other. Cantor’s horn flared with silver light, and a wash of flickering power coated his body. From beneath her cloak, tendrils of shadow reached out, flakes of darkness spinning and flashing … only to rebound from the arcane protection which now warded him.

For a moment, it didn’t look like the magic would hold. But it did.

She couldn’t touch him.

Cantor, on the other hoof, had grasped the cloak firmly with both forehooves. He held it pinned against the wall. The shadows beneath it writhed in the flickering light.

“Caballeron!” she shrieked.

Cantor’s horn shimmered anew, this was a trivial spell … an easy spell … a spell designed to move objects. Almost any unicorn could put that one off as easy as winking.

With it Cantor snatched up the remaining half of Valentina’s smaller sketchbook. A book that was still burning wildly, as it had taken one of the two white phosphorous bombs pretty squarely on its cover, and he thrust that brilliant flame into the darkness beneath her cloak and held it there.

Cantor’s voice was shaking with intense emotion – rage, pain, grief … but no fear. His voice dripped power, “There is nothing in the darkness to fear. Nothing in the darkness but rest and joy. Begone back through the cracks that spawned you. You are a lie, a falsehood. She has cast you off. She doesn’t believe you any more. No pony believes you. You have no power here.”

She screamed. Not with one voice, but many. Beneath the cloak there was nothing but shadow and air, the flames ate away at her bodilessness as if she were paper. Remarkably, Cantor’s chant seemed to burn her even worse than the fire.

Caballeron’s rear hooves smashed into the back of both of Cantor’s own rear knees, a powerful buck. The knee-brace buckled and warped from the force of the blow, and the other knee buckled to. Cantor fell, and lost his grip on the shadow and his flaming book both.

Valentina lay against the far wall. She was trying to pick herself up again and carry on the fight. In the moments that Cantor had been focusing his magic on the shadow, Caballeron had managed to land a couple of telling blows and wrest the tome from Valentina's hooves. She was alternating between gasping and little giggles of terror and excitement both. Valentina was running on little more than alcohol and adrenaline – but the shine in her eyes said that, beating or no, she (like her ancient pegasi fore-mothers before her) knew the joy and thrill of battle.

She also had Caballeron’s switchblade lodged in one wing-joint. Flying wasn’t going to be happening any time soon for her.

Caballeron raised the Iron Book.

Morari gasped. The ghostly wizard inhaled … not air, but dark magic. Drifting, scattered motes of darkness, burned free from the shadow figure in the cloak and floating about the room like ashes, flew into him. He grew darker, more solid, more real. But that power came at a price. Morari was fighting to regain a grip on his mind and sanity … fear gnawed at him, whispered at him, stripped him of his strength as fast as he drew in more. Perhaps even faster.

Morari knelt and dipped his spectral horn into a splatter of Cantor’s blood and, sudden as waking from a bad dream, the fear fell away.

But the power remained.

The Iron Book came down, set to crush Cantor’s head. It rebounded from a bubble of force that Morari conjured as he spoke a word of warding.

Valentina and Caballeron both stared in shock.

“Leave him be, living pony, the dead protect him.”

Flickering into and out of their sight, transparent but glowing with dark power, Morari was visible to both these living combatants. He was unicorn of mature years, with a small goatee, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, a white blaze on his forehead, and no sign of a mane at all.

His horn and eyes were glowing with a terrible, blue-black aura that bubbled and seethed.

“Little shade, you think to steal my power to use against us?” The shadow stood in a pocket of darkness, away from the scattered fires in the room. The sound of her voice shattered two of the last remaining semi-functional light crystals in the chamber. She lowered her head and the magic Morari had absorbed began to stream out of him. He screamed in pain and faded from the view of Caballeron and Valentina.

“Mon Cher, we need to get out.” Caballeron took advantage of Valentina’s momentary distraction to drive a knee into her midsection. She had managed to seize hold of the golden ring sometime while Caballeron was busy trying to kill Cantor. But Caballeron got one hoof on the ring as well. The positioning of this battle wasn't good for Valentina. With one of his back hooves pinning Valentina to the floor, it wouldn’t take Caballeron long to pry the ring free from her grasp.

“No! The unicorn must die!” She snarled.

“Kill him yourself then!” He snarled back.

Cantor flopped about, trying to get to his feet again and failing entirely. His legs weren’t working properly. One of them rarely worked properly any more, he reflected, so perhaps he should upgrade that assessment to his legs weren’t working at all. Morari had collapsed, whimpering. Cantor thought the ghost looked paler, more transparent, than usual.

The seemingly distant, and continuously rising, cries of “No, no, no” had reached a crescendo. From an overlooked corner of the room Admiral Fairweather hurled himself at the shadowy figure. The spectral grip of his forelegs wrapped around her, cloak and incorporeal body both. It was a crushing hold.

Beneath him, his rear legs bent, gathering power.

“Altius!” his deep voice cried out the word. His wings sprang open.

“Volantus!” Fairweather's legs flexed with all the strength he could bring to bear, his wings beat in a downdraft that sent papers flying and flames flickering. The jump was powerful enough that Cantor heard the spectral thoom of the sound barrier being broken.

Fairweather, shadow pony in his grip, went straight up.

He vanished through the ceiling.

She didn’t.

The impact as her cloak (and what passed for her body) hit the roof was strong enough to crack the concrete. She fell to the floor with what Cantor thought was a most satisfying thud.

Then Fairweather came back down. The Admiral had somehow picked up even more speed and a trail of shadowy energy came down with him. They slammed into her fallen form, just as she lifted her head.

The scorched cloak was driven into the floor hard enough to leave four shattered, hoof-print-shaped depressions two inches deep in the stone … and a spiderweb of cracks branching out from the sites of impact. She grunted in pain.

Fairweather stood there. For a moment all was still. But Cantor could tell something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

The hood of her cloak was pressed against Fairweather's chest. From between his shoulder blades, Cantor could see the tip of a horn of shadow, wickedly sharp, and now dripping ectoplasm.

While Fairweather had crushed her badly, he had also impaled himself in making that landing.

The shadowy figure struggled to stand upright. Thought badly staggered by the Admiral's attack, she succeeded. With a toss of her hood she threw Fairweather’s limp haunt to one side. There was an inch-wide hole in the middle of his ghostly chest now. It was oozing something that wasn’t exactly blood. He wasn’t moving when he hit the floor.

Cantor had to remind himself, briefly, that Fairweather was already dead. You can’t kill the dead.

But, Cantor found himself thinking, it sure looks like you can stun them!

All three haunts were out of the action: Fairweather stricken down by his own momentum; Morari drained of what energies he had struggled to use – and, against all odds, had briefly succeeded in mastering; Magpie, still screaming in terror, trapped and thrashing about in a vortex of dark, evil magic. A vortex that was slowly growing strong. A vortex that already looked far too familiar to Cantor.

There was a nagging sound that seemed to be striving to gain Cantor’s attention.

Oh yes, the fire alarm. Only three minutes, at best, left before the doors came down, locked, and the vents would start letting in a dry chemical and gaseous mixture that would suppress the flames before the priceless collection of ancient scrolls and manuscripts were consumed. It would also effectively remove the oxygen from the room … the books wouldn’t mind, of course, but it did mean Cantor and Valentina would suffocate.

Caballeron gave his rear hoof a cruel twist against Valentina’s throat as he finally yanked the ring free. He glanced up at the flashing light of the fire alarm as well.

“Cher. We are leaving. Now.” Caballeron bolted from the battlefield, pausing only long enough to gather up a hoof-full of his fallen papers. Both the golden ring and the Iron Book of Shadows were in his grasp. He was limping badly, his face and body bruised and sporting more than a few cuts. He was spitting blood and growling something about needing to bring along his usual henchponies if there were going to be more fights like this in the future.

Cantor couldn’t do anything to stop him from leaving. His attention was still on the cloaked shadow.

Cantor spat out some blood as well. Then he said, “There is no fear in the dark. Only rest and peace. You are but a shadow of what might have been. A lie. A whisper in the blackness beyond night. No pony believes you any more. You don’t exist.” His bloody grin held no hint of defeat. No sign of fear. “You never did, really.”

Even without the magic of compulsion ringing through his voice, she cowered back from him. For a moment she seemed to hover there, a cloaked figure in the doorway, glaring with murderous hatred at Cantor.

“I can see you,” he said.

A visible shiver of fear shook her cloak. Valentina watched, stunned, as the shadow fled.

A minute passed.

Cantor lay there, breathing heavily. His eyes focused on a seemingly empty corner of the room. He was whispering now, “Shh, shh. It’s o.k. Magpie, it will all be o.k. Let go of the fear. The fear isn’t real. Everything will be fine. Trust me … trust me … I am your friend. Your dear friend who loves you. You will not be alone in the dark. Never alone.”

“Cantor,” Valentina had less trouble speaking than she did standing. The adrenaline was starting to fade. “We have to go.”

Cantor reached out weakly with one forehoof, but he couldn't seem to stand. Instead, he scrambled at the half-burning bits of mess on the floor, pawing at a piece of cloth and some fallen debris.

Valentina got one hoof around him and started to drag him towards the door. She knew they weren’t going to make it.

By the time she processed the sound of approaching ponies, strong hooves had already lifted Valentina. It was a vaguely familiar looking zebra. His voice was deep as he said, “Easy there, miss. We’ve got you.” She looked over at Cantor to see Katherine Hoofburn … no … not her … it was Thretan who had lifted the fallen scholar onto her back. Cantor was hugging something to his chest.

They made it out of the security doors with twelve seconds to spare. Upstairs there was considerable commotion, and the sound of approaching fire-trucks. Thretan didn’t bother with the niceties of doors and went straight through a window, morphing into a pegasus mid leap and gliding to a landing below. The zebra carrying Valentina muttered, “Show off,” then eyed the switchblade still stuck in Valentina’s wing. He shrugged and leaped out the window as well. He stuck the landing, though from his grunt it wasn’t a fun experience, then he took off after Thretan at a gallop.

They made it to the café. One block away. The rendezvous point that had been agreed on, and which they had hoped not to need to use. Two other zebras were already there. One of them, bedecked with golden jewelry, tsked quietly to herself as she broke out a first aid kit.

“What … was that?” Valentina figured she should get the question out before her mouth got any more swollen. She hadn’t been in a fight that rough in years!

Cantor lay slumped on a table. For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her, and that he might not even be conscious. But then he leaned slowly back, wincing, and stared at an ancient piece of cloth, embroidered with an unknown symbol … and the two large broken pieces of a clay tablet that he had scooped up in it.

When he spoke, Valentina was expecting the exhaustion and the pain reflected in his voice. She wasn’t expecting to hear the echoes of that terrible rage.

“That was the Pony of Shadows.”

“A shadow pony?” One of the zebras flinched in superstitious dread. Valentina stared. She didn’t understand.

Cantor shook his head. “Not ‘a’ shadow pony. ‘The’ Shadow Pony. That … that abomination is a tattered piece of what’s left of Nightmare Moon.”

18. Debriefings

“You’re still in shock, Cantor. Take the medicine.” Hoofrey Bogart had adopted a no-nonsense tone. He was also speaking more loudly than usual. Cantor’s hearing still hadn’t fully recovered.

Cantor thought about arguing some more, but he couldn’t muster up the energy. So he opened his mouth, raised his hoof, and tossed back the pills the nurse had provided.

“That’s a good fellow,” Morari murmured. He looked exhausted.

Cantor gave him a nod. Earlier Cantor had broken down into tears when the three haunts had caught up with them at the café. Morari and Fairweather had still been … unconscious. Cantor supposed that “unconscious” was probably the best word for it. Magpie had been dragging their two bodiless shades along behind her. Right now, she was on watch outside the door, along with two more zebras.

“Well, I say, thank Celestia this does not hurt. Still feel like I have flown non-stop for a week.” Fairweather had a hole through his chest, but it was closing … healing with strange rapidity. At this rate, he’d be fine by morning.

They were back in Cantor’s hotel room. It was unusually crowded. Cantor and Valentina had managed to stagger in through the door and up the elevator with the help of Thretan and their zebra security, all of whom were still here. Bogart and Dozy had arrived almost immediately, and they had a nurse in tow.

At the moment, the nurse was tsking distractedly at the knife wound in Valentina’s wing. With an off-hoof comment of “This is going to need a couple of stitches, dear,” she got to work. Already Cantor and Valentina were sporting quite a bit of tape and bandages. One of the zebra guards, the fellow who had been carrying Valentina, Cantor thought, likewise had one leg in a fresh splint. The nurse didn’t think he had broken anything, but from the way he was limping after leaping from a second story window, she feared some sort of fracture.

Cantor frowned worriedly at Valentina. She grinned back at him. Like Cantor she had one cheek stuffed with cotton. Cantor felt rather conflicted. On the one hoof, he felt really bad about dragging her into the middle of all of this. Seeing her bruised and bloodied on his account hurt. On the other hoof, she acted like she was having a really good time. Even getting the stuffing kicked out of her didn’t seem to have dampened her spirits. If anything, it had raised them. Possibly because she had done a goodly bit of stuffing-kicking herself. If it had just been Caballeron, Cantor suspected that the archaeologist wouldn’t have been able to make a get-away from as determined and feisty an opponent as Valentina.

“Take out your cotton, drink this, put it back in.” Thretan handed Cantor a cup of tea. He followed her directions, wincing with surprise as the hot liquid, to which the changeling had added a substantial splash of whisky, washed over the cuts in his mouth. After a few gulps, Cantor handed the cup back and carefully placed the cotton back against the cuts inside his cheek.

His hooves were still shaking.

Maybe he did need that medicine more than he had thought.

“What happened back there Cantor? Did you get the information you were after?” Dozy made no effort to lower his voice. Possibly because Cantor, in his mildly concussed, post adrenaline rush, flash-bang addled state had accused them all of mumbling at him. Cantor blushed and started to shake his head … but decided against it.

“Yesh,” Cantor began. Well, that wasn’t going to work – so he pulled the cotton out again.

“Phtah! Er … yes. I was able to use the Iron Book of Shadows to learn where the lost city of Tambelon used to lie. That little magical trick with the shadows did indeed cause yet another layer of meaning to appear within the tome. Bunches of stuff about the shadow realm and the various mystic uses ponies could put the … uh … shadow-stuff there to.”

Something about the conversation felt a bit off to Cantor, but at the moment, he couldn’t quite put his hoof on it.

“You weren’t making much sense, Cantor, dear,” Thretan chimed in. She had a cup of tea herself, and was drinking it. She had also ditched the Katherine Hoofburn costume. The tips of her fangs and horn glistened slightly with a touch of venom. “Can you go over the events from the beginning?”

“Which one?” Cantor’s wry tone was an attempt at humor.

“Let’s say, from when you managed to get into the reading room again.” Thretan’s gaze was encouraging, though Cantor still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of the ordinary.

Cantor sighed, trying to gather his thoughts.

“We got in, and we got the book out of its case. Valentina turned off the lights and I tried that … trick I guess you could call it. I don’t know that it is a spell, not really, just a magical thing I can do … like the whole seeing in the dark business. Anyway, I vanished – from the sight of both the living and my ghostly friends. They could still hear me, though, and the book, like I said, had different information in it when you looked at it under those circumstances. There was about a page and a half about Tambelon and its connections to the realm of shadow, including some geographical references and descriptions that I can use to put it on a map.”

Cantor paused, “I … I’ll need a couple of good atlases to make sure, and some other reference materials … maybe even official geologic surveys.”

“Where?” Dozy was gently insistent, and his verbal nudge kept Cantor from drifting off on a tangent. Cantor found himself grateful for the direction, the focus.

“Somewhere in the Badlands, like I said, I’d need some better guides and references to really pin it down. But I can.”

Bogart frowned worriedly, “If you’re needing official geological survey-maps of the badlands, I don’t know that Albion has many of those.”

“Probably not,” Cantor agreed, “And even if they do, what with the fire I suspect getting access to them would be …” he trailed off.

“Diffikhul” Valentine chimed in.

“Yes, difficult.” Cantor sighed. “I’m going to have to head back to the Equestrian mainland anyway to get there, so I’ll just have to get access to official records once I’m back home.”

“But you were saying: you had retrieved the information,” Dozy prompted Cantor to continue.

“Right, I had gotten what I needed and started back to return the book. Apparently the whole ‘being one with shadows’ thing only works if I’m standing still.”

“Pity that,” Thretan muttered, “Being able to move about unseen would be an exceedingly handy talent to possess.”

“Which was when Caballeron showed up.”

“Chomplishashions,” Valentina grumbled.

“He looked at us, and the book, and said something about complications.” Cantor winced and raised one hoof to the side of his face. “Then he lunged at me. He had a metal-banded case … like a briefcase only bigger – maybe three feet to a side and a foot deep. Caught me in the jaw with the corner of the thing. Then bounced it off my nose.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t break either of them,” the nurse had finished her sutures and was now dealing with tape and salves, bandaging Valentina’s other injuries.

Cantor nodded, “Needless to say I dropped the book. Then Valentina jumped Caballeron.” Even though it hurt, Cantor couldn’t keep a grin from his face. “I don’t think he was expecting that.”

“Thaugh I wash jusht a helplesh liddle gurl!” Valentina was indignant.

Cantor snorted, “You’re anything but helpless Val, I was the one fumbling about. If you hadn’t been there he would have beaten me unconscious in a matter of moments and been out of there with the book.”

“But anyway,” Cantor returned to the retelling, “It turned into a big fight. And … and there was something wrong with the ghosts.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. Can you be a bit more definite than just ‘something wrong.’” Thretan freshened up her own tea-cup as she spoke.

“I do not know, Cantor, old boy. ‘Something wrong’ is about as good an explanation as I could provide,” Fairweather shifted and stretched. He poked at the hole in his chest as if he expected it to pain him. It didn’t. “Hmm. One more advantage to being bodiless I suppose.”

“Cantor, if you’ll relay this, I think I can spare your overtaxed brain a bit of work,” Morari sounded tired, but not as tired as Cantor felt. Cantor nodded, then began his familiar translator role, dropping into Morari’s cadence and tone as he followed along a word or two behind the scholar. Valentina felt a sudden chill at the shift in tone, Cantor really did sound eerily like someone different when he did this little trick.

“Morari says: whatever mystic energies have raised haunts like Fairweather and Magpie are quite unpleasant, even evil, powers. They are otherworldly and unnatural – far more unnatural than the more usual business of the spirit of the deceased having unfinished business in the land of the living. Whatever source has awoken us, that keeps us awake, does so via some arcana that goes beyond merely contacting spirits or making bones dance about – it is a force of madness and fear and despair, coupled with some dark power like that of Grogar's mastery over the rituals needed to make sacrifices to the shadow lands.

“We strongly suspect that the Four Blades of Fear are directly involved – that their origin as melted down fragments of Grogar’s magic bell has imbued them with magic to pull the spirits of the dead from some unseen realm … while other magics Phoebe forged into them have also imbued them with a power of madness and terror. Which is why past wielders, or at least past unicorn wielders, have risen from their graves. But these knives are not the only such otherworldly powers of darkness, madness, and terror that strive to act on Equestria. Cantor has spoken of those whisperers that lie outside the borders of reality, striving to breach the walls and push fragments of their influence in. As it turns out, Caballeron was traveling with just such an entity. Or a fragment of one anyway. A crack in the walls if you will. It was leaking power. Power from the other side. The magic of darkness in its worst sense. It was a spirit of bitterness and envy, potent enough to turn a good pony wicked. A spirit of lies and deception and manipulation. Now, having been brought out of our eternal sleep by a kindred magic, we haunts reacted to the presence of a sister-power in a kind of sympathetic magic. We resonated to its essence, like crystal glasses will hum if you sound the right musical note. Unfortunately a further infusion of that sort of power, as mentioned, was driving us back into the sort of screaming terrified madness that Cantor originally found us trapped in.

“Magpie succumbed first, I suspect because unlike Fairweather or I she had actually been killed by one of the Blades of Fear. Fairweather was driven into a state of near-berserk rage (from what I saw, his mental state looked to be a close match to the reports of the fear-maddened undead who guarded the Reaver and the Queen.) While in some ways terrifyingly effective, the infusion of power rendered him as a most unstable aid on the battlefield. As for myself, I strove to channel the power flowing into me via arcane means. Were it not for a bit of old sympathetic magic involving Cantor’s blood, I don’t think I would have succeeded. But Cantor has always had a healing and calming influence on the dead. His blood, shed in our defense, has a certain … potency … when it comes to protecting us from the sort of creeping madness that was not so gradually filling our essence.

“I told Cantor the dark power that was rising all around us and filling us up was making us ‘more real.’ What I meant was our ability to interact with, to affect, and to be perceived by the living and the world of the living was increasing. ‘More tangible’ would perhaps be a better term. To make a spirit take on enough mystical energy to give it the ability to manipulate the environment? That takes power. Lots of it. And that power has to come from somewhere. It came from her.”

Cantor sighed. He returned to his own retelling, dropping out of his translation (and imitation) of Morari's speech. “Which brings us back to her.”

“You said it was Nightmare Moon,” Thretan observed.

Cantor nodded, “Have any of you ever read a series of essays called ‘Nightfall?’ They are supposedly copies of copies of some of Clover the Clever’s notes – her attempt to understand what exactly had happened to Luna to cause her to turn into Nightmare Moon.” From the looks of confusion around the room, Cantor deduced that only Morari was familiar with that work. Cantor sighed.

“I’ve read parts of it. I’ll try to keep it short. It’s not just the walls of the world that can crack and let whispers in … bits of power from beyond. Some of it what we’d consider good, some of it quite, quite evil. Minds can crack as well. So can hearts. Put enough strain on them, and it might not just be a pony’s own worse nature that starts whispering in the back of their mind.”

Cantor’s face had turned quite grim, “Anyone who has battled with anxiety, or self-doubt, or sadness, or loss, or worry knows what it’s like to have … intrusive thoughts. Most of the time … almost all of the time … it’s our own worries and fears talking to us. But sometimes … sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, if the mind involved has been under too much strain, too much pressure, if it has cracked … sometimes it’s one of them. One of the whisperers.

“Early in their reign Celestia and Luna had to deal with threats to the realm which no young alicorn mare should ever have to face. Enemies with vastly more power and experience than either of the royal sisters. Time and again the two were thrust into battles they were ill equipped, un-prepared to handle. But they pulled through. Celestia was a little older. A little wiser, perhaps. And she had the love and support of pony kind in a way which Luna, it seemed, didn’t. Whether or not it was intended, Luna felt that ponies shunned her and her beautiful night. And with all that stress, without the support she needed to recover from mastering the vast celestial magics involved in bringing forth the night … or in battling Discord … or Sombra … or Tirek … or … well, you get the picture. Clover came to believe that something in Luna cracked.”

The room had gone silent. Even the nurse was staring at Cantor.

“Just a bit. Just enough. And something else started whispering to her through that crack in her mind,” no longer merely grim, Cantor’s face bore an expression of haunted sorrow, “Terrible things. Such terrible things. Lies. Fears. Twisting and turning, working on Luna’s insecurities, her vulnerabilities. And eventually Luna came to believe those lies. Her belief filled them with power. Let them use her magic in a way which corrupted and transformed she herself, twisting her form into a wicked mare of darkness. Nightmare Moon.

“We know what happened next. The war. But there was an old legend that when Nightmare Moon was banished, not all of her dark power went with her. Some of it, torn free from her, remained behind in the form of the Pony of Shadows. A weakened, stolen scrap of Luna’s worst fears … her magic … and a vehicle through which the whisperer that had corrupted her could still strive to act.”

Cantor tried an experimental stretch of his hind legs. They were working a bit better. The knee brace for his right leg wasn’t going to have to be permanent.

“Anyway, that legend is true. And the Pony of Shadows popped in to see what was taking her minion Caballeron so long in retrieving the Iron Book of Shadows.”

Cantor’s grin wasn’t friendly at all.

“We put up a fight.”

“Kicked her ash!” Valentina gave a hoof-pump.

Cantor let out a pained chuckle, “Held her off. I know a spell designed to ward a pony against … ugly things of an unnatural nature. Supposedly it can keep the Trotting Dead at bay. Or demons. I can report it works as advertised. For the few minutes I was able to keep it active, the Pony of Shadows had considerable difficulty in touching me at all.”

Cantor’s slight grin faded. “I saw her, you see. I can see darkness. Really see it. Anypony else looking beneath that cloak would only see a being of shadow with glowing yellow eyes. Something wicked. But I saw her. I saw that scrap of Luna’s nightmares.”

Cantor slowly shook his head. “I … I’m still recovering. Ponies were not meant to gaze upon such … horrors. It has no body beyond darkness, fear, and lies. So I used light and truth against it. Compulsion magic to try to force that … that thing to believe something it already knew to be true: that it doesn’t really exist. Not in the way you or I exist. Not even in the way Morari, Magpie, or Fairweather exists. Only in the way that the memory of a lie exists. Or a lie itself exists – only because somepony believes it. If Caballeron hadn’t done his level best to break both my rear legs, I might even have managed to burn that scrap of her out.”

“Pardon Cantor, ‘that scrap of her?’” Thretan pounced on that conversational point with deadly precision.

“Yes, Thretan, that scrap of her. It’s like piece of cloth: you can tear it more than once. The Pony of Shadows was ripped free from Nightmare Moon. But other scraps of power have ripped free as well. And the Pony herself could tear off parts of her essence and leave them around. They’d take on a bit of an independent life, but they’re all part of the same thing … in theory, she can likely see and hear whatever any of her tatters can see or hear. I don’t even know if the bit traveling with Caballeron is the largest piece of her left in Equestria, but it is a big one. I hurt her, but I didn’t destroy her.”

“And even if we burned all of her tatters away, which would be a very good thing indeed, what we’d accomplish wouldn’t be the destruction of an enemy of Equestria but … but …” Cantor stumbled around trying to find a way to explain what he had seen, “Like … o.k. … it would be like if something particularly nasty was reaching its claws through holes in a fence, striving to snatch or tear at whatever it could reach. She’s one of those claws … other Shadow-Pony-bits-of-her are other claws. By destroying them, we smack those claws and make them withdraw back through the fence. Then we patch the holes to keep the thing behind the claws from reaching through again from its side of that wall.”

Cantor sighed again. “I saw … I saw something of its true nature … from looking at one of its claws. Whisperers like that don’t really have names … just like they don’t really have bodies. They’re not bound by physical forms, nor by reason and logic, nor by the harmonics of magic, nor by the geometries of space or time. But I have gazed upon a reflection of our enemies face. Upon one of it's many shadows. It's not an experience I recommend. I know the color and shape and flavor of its tools … its power. I know a name by which it may be called.”

“Our enemy is Fear.”

Another silence, then Bogart spoke up, “How does that golden ring you mentioned fit into all this?”

Cantor shrugged. That was a mistake. He winced immediately. “Ow. I don’t know. In the fight, Caballeron’s case burst open. It dropped a clay tablet wrapped in a cloth. The tablet broke open on impact and there was a big golden ring in the middle – maybe an inch wide, quarter inch thick, and two feet in diameter. I didn’t see any markings on it, but I didn’t get a good look at it either. Caballeron wanted it and the Iron Book. Most of our fight was trying to keep him from getting both of them and getting away. Well, until the Shadow Pony showed up anyway.”

“We were woefully unsuccessful. Caballeron and the Shadow fled. And he had both the ring and the book when he went. I managed to snatch up the broken bits of the clay tablet it had been concealed in ... and the cloth it had been wrapped in ... before getting hauled out of there by Thretan. I haven't really had a chance to go over them yet to see if there are any clues there about ... well ... any of that business with the golden ring.”

It finally struck Cantor what was so odd about this conversation. The other ponies listening in. Sitting up, slightly shocked, his gaze jumped from the nurse, to the two zebra guards, to the zebra matriarch. Thretan leaned forward and laid one chitonous hoof on his knee.

“There, there,” she said reassuringly, “It will all be all right.”

Oh. Oh! Cantor sat back, stunned. Thretan, Dozy, and Bogart wanted these other ponies to hear all of this. One of them must be a secret agent for Shetland Yard. Possibly even the double-agent for the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. There were times when Cantor didn’t feel like a clever pony. Having been so slow on the uptake, this was one of those times. Given the events at the Bodleian, though, he supposed it could be forgiven.

There was a knock at the door. The zebra matriarch opened it and let a unicorn into the room. He was young, and vaguely familiar to Cantor – Cantor was sure he had seen the fellow around, but hadn’t really spoken to him. The newcomer was wearing a Hive-Naught insignia on his collar. He had a creamy coat and a pink (and rather tousled) mane. His cutie mark looked rather like a shimmering, multi-colored veil surrounded by bright pink sparkles.

“’allo all!” His tone was bright, but his expression was worried.

“Yes, Lucian?” Thretan’s tone was one of her warmer welcomes. Still, it tended to give ponies the sense that they had best be about something important if they were going to be interrupting her.

“Sorry Ma’am, but we’ve got an incident on our hooves.” Lucian looked around the room, taking in the current, much bandaged state of Valentina, Cantor, and one of the zebras. “Make that, we’ve got a very minor incident on our hooves.”

“What is it?” Dozy said, shutting the door behind Lucian.

“There’s a pony who showed up at the National ticket window. Claims he has to speak to Cantor in person. He’s being exceptionally persistent. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it – some nonsense about the Star and some reporter named Jon Quill. But given the difficulties security is having in convincing the fellow we don’t have Cantor squirreled away somewhere, I figured you ought to know about it.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow at Cantor, “Friend of yours?”

Cantor sighed with relief. “Jon Quill? Yes. I’ve been a bit worried that he hasn’t been in contact before now. It should only have taken him a couple of days in Whitstable to get all the information he needed.”

“Is he alone?” Thretan’s tone was suspicious.

“Yes. Quite. If you like, I could bring him here.” Lucian offered.

“Please!” Cantor smiled.

“Will do, oh and pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mortalis sir!” Cantor blinked in surprise. As Lucian trotted off to return to the National, Lucian himself appeared to remain, giving a formal bow. A moment or two later the Lucian in the room winked out of existence, a good half minute after the other Lucian had left.

“Illusionist,” Thretan explained.

“Bloody good one,” Dozy added.

“And a card carrying member of the Albion Actor’s Guild.” Bogart added, “The kid’s a real find. Not only is his membership in Hive Naught something that gives us even more legitimacy in the eyes of society, but he’s nice. You’d like him. He’s another pony who can, after a fashion, make Old Legends New Again. Wrap an actor in an illusion of somepony else, or even create the seeming of a pony from conjured light with no need for an actor at all! More traditional actors guilds felt threatened by his potential, or sought to use his abilities in petty and unfulfilling ways. We’re giving him the recognition and support he deserves. Oh, and you’ve seen his work, Cantor. He does the illusion of the Maltese Griffon at the start of the show.”

Dozy chuckled, “And he is particularly nice when I need a stunt double! I know I’m tough, but there are falls and maneuvers that I’d rather not risk in person, if you know what I mean.”

Dozy grinned at Cantor, “It’s not just changelings in Hive Naught, Cantor. We’ve been looking to expand our work by including other ponies with talents that overlap well with Hive Naught’s mission. Lucian does illusions, and he’s getting better and better at them – which means better special effects without making Bob molt from frustration. We’ve also got three other ponies on board who have talents with minor shape-shifting. Hair and eye color mostly, although one of them can adjust her own height and weight as well. Not changeling changes, but something vaguely like it. Two of ‘em are working make-up, and one is a supporting actor.”

“I think I’m done here,” the nurse broke in, her tone quite professional. “I still say you need to get x-rays of Cantor, Valentina, and your hoof Mister!” she poked at the Zebra guard, who chuckled and blew her a kiss.

After she left, Dozy turned to Cantor saying, “So, you’re still planning on tracking down the lost valley where Tambelon once lay? In light of recent revelations, don’t you think we should be pursuing the Shadow Pony? What if she’s the one collecting and using the knives?”

Cantor nodded, “She might be, for all we know. Maybe we should go after her first. But ...” Cantor had gritted his teeth in concentration, the furrow in his brow deeper than usual, “ … but no. Tambelon first. We can’t afford to go chasing after shadows if a demon lord might be breaking loose.”

He sighed, “Also, the issues with the Trotting Dead aren’t because of the Pony of Shadow’s own power. That is … it’s not her magic directly.” Cantor shuddered, “Admittedly her power is very like what’s raising the dead, but it’s … it’s not quite it. Not the same … uh …” Cantor struggled to find the right way to convey what he had sensed, “… uh … not the right flavor.”

Cantor closed both his eyes, partly in pain and partly in thought, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you have ponies that work magic – who shape it … you have the magic itself – what’s being shaped … and you have the result of that mystical activity. While there are still too many unknowns about the rise of the Trotting Dead (which would be the result), I can say that the Pony of Shadows isn’t the ‘magic itself’ being used to awaken them. Her meddling might still be involved – if she’s using the knives for something, she might even be the ‘pony working the magic’ that’s leading to the awakening of the haunts.”

Bogart chimed in, “So stopping her might stop more of these vortices from forming? Stop new haunts from waking from the dead?”

Cantor sighed, “Yes. Well … that is … I don’t know. If she’s actively trying to wake the dead for some purpose, then maybe. But if the dead are awakening as an incidental effect from something else she’s doing, then no. For that matter, even stopping her might not be enough to stop the power itself from continuing to awaken the dead. The power alone, now that it’s been invoked, may need to be cut off from its source to really stop new vortices from forming.”

Cantor let out a bark of laughter, “All of which assumes the Pony of Shadows is the one who’s been using the knives in the first place! I’ll admit, right now that’s a pretty safe assumption. After all, I don’t want to imagine who else out there might be willing to use that sort of power to do wicked deeds. Or what they might be trying to do with them.”

“Regardless, I suspect that even if we stopped the Pony of Shadows and retrieved and sealed away the blades … if the powers that have been invoked (purposefully or not) to awaken the dead are tied even indirectly to Grogar, then Lost Tambelon’s possible return still remains the greatest potential danger.”

Cantor’s grin wasn’t happy, “It may edge out chasing down the Pony of Shadows by a hair, but right now I’m still thinking we ought to make sure she hasn’t already somehow arranged for Grogar’s return.”

Cantor looked worried, like he didn’t care for the thought that had just occurred to him, “Actually, that sounds more like the sort of end-game such an evil spirit would work towards. Unleashing Grogar on Equestria would increase the overall amount of fear in the realm. And it would distract and weaken Equestria’s defenders. This serves the hand … the force … the whispering thing behind the Pony of Shadows. That serves Fear itself. So, before we go chasing off after the knives or trying to track down the Pony of Shadows, we still have to make sure that she hasn’t ‘cracked the door open’ so to speak, to let Grogar back in. But intercepting her, and Caballeron – figuring out what they're up to, that has climbed quite a few notches on our laundry list of things to do.”

Cantor sighed, “I don’t know that I’m thinking that clearly right now. I know I’m not doing a good job of explaining myself. Does any of that make any kind of sense?”

Thretan grimaced, “It does makes sense. I suppose. I don’t like it though.”

“I doubt any of us do,” Dozy added. “But you have to prioritize. Tattered remains of a defeated demonic force running amok is certainly quite high up on the list of dangers to address, but I agree with Cantor – it ranks below the possible return of a full on ancient demon of old. Got to make sure that later bit o' badness isn’t happening before we’re free to look into other problems.”

“Before Cantor is free to look into other problems you mean,” Bogart chimed in. “Hive Naught has other resources. Other contacts. Other agents. And the theater world is gossipy like you wouldn’t believe! Get some of the paparazzi involved, and you can track down all sorts of secrets. Cantor’s the pony who needs to check out Tambelon. Likewise, he’d need to be the one to unearth the Winter Queen’s barrow – since only Fairweather offers a realistic chance of finding the blasted thing. But there’s nothing stopping the rest of us from hunting down Cabellaron and the Pony of Shadows so as to retrieve that book or that ring, or from looking into the fate of the other Blades of Fear, or from hunting for these dark vortexes and other trapped haunts. We can feed Cantor the information and resources he needs as he goes along.”

Cantor was staring at Bogart in amazement. “I … I don’t …” Cantor stammered.

“The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’” Bogart added. “You really need to learn to trust that your friends, and not just your dead friends, have your back. This is bigger than one pony alone can deal with. You need help. Help that we can, and will, provide.”

There was a knock at the door, when it was opened a unicorn with a folded newspaper tucked beside him stepped into the chamber. He looked around in surprise, blinking at the changelings, the ancient actor, the zebras, and the bandaged Cantor and Valentina.

“You’re not Jon Quill,” Cantor said.

“No, sir, I’m not! Never claimed to be. I am here on his behalf, though, Mr. Mortalis, sir.” The unicorn gave Cantor a friendly nod. Cantor found himself thinking the fellow was as bubbly as Valentina.

“He wanted you to have this paper, sir. He regrets he can’t get free to come deliver it himself.”

“And you are?” Thretan’s tone was one of sharp inquiry. Rather like a scalpel being used in exploratory surgery.

“Sorry, uh … ma’am. Name’s Pennyfarthing! Friend of Jon’s. Off duty. From my work as a constable in Whitstable, not from being a friend. Otherwise I’d have to ask, quite politely mind you, for Cantor to accompany me down to the station for some questions.”

Blinking at the various ponies, zebras, and changelings around the chamber, several of which had tensed most worryingly at that last announcement, Pennyfarthing added, “I’m suddenly very glad I don’t have to do that right now!”

19. Papers

Cantor leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, just below his horn. He couldn’t tell if the headache was from his earlier beating or from the article he had just read. Valentina, Bogart, and Dozy were reading over it themselves now. The paper boasted a lurid front page image of a zombie pony (poorly cropped from a classic theatre poster) that was captioned with giant letters which looked like they were dripping blood … or they would be, if the Yellow Star could be bothered to print in color rather than just black and white. The entire front page consisted of nothing but that image, superimposed over an old-timey map of the Griffish Isles, and the article’s gargantuan header:

The
RETURN
of the
TROTTING
DEAD!

The article inside was titled, “Whitstable’s Wight: A Study in Mass Hysteria, Mind Control, and Misidentification by Jon Quill.”

Admiral Fairweather squinted at the blurry, zombie pony and snorted, “Well, I never! That is not even a pegasus! Much less a skeleton or a ghost.”

Cantor sighed, “It’s the Yellow Star, Admiral. That it’s an actor in a zombie pony costume makes it a more factually accurate, and story-appropriate, image than most of what they publish. I was half expecting a cactus-monster or something. Or a re-touched ‘Bat-Foal Lives!’ image. Jon Quill must have pulled a few strings.”

Pennyfarthing stared in confusion at Cantor. Looking around the room, he was clearly trying to determine who to inquire of for something approaching answers. Of those present, only Thretan, who was standing near Pennyfarthing, wasn’t engrossed in the paper … or talking to no-pony. Pennyfarthing had the distinct impression that getting up from his seat was a very poor plan, so asking the zebras was out. After a momentary hesitation, he leaned over to the changeling lady and whispered, “Does he talk to himself often?”

“No,” she replied. “When he speaks aloud like that, he’s usually talking to somepony else.”

“But …” Pennyfarthing gestured around the room, indicating the lack of any naval ponies of any kind, nor of any statements which Cantor’s off-hoof comment could realistically have been addressing.

Thretan smiled. Her fangs gleamed. They were coated with something oily that shimmered with a pale greenish tint.

Cantor looked up at Pennyfarthing. “Never mind that, do you know where Jon Quill is now?”

“Yes, sir. Well, somewhat. We parted company in Whitstable, earlier this evening. He said he was coming back to Lunadun. So, he should be at the offices of the Yellow Star in Lunadun. Or in his hotel room, one of the two.”

“That’s a relief!” Cantor looked and sounded relieved. “I was worried he had been … detained.”

“Oh, well, one of the Star’s lawyers got all that cleared up. He got off with a warning, not even a fine. And he was only in the lock-up for about four days total.”

“I wasn’t referring to Whitstable’s jail, Mister … uh …” Cantor blinked.

“Pennyfarthing sir! And it’s just Pennyfarthing. Mister Pennyfarthing is my father.”

“Pennyfarthing, I was concerned that Jon had been locked away in Bedlam.”

Pennyfarthing (who’s expressions over the time he had been in the room would have made an excellent artist’s reference for the subject of ponies who are surprised and confused) hit a new mixture of shocked concern as he blurted out “Bedlam?! Why in the world would Jon be in Bedlam?”

“Because he’s been talking to Doctor Fether. Doctor Fether thinks I’m mad. Last I checked, Jon didn’t. And that’s good enough for an impromptu committal.” Cantor’s tone was grim.

Pennyfarthing’s jaw dropped. But then he shut it and frowned. His expression became one of worried concern. “Oh. Huh. Well … er … there were at least two ponies that were following Jon, he said. He had run through quite the cloak-and-dagger of shenanigans to get me that paper and ask me to meet with you.”

“Cun oo take ush to im?” Valentina chimed in, looking up from the paper. She still had the cotton in her mouth.

Pennyfarthing blinked. “Why yes, yes I think I could. But …”

“But what?” Thretan opted for a tone of pleasant inquiry. It worked better when she was in disguise. At the moment, she wasn’t.

Pennyfarthing shivered. Then blurted out, “What is going on here?”

Most of the room looked up at Pennyfarthing.

“You don’t want to know,” Bogart stated.

“Trust him, you don’t,” Dozy added.

“It’s not your concern,” Thretan purred as she poured Pennyfarthing a cup of tea.

There was a momentary pause, then Cantor asked, “You are friends with Jon Quill?” Tone and cadence, it was a question.

Pennyfarthing nodded, and his nod was accompanied with a, “Yes, sir!”

The others were looking at Cantor.

Morari said, “Cantor, I’ve said it before – you don’t need to go out on the proverbial limb for that reporter. This won’t help.”

Cantor stared at Pennyfarthing. Pennyfarthing found himself thinking that Cantor’s gaze was oddly intense – when he looked at you, he really looked at you. Cantor continued, “Do you read his work?”

Pennyfarthing blushed, and drew himself up. This was obviously a sore point for the young unicorn. “Yes, sir. I do. Have for years.”

Cantor gave a small, tired smile. He winced a little. Already half his face was black and blue. By tomorrow, it’d be a right mess of a sight, Pennyfarthing thought. But what struck Pennyfarthing as most odd, was that usually when he admitted to being a reader of the Star there was a burst of laughter, filled with ridicule. But ... no pony here had let out so much as the hint of a mocking smile.

“Do you believe what he writes?” Cantor’s voice was gently curious. And surprisingly non-judgemental.

Pennyfarthing frowned, “Of course!”

Bogart glowered and exchanged a glance with Valentina, who shrugged and looked a little mystified.

“And have you read this one?” Cantor’s question was unusually pointed. Carefully probing.

“Not yet, sir. Jon asked me not to. He asked me to deliver it directly to you, and then to tell you to pay especial attention to the last line of each odd numbered paragraph.” Pennyfarthing paused slightly, then added, “I know that the article says that there weren’t any Trotting Dead in Whitstable, but Jon told me that part wasn’t true – it was just what he needed to print to get the story out there at all.”

Cantor blinked. Well, the one eye that wasn’t already swollen shut blinked. He sighed. He pondered for a moment, then said, “Will you lead us to Jon? He’s in trouble, and we need to get him out of there.”

“I will if you’ll tell me what all this is about! I don’t want to get Jon into trouble.” Pennyfarthing sounded quite sincere on that last point.

Cantor sighed again. Then gestured for the others to hand over the newspaper. Pennyfarthing took it, but Cantor continued.

“Jon Quill is in trouble because he believes that I have the magical ability to see the spirits of the dead, the Trotting Dead included. Something terrible had awoken Admiral Fairweather thus the disturbances you and your constabulary have been busy covering up. I managed to sooth the Admiral and coax him free from his bones, his ghost has been accompanying me since then and he isn’t a fan of his depiction on the cover of the Star.

“During our subsequent investigations into how and why the Trotting Dead are returning (and what may be done to stop it and lay them back to rest) I and my friends (both living and dead) have found information indicating the involvement of a set of evil relics, a demon from ancient times called Grogar who may be trying to escape his imprisonment, and an all too real Doctor Caballeron – it seems at least some of A.K. Yearling’s work appears to be based on fact rather than imagination. We believe Caballeron is responsible for the recent Canterbury grave-robbing and probably the robbery at the Ashmulean. Maybe the murders as well. We know Caballeron, working with the Pony of Shadows, is responsible for a theft from the Bodleian this evening of the Iron Book of Shadows because Valentina and I tried to stop them, thus our current injuries. You can likely read about the fire in the Bodleian, a fire started by Caballeron’s incendiary devices, tomorrow. And we know that wicked magics very like those the Pony of Shadows uses are one of the key factors behind the Trotting Dead’s rise.”

Pennyfarthing’s jaw was hanging open.

“To conclude,” Cantor added, “Doctor Tarrant Fether, a brilliant and driven psychiatrist at Bedlam – and an old acquaintance of mine – would dismiss everything I just told you as the rantings of a deranged mind. Anypony who expressed belief in any portion of the above would most likely be detained by the good doctor in an attempt to help cure their delusions. He, himself, wishes to detain me for just such a purpose. And, from certain quotes in the article, I know that Jon Quill has been speaking with Fether in person. Now Jon’s being followed.”

Cantor’s tone turned deadly serious, “If we can’t get Jon Quill out of the country with us, Fether will have him locked up in Bedlam. Fether knows that I couldn’t help but try to get Jon out of there because it would be my fault that I got him involved in this mess in the first place. If Jon’s free now, it’s only because Fether’s using him as bait. If I flee the country then, when Fether learns of it, detaining Jon will be his first logical step in luring me back as well as extracting any information from him about where I might have gone.”

Thretan jumped in. “Cantor, Fether knows you’ll come looking for Jon! That’s why Jon’s being watched. And that’s why he’s still roaming free. Jon’s been clever to avoid leading Fether to you. Staying away is both of your safest bets. You can’t go to him. It’s a trap. Fether’s trap for you. You know that. I know that.”

Cantor smiled tiredly. “I know. You know that I know. I know that you know that I know. Fether knows that we know, and we know that he knows it. We’re all very knowledgeable around here.”

Pennyfarthing let the unread paper fall to the floor. He stood up. He had become quite flushed. “If … if you’ll excuse me. I … I need a moment.” In a daze he headed for the door. One of the zebras gave Thretan an inquiring look, but she nodded, so they opened the door for him and shut it carefully after he stepped out.

“Well that …” Dozy began, then, from the hall outside, they could all hear Pennyfarthing’s voice.

“YES!”

It was a wild roar of delight and triumph and joy. It took everypony in the room by surprise. They were staring at the door a moment later when Pennyfarthing let himself back in and returned to his chair. He couldn’t stop smiling. His eyes were leaking tears which he kept brushing away.

“So,” he said, picking up the paper, “When do we go rescue Jon Quill?”

“’We?’” Bogart asked.

“Yes, we. I’m a friend of his. If he’s in trouble, I’ll help get him out of it." Pennyfarthing was still smiling, but his tone was quite serious.

Dozy grinned. “As they say in the acting biz, ’timing is everything’ ... so, Pennyfarthing, we go soon,” the changeling gave Cantor and Valentina an appraising glance, "But not today. And probably not tomorrow either.”

Caballeron held the ice-pack to the side of his head. That little pegasus had a surprisingly strong left.

“Go back two pages.” Her voice was even less pleasant in the darkness.

Caballeron turned the obsidian pages, working by feel. The two of them were crammed into a closet in his hotel, with the lights off. It was hardly the most comfortable of working conditions.

“A pity, mon cher, that you can’t turn the pages yourself.”

“If I could easily manipulate most physical objects without an intermediary, Ahuizotal wouldn’t have bothered hiring you, and this whole affair would have gone much more smoothly.” Even distracted by reading, her tone was waspish. After a moment she added, “And you wouldn’t be getting paid, so perhaps a little gratitude is in order.”

Caballeron let out a bark of laughter. “Gratitude? I’m not one to be grateful for a kick in the teeth.”

She made a non-committal noise. Caballeron frowned. She was either very thoroughly distracted by whatever she was reading in the Iron Book of Shadows or that unicorn, Cantor Mortalis, had hurt her worse than Caballeron had thought.

“Three pages ahead,” in as much as she could be said to speak with a normal, business like tone, the Pony of Shadows had her attention focused on the book rather than Caballeron’s grumbling.

He obliged. A moment later she hmm’d in a fashion that sounded vaguely promising.

“Something useful?” Caballeron hoped it was. He was feeling quite done with this whole mess in Albion.

“Maybe,” she sounded dubious. A tone she usually reserved for Caballeron’s capabilities and usefulness.

That thought got him angry again, “One hopes,” he spoke with considerable heat, “that this business with the ring and the book weren’t a waste of our time!”

She sighed.

“It has not been a waste. I am confident we can restore the ring gates to their prior functioning.”

Caballeron felt a surge of fierce joy. If they could get the rings working, he could ask Ahuizotal to direct the Pony of Shadows to some other project and let the archaeologist get on with vault-breaking and diamond retrieval in relative peace.

“The problem is finding an appropriate point where the realms of shadow … overlap, perhaps? … intersect might be a better word … let’s say intersect with the world as you know it.”

Caballeron frowned again. The world as he knew it? Was she implying an otherworldy origin for herself? That would fit with some of what that unicorn Cantor had been shouting at her. And, Caballeron thought, there were magics to defend oneself from such creatures. Perhaps he would need to look into a detour of his own to acquire an appropriate talisman. He doubted that the shadow creature would be pleased to be cut out of this little mission. Whatever she was getting out of it was important enough for her to stick with Caballeron through some surprisingly sticky situations.

“There are such points, but they tend to be places where power gathers. As a result, most are … in use … or defended.”

“Defended? By what?” Caballeron was curious. Such places might well have some interesting and valuable relics lying about unattended.

“By forces we don’t want to meddle with. In case you hadn’t noticed, a stewardess and a half-crippled mad-pony did a very thorough job of kicking both our asses. Do you really want to go up against something substantially nastier than they?” There it was, the needling tone was back.

Caballeron grinned. “Since you’ve time to banter, I take it you do have an option for us?” His grin vanished. “It had damn well better not involve trying to steal something else from Oxherd!”

“Nothing in the Griffish Isles is suitable, Doctor. No need to fear.”

“So?”

She sighed. “Well … I’ve found locations for five potential sites of power. Three of which I know are … claimed. We are highly unlikely to be allowed use of them. Of the other two ...” she trailed off.

“Yes?” Caballeron prodded her verbally. He didn’t prod her physically. He didn’t want to try touching either her cloak or whatever lay beneath.

“One’s on the other side of the world. I doubt Ahuizotal would countenance an eight month side trip.”

“Eight months?!” Caballeron sputtered. Screw the gold, screw Ahuizotal, and most especially screw her. He wasn’t about to continue hanging around with this dark creature that long.

“Each way.”

“What?!”

“The alternative is hardly better!” She spat back, and that flicker of rage was enough to quiet Caballeron. Especially since he recalled he was now out of explosives.

“What is this alternative?”

There was a long pause. Then, grudgingly, she said, “The Valley of Dreams. Prison to Lost Tambelon. It’s in the Badlands.”

“Well, at least that puts us on the right continent. And we can swing by Ahuizotal’s ruined temples to pick up that second ring.”

“No need for the second ring. I called it our ring’s ‘twin’ for a reason. It’s just one ring. Trotwine had it split or duplicated by some magical means, but in essence it’s still a single object. Which is how it works the way it does. You stretch a thin film of shadow-stuff through one, that same film of shadow-stuff fills the other. And when you pass something through one ring …”

“… it comes out the other one. I see.”

“It works for words and objects. Power too, and – with the right adjustments and rituals – you could even use it as a kind of magic mirror or crystal ball to see whatever distant place its twin is oriented towards.”

“So, what’s the problem, mon cher?”

“The problem is that Tambelon was lost, or more properly banished, for very good reasons. To access the shadow realms there would mean tampering with the wards and spells that keep Tambelon gone. I’m not certain you’re of a suitable disposition for that task.”

Caballeron grimaced in the darkness. “Unsuitable in what way?”

“Well,” her tone was dry and biting, like a desert wind over barren bones, “Thus far your retrieval missions have involved a considerable amount of breakage and mess, followed by hue and cry from the authorities.”

Caballeron, in disbelief, interjected, “This, from somepony who left eight bodies at the Ashmulean?”

“I can be subtle. I can be quiet and patient and careful, when that is required. Can you?”

“If it gets the job done quicker then yes. Make that hell yes. I haven’t even seen this diamond Ahuizotal wants and already I can’t wait to get rid of it and get paid.”

She chuckled, “Odd you should mention hell. If we break something at the valley of dreams … if we alert the lord of Tambelon … then hell is just what you’re in for. There’s an old and terrible power there.”

“Friend of yours?” Caballeron let slip a touch of his snark.

“No. A rival.” Her reply was deadly serious. “Trust me, we don’t want him getting involved. We don’t even want him to be aware of our presence. You remember the knife, yes?”

Caballeron shuddered. He couldn’t think of the last time he had been so pleased to stick a priceless ancient artifact into the post and send it far, far away. Caballeron neither knew nor cared where she had mailed it to, so long as he never crossed paths with it again.

“I see you do remember it! Well, that knife holds a scrap of his power. If he does notice our poking about, if he decides the wards might be weak enough to try to break free, and if we leave him even a pin-prick of a hole connecting your world with his lost realm, then you will be on your own. I have no intention of letting him know I even exist. Much less confronting him, weakened as I am.”

She chuckled. It was the sort of sound that made Caballeron’s skin crawl.

“Old and wicked I may be, but I have no wish to be gobbled up by such a demon as he. And I doubt Ahuizotal would appreciate me serving two masters.”

“Fine. Kid gloves. Dainty steps. A touch as light as air. We go, we get, we leave, and nopony need ever know we were there. I’ll go make the arrangements to get us back to Equestria. We’ll need to hop whatever ship or air-ship is leaving soonest. Before the authorities have a chance to interrogate Mr. Mortalis.”

“Why?” she was suspicious.

“Other than being able to link us both to the Bodleian, I ran into Cantor in Canterbury. He may be mad and distracted, but I suspect he could furnish enough of a description to have us stopped at customs unless we leave now.”

“Sooner is better,” she agreed. She followed it up with, “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

Caballeron rolled his eyes. While he couldn’t see her in the pitch black room, he was certain she could see him perfectly clearly. “I didn’t have a chance, you may not have noticed, but he was magically warded.”

There was a slight pause before Caballeron added, “That thing, you called it a shade, it said the dead protected him. Is that true?”

“Perhaps. Something protects him. Something influences him. Something empowers him. Something whispers to him. It could be the Dead. All I know for certain is that it isn’t me.”

20. Bodies

Valentina could tell that Cantor hadn’t been any fonder of the delay than Pennyfarthing, but Dozy made a number of compelling arguments. The resulting plans, coupled with Cantor’s myriad aches and pains, saw a good four days pass before Cantor and Valentina left their suite again.

Even so, Cantor still looked like he’d been dragged along a stretch of rough road, and Valentina herself – while much recovered – had a pair of black eyes which she thought left her looking like a startled raccoon.

For Valentina, it had been a series of idle days, coupled with a quick check-in with the Westphalia to see about her next departure. Valentina was seriously considering resigning her post, she was simply having too much fun with all this cloak-and-daggering about! But a talk with Bogart, Dozy, and Thretan had changed her mind. Valentina’s position on the airship might well prove useful in the flight to the mainland, should all go as planned.

The consensus which had emerged was that Cantor and Jon Quill needed to be gotten out of Albion before Doctor Fether could nab them both. Secondary to this was to leave in such a way that the local authorities – both the constabulary at Whitstable and the Inspectors of Shetland Yard – were as well disposed to Cantor and his friends as was feasible.

It would be quite the disappearing act, if they could manage it!

Other than Cantor and Valentina, who spent their time recovering, the others had been quite busy. One of Hive Naught’s solicitors had accompanied Pennyfarthing back to Whitstable and was acting as Cantor’s legal advocate there – the police weren’t exactly happy that Cantor wasn’t in custody, but there were negotiations underway. And the fact that the unnatural magical disturbances at Fairweather’s tomb had finally ceased immediately after Cantor had brought his peculiar magical expertise to bear on the vortex was proving to be a mitigating factor for the whole breaking-and-entering thing. The latest reports back to Lunadun indicated that the situation would probably be resolved with a fine of some sort. Hive Naught could afford a fine.

Still, even with the warrants for Cantor’s arrest hanging much less threateningly above his head, Valentina could tell Cantor was nervous. Hardly surprising given they were currently navigating the back halls of Shetland Yard. Valentina's job was to keep quiet, to help Cantor stay upright, to watch, and to report back to the rest of Hive Naught if events propelled Cantor and Dozy into the proverbial rapidly descending basket. As long as she didn't cause a fuss, there shouldn't be any reason for Shetland Yard to hold her.

Cantor, Valentina, and Dozy were being escorted to the morgue by the Chief Inspector James H. Jack – a particularly solid earth-pony with a bushy mustache and a salt-of-the-earth demeanor. Valentina suspected that the stallion in question was cannier than he looked, and that he was a very competent detective … though perhaps a trifle on the unimaginative side. Two other earth-pony inspectors – Tobias Greenbroke and Bridle Martingale were along for unspecified reasons. Valentina suspected they were the muscle if Cantor, Dozy, or Valentina got out of line. Well, if she or Dozy got out of line at least. Valentina doubted Cantor would be able to put up much of a fight right now. There were also four unicorns accompanying them – of which Molly Halter had been introduced as a local mortician brought in for forensic analysis on unusual cases. The other three, Merivale, Althelney Knacker, and Baynes Hostler were here “for observation” as Chief Inspector Jack put it.

What they were going to be observing, Valentina suspected, was Cantor’s interrogation of the bodies from the Ashmulean.

“This way, if you please. Mind that last step.” Chief Inspector Jack’s tone managed to be both professionally detached and invitingly hospitable. He was a pony with a proper (if rather dull) reserve.

The interview with Chief Inspector Jack had been refreshingly brief, Valentina thought. He had already read over the statements about the affair at the Bodleian. On being ushered into his rather cramped office, Chief Inspector Jack simply rose and shook Cantor’s hoof, then had said, “Let’s be on our way, then.”

Valentina helped Cantor down that last step and then along a well lit hallway. It had a hospital feel about it, she thought. Before reaching the end, the Chief Inspector pushed open a door to what was clearly a morgue. The walls held sealed slabs where the waiting bodies rested. Four operating tables occupied the center of the room, each with a covered body upon it. A rush of surprisingly cold air hit Valentina. They had the place very properly chilled.

Cantor stopped in the doorway. He blinked at the room.

“Come in, come in. We haven’t got all day.” Chief Inspector Jack continued to hold the door.

“I … uh … may need a minute.” Cantor was glancing about the room rather distractedly.

The Chief Inspector frowned. It was the sort of frown that indicated one should be careful about trying the patience of a stallion who was presently refraining from having you arrested.

Valentina caught on faster than the others. “Chief Inspector Jack?” her tone was deferential, “I suspect the room may already be … occupied.”

Jack turned his frown upon the four corpses on the tables. His expression didn’t indicated any great enlightenment. Valentina continued, “By something more than just the bodies.”

“I don’t see anypony else here.” The Chief Inspector’s expression wavered on the verge of frown and scowl.

“Nor I,” that was Merivale – she had a light, pleasant voice. Her eyes were glowing purple at the moment. Valentina thought they complimented her yellow coat nicely.

“Well … I do.” Cantor sighed, and then stepped into the room. He then glanced to his left and muttered, “Yes, this is more like what I’m used to.”

“There are haunts here?” Baynes sounded interested. He was looking around.

Valentina tsked at him. “Really, sir. You bring a medium into this kind of a police mortuary and you’re surprised he finds it already occupied?”

Chief Inspector Jack let out a snort. Valentina was relieved to note that it sounded amused.

“Well then, Cantor. Do what you can to clear the room so we can get our questions answered.”

Cantor blinked at him. “Clear the room?”

“The ghosties. They aren’t authorized to overhear details about our investigation at the Ashmulean. And,” Jack continued, his gaze shifting to Valentina and Dozy – who was wearing his young Hoofrey Bogart disguise, “I’ve already filled out quite enough paperwork for bringing in visitors. So make them go away. It’s what you do isn’t it?” Chief Inspector Jack suddenly frowned. “Unless one of them is one of our dead stallions.”

“I doubt that.” Cantor said. He pulled his foreleg free from Valentina’s grip and limped over to a freezer on the right side of the room. There was a tag on it, marked with numbers. Cantor tapped it and said, “This fellow …” he trailed off and made his way to the back of the room where he tapped another freezer. “And this young mare.”

The Chief Inspector raised an eyebrow. What he said, though, was “Tobias, take notes.” Tobias flipped open a notepad and went to stand by Cantor.

Valentina eyed the assortment of unicorns present. Only Molly, the mortician, was in anything approaching a uniform. The other three wore street clothes, and their ID badges (like Cantor’s own) had “Consultant” printed on them.

Cantor began carrying on a conversation with somepony no one else present could see. Tobias gave him a sidelong glance and took a step back, but he did keep on scribbling.

“So, why exactly are you here?” Valentina addressed Althelney, who was looking a little green around the gills. This wasn’t a stallion who was comfortable in a room full of corpses. Merivale didn’t seem too pleased either, Valentina noted.

“Observation. Consultation. The usual,” it was Merivale who answered.

Althelney nodded, “Same here.”

Baynes chimed in, “We’re trusted experts in our own fields of magic. And we’ve all worked with Shetland Yard before … or work for them now.”

Molly added, “Effectively we’re here to watch Cantor work. To determine, as best we can, if he’s doing what he says he is. Talking to the dead.”

Valentina was quite interested. “And how will you determine that?”

Merivale wore a puzzled frown. She was still watching Cantor. The light around her horn flared, and a shimmering wash of colors played over her eyes. When she answered it was clear that she was quite distracted.

“I’m a diviner. I’ve a knack for seeing magic … for figuring out what it is and where it comes from. For identifying its type and nature. Even from trace residue of long cast spells.”

Baynes grinned, “I specialize in illusions – conjuring sights and sounds to baffle the senses. Ol’ Knacker here turns stuff into junk and junk into stuff.”

Althelney Knacker snorted. “My transformation magic can also bring the semblance of life to inanimate objects. Make them dance about, that sort of thing.”

Molly chimed in, “We’ve dealt with would-be mediums before here at Shetland Yard.”

“Fakers, the lot of ‘em. Hmph.” Chief Inspector Jack snorted disdainfully.

Molly nodded, then continued, “Those who fake it well tend to either use illusions or some sort of transmutation spell,” Althelney grinned wider at the mention of his own magical specialty, “to bring a false semblance of life to a body … making it seem to move. A very skilled practitioner might even be able to make one seem to speak.”

“Well, grunt anyway,” Althelney chimed in. “Actual speech would be rather remarkable.”

“The other option is to conjure sound alone,” Tobias added. There was a brief flare of magic from his horn, and to Valentina’s delight his voice began to wander about the room. As Tobias’ lips moved, the sound came from different places … making it seem as if other ponies (or even inanimate objects) were the ones talking. “And a skilled illusionist could also convince a pony that there were movements, strange lights, ghostly presences, all that sort of thing.”

Valentina clapped, “How delightful! So, what is Cantor doing now?”

“Other than wasting our time,” Chief Inspector Jack muttered. He eyed a clock hanging above the door.

“Cantor’s talking to nopony whatsoever, from all I can see,” Merivale sounded a little put out. “If he’s using some sort of magic, it’s nothing active. He’s not casting spells nor working rituals. Nor are there any spells or rituals currently acting on he, himself.”

“So there’s nothing there?” If Molly was disappointed, Valentina thought, she hid it well.

Merivale frowned. “I can’t say. There’s nothing there that I know how to see, but …”

After a moment of silence, Chief Inspector Jack said, “But?” He gestured with his hoof, an encouragement for the unicorn to finish her unspoken thought.

“But … if he has an innate magic which allows him to see and speak with the dead, then I wouldn’t see that. Just like I don’t see the sort of innate magic that lets a pegasus walk on clouds. If somepony who wasn’t a pegasi had a common cloud-walking spell cast upon them, that I could see. End result, if Cantor is talking to a ghost, it’s something he can just do.”

“And watching him do it isn’t giving you any insights into how somepony other than Cantor could do such a thing?” Molly’s question was oddly pointed. Valentina began to suspect that Shetland Yard’s “on call” forensic mortician might very well like to learn a spell that could let her see ghosts.

Merivale grinned, her eyes were still glowing brightly. “Sorry, Molly! Not a one. But …”

“But what?” This time it was Baynes who prodded her along.

“But, if Cantor were using magic to fake a conversation with the dead … like we’ve seen done before … that’s something I would have seen by now.”

“So … either he’s cracked and talking to himself …” said Althelney.

“Or he might be the real thing,” added Baynes.

“Or he’s a clever bloke who’s thought his con out better than the charlatans we’ve dealt with before.” That was from Chief Inspector Jack.

Cantor had moved to a different part of the room. He was carrying on a different conversation. Tobias was still taking notes, though the stallion was looking a little on the pale and wild-eyed side.

Chief Inspector Jack sighed, and addressed Dozy, “So Dozy is it? I don’t suppose you’ve brought along that piece of important evidence that you’re turning over to the Yard?”

Dozy grinned his Hoofrey Bogart grin. “Sorry Chief Inspector, we’ve got it locked safely away.”

“I could send somepony to get it.”

Dozy shook his head. “Given the unusual nature of the crimes involved and the theoretical skills of the likely suspects, we’d much rather give it to you in person. Or at least to somepony I personally know has been sent on your behalf, rather than just trust a note. Less risk of it being mislaid in transit, don’t you agree?”

Chief Inspector Jack raised an eyebrow. “I do agree. But I also think you could have brought it to me yourself since you were coming here today.”

Dozy gave an apologetic smile, “I suppose I should have thought of that. Do forgive us for the oversight, Chief Inspector.”

Valentina knew there was no oversight involved. And she suspected that Chief Inspector Jack knew that as well. Hive Naught was keeping the broken tablet and its covering cloth, dropped by Caballeron at the Bodleian, locked up until they knew that Cantor had been released from his current “consulting visit” to Shetland Yard.

There were still warrants for Cantor’s arrest out there, after all.

The Chief Inspector gave a noncommittal grunt and turned his attention back to Cantor.

Dozy added, “We did manage to identify the mark sewn onto the cloth, though.”

That brought the Chief Inspector’s attention sharply back to Dozy. He said, “Well?” It was as much a demand as a question.

“It’s the cutie-mark of Trotwine the Riddler. A unicorn from long ago. From what we’ve learned, his tomb was supposed to be somewhere in Albion, but has been lost for centuries.”

Chief Inspector Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Canterbury.”

Dozy nodded, “We believe so.”

“Well, good. The academics have been wondering whose grave had been dug up. They’ll be glad of the news. It’s progress.” Chief Inspector Jack frowned at Cantor’s continuing one-sided conversation, “… of a sort.” Jack’s eyes strayed up to the clock again.

“Can we move this along, please?” The Chief Inspector’s voice held only the hint of impatience.

“Only if you’re prepared to make a couple of promises,” Cantor replied.

Chief Inspector Jack’s brow furrowed, “You’re hardly in a position to make demands.”

Cantor nodded, “But unfortunately I am in a position where I must make requests … and to request the promise of immediate action.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“The dead here need two messages delivered. He,” and here Cantor gestured absently towards one side of the room, at a place that appeared empty, “needs his mother to be made aware of a life-insurance policy that he had made to help support his daughter – and ... and he needs his daughter to know that he loves her and is proud of her and he is sorry that he will not be there to watch her grow up.”

There was an old, too-familiar sounding sadness that leaked into Cantor’s tone. Valentina suddenly wondered how many times Cantor had been required to bear that sort of heart-wrenching news to somepony. Dozens? Hundreds? Valentina shivered as she blinked away the start of tears. She still felt the urge to give Cantor a comforting hug.

“Go on,” Chief Inspector Jack no longer sounded quite so impatient. If anything, Valentina thought he sounded a little startled, perhaps even a touch sympathetic.

Cantor sighed, he sounded tired as he went on, “And this young mare here, Abigail, wants her sister Nelly to be told that it wasn’t her, that is Nelly’s, fault. It was just an accident. Abigail had too much to drink and fell in the river. Abigail doesn’t want Nelly to blame herself.”

There was a moment of silence. Chief Inspector Jack and Molly Halter exchanged a significant look. Valentina couldn't tell what exactly was up with that. But she wasn't about to interrupt to ask!

Cantor continued, “It is very important to these spirits that the messages be delivered. Will you promise me, and them, that you will have this done? Immediately?”

Chief Inspector Jack waved Tobias over.

“Well?” The comment was addressed to the junior inspector, who looked quite spooked.

“Chief Inspector, sir, he was able to confirm … uh … basically everything about Smiley’s death, with a few extra details thrown in for good measure. And we’ve gotten addresses for his next of kin and other verifiable information. As for the ‘Jane Doe’ – what Cantor says about her movements matches with what we had been able to reconstruct. Thanks to him we’ve got addresses for her next of kin, including her sister, available now too. Assuming they check out.”

Chief Inspector Jack raised both his eyebrows at that. “Well then, Inspector Bridle, would you kindly go to the appropriate residences, deliver the unfortunate news, and (assuming Cantor's information is on the up and up) gather the necessary reports from the inhabitants?”

“Sir?” Bridle had been lingering by the door through all of this. His presence was enough to indicate that no pony was to leave until the Chief Inspector was done with them.

“Now, Bridle. As I said earlier, we haven’t got all day. And be sure to deliver the ghosts' messages – as Cantor has dictated. That’s an order.”

Bridle nodded and trotted out the door.

Chief Inspector Jack turned back to Cantor. “Is that sufficient, sir?”

Cantor nodded gratefully. “Quite.” He then turned to address air that, to Valentina’s own senses, seemed empty. “There, the messages are on their way. They will be delivered. It’s done, so you don’t need to worry about that any more. You can rest now. Doesn’t rest sound good? That’s it. Let it go. Let it all go. And … just lay down. Shut your eyes … there … there. Isn’t that nice?”

Valentina found her own eyes growing a little heavy as Cantor’s sweet voice soothed and quieted the unseen spirits. Baynes had to struggled to hold back a yawn.

There was a moment of silence. Cantor sighed, then he smiled. It was a rather pale and wan smile, Valentina thought, but it was good to see him perking up a bit.

“Well, that’s a bit of good news.” Cantor didn’t sound as tired as he looked.

“How so?” It was Molly who asked.

Cantor gave a half-shrug, and winced. “It’s … uh … been a little while since I encountered what I would call a ‘normal’ haunting.” He began to tick off points with his hoof, “Recently dead spirit; staying close to its body, the site of death, or the locale near to where its unfinished business in life could be resolved; one with a strong, obsessive focus on something unsaid or undone in their life … and haunts who, when their personal issue has been dealt with and they are finally at peace, simply fade away rather than lingering on.”

“No, it’s been all ‘vortexes of evil energy’ and ‘trapped ghosts who I can’t send back to sleep’ for far too long. The overall situation with the spirits might have some really bad stuff going on, but at least it’s not every spirit everywhere. Well, not yet any way. So, yes. Reassuring that the old normal is still in place.”

Cantor gestured around the mortuary. “At least in places. Shall we proceed?”

“Yes. Lets.” That from Chief Inspector Jack. He produced a clipboard. Molly uncovered the head of one of the stallion corpses.

Merivale muttered a word of power, the color of the light shining from her eyes changed again.

“First question (for you Cantor, and not the deceased) have you ever seen this stallion before? Do you know who this is?”

Cantor grimaced as he looked on the face of the slain stallion. At least this one hadn’t been badly butchered.

“No, Chief Inspector. Not that I can recall. I don't know the fellow.”

Chief Inspector Jack glanced at Merivale. She nodded.

“I say,” Dozy broke in, “Is that a truth-spell? I didn’t think the use of such magics was admissible as evidence.”

“It is, it’s not, and we’re not using Merivale's spell to vet evidence about the crime,” Chief Inspector Jack answered. “We’re using it to establish your friend's … credentials. Is that a problem?” The Chief Inspector’s tone indicated that the correct answer to his question was “no, it is not a problem.” Cantor’s head-shake showed he’d gotten that message loud and clear.

“Right then. First question. There.” The Chief Inspector tapped a line printed on a piece of paper. There were quite a few sheets currently attached to his clip board. Valentina thought there were considerably more than ten questions total. She glanced at Dozy inquiringly. He shrugged.

Cantor took a breath and began to concentrate. A shimmering aura, dark-gray, silver, and blue-black began to bubble and congeal around his horn, his eyes, and the body on the table. A moment later the corpse twitched.

“What is your full, given name, sir?” Cantor inquired.

The dead pony’s mouth opened. It drew breath like an old, worn out bellows, and its voice was a whispery wheeze as it answered, “I am Finnegan Draught, though my mother called me Amblin.”

Valentina felt her flesh shiver and crawl. She clung to Dozy’s foreleg. She couldn’t quite decide if she was more excited or frightened. It was certainly eerie.

Chief Inspector Jack flipped a page, eyed a comment, nodded then looked at Merivale with a raised eyebrow. She nodded back at him.

“What was that about?” Valentina whispered to Dozy.

“We probably shouldn’t ask questions while this is going on … in case the corpse thinks we’re talking to it. But I suspect they already knew his name and they were confirming that Cantor’s spell can get them accurate information,” Dozy whispered back.

Chief Inspector Jack tapped another question printed on a new page. Cantor’s eyes were still bubbling with that unpleasant looking energy.

Cantor addressed the corpse, “How did you die?”

Another wheezing inhale. The corpse’s voice was a little stronger this time. “He cut me with that knife. It was horrible. There was laughter, and voices, and … and a bell … somewhere there was a bell. And the shadow was there. She looked at me and laughed. I ran … I was bleeding. He cut me bad. I ran … and ran … and … I … tripped?” Suddenly the corpse sounded unsure. “I was tripped? Were there other ponies there? I fell down. It was cold. The back of my head hurt. And I was bleeding. I … I guess I bled to death.”

“Well, at least he’s talkative,” Althelney muttered. Baynes shot him a glare and Tobias, who was scribbling away as the corpse spoke, shushed the illusionist.

Chief Inspector Jack flipped through about four pages, discarding them before settling on the next question. Again he pointed the question out for Cantor, and again Cantor asked.

“Who cut you so that you bled to death?”

”It was Carl. Carl Hostler, the researcher. But … but it wasn’t him. It was the shadow. She was behind him. But she was in him too. He was laughing and laughing … and he cut me. He kept cutting me. I had to run.”

More notes were taken. More papers turned. A new question decided on.

“Who all was in the building when you were attacked?”

”Carl, Murray, Jacob, Whinney, Sonders, Yoke, and Janice Thuring. I don’t know if anypony else was there.”

Valentina started. Counting Finnegan, that made eight! But the papers had said that there were only seven bodies. She glanced at Dozy, but he was watching the assembled investigators of Shetland Yard.

None of them seemed overly concerned by the tally of names, Valentina thought to herself. So either they hadn’t noticed one extra name, or ….

“There’s a body they’ve not let the press mention,” Dozy whispered in her ear, completing her thought.

“That or a survivor,” Valentina whispered back.

Time for the last question. After a brief moment of thought, Chief Inspector Jack indicated one resided near the bottom of the pile.

“Were there any unusual disturbances at the museum that week?”

”No. It had been a quiet week. Nothing odd at all.”

Merivale blanched. Her yellow coat turned nearly as pale as Cantor’s own. Her glowing eyes had gone wide as they leapt from Cantor to the corpse then back again. Cantor's own eyes and horn had ceased to glow.

Something had rattled her very badly.

“Interesting,” Chief Inspector Jack was busy reviewing his notes.

A moment or two passed in silence. Merivale seemed to be trying to regain her composure, and to gather up the courage to ask a question. When she spoke, it was clear she was still spooked, but at least she managed to keep her voice even.

“So …” Merivale blinked thoughtfully at Cantor, “… uh … how often, in your experience, do the dead lie to you?”

Cantor looked a little startled as well. He also looked a lot tired.

“I don’t know, really. Mostly I take them at their word.”

Everypony present was staring at him. Cantor looked concerned as he added, “Why?”

Merivale said, “That last question – Finnegan lied. Something odd did happen during the past week.”

“You’re sure?” Chief Inspector Jack could muster up a frighteningly keen focus, Valentina noted.

“Quite sure. The lie-detection magic, a little trick of my own devising, which I used to determine that Cantor hadn’t known Finnegan ahead of time alerted me when Finnegan’s … uh … body knowingly told him a lie.”

There was a brief pause while Merivale shakily drew a deep breath, “Which … uh … also indicates that, until further notice, as best as I can determine that spell of his works as advertised. With it, we can talk to the dead.”

Chief Inspector Jack looked from Merivale to Athelney, to Baynes. “Are you sure about this?”

Merivale grimaced, “As sure as I can be. Right now I’ve seen no sign that he’s faking any of it. I’d need to study the spell more to be certain.”

“There are no illusions involved,” Baynes chimed in. “If there had been, I’ll turn in my badge and retire to the countryside to raise sheep.”

“But you hate the countryside, Baynes. And you despise sheep!” Althelney wore an expression of considerable confusion.

Baynes nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

Althelney blinked, then chuckled. It was a chuckle that died swiftly at the realization that the Chief Inspector was looking to him for an answer to Jack’s earlier question. “There was no transmutation magic of any sort either, sir. However it was that Cantor brought animation and the semblance of life to that body, it’s like nothing I’m familiar with.”

“He was asking questions and getting answers,” the Chief Inspector once again addressed Merivale. She was still looking a little shocked.

“True. Yes. But it wasn’t divination in the classic sense. From what I could unravel from the auras I perceived, I’d say it had some things in common with divination spells – in that it sought information … and it had something in common with transmutation spells, like that come-to-life enchantment Althelney loves to abuse … but it wasn’t either of them. The power underpinning it was … well … rather dark in nature. If you want my professional opinion, I’d have to chalk it up to … uh … necromancy.”

Chief Inspector Jack still looked skeptical. An impressive feat, Valentina thought, considering what he had just witnessed. Jack’s tone matched his look as he said, “Necromancy. Right. Any other possibilities?”

Merivale shook her head, less in answer and more to clear it.

Molly chimed in, “I’m sure, given time, we could come up with some alternatives – but they’d be at least as unlikely as necromancy. I’d say we should give Cantor the benefit of the doubt on this issue.”

Chief Inspector Jack’s hmm signaled his begrudging agreement. He turned back to Cantor.

“Why would Finnegan lie? He was dead.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. Finnegan is dead. But from what I learned in studying that spell, however he was answering our questions, he was answering them from the same … er … point of view I suppose you could say … that he would have had in life. So, were he alive, he would have lied in answer to that question. And I couldn’t tell you the reason for sure.” Cantor sighed. He looked unusually thoughtful. “Maybe Finnegan was involved in something that happened earlier in the week and doesn’t want to risk shaming himself by admitting to it? Maybe somepony he cared about was involved in something strange that happened and he’s trying to cover for them? Did he have any dear friends working at the museum with him? Family perhaps?” Cantor shrugged and winced again.

“My spell only lets them answer. It doesn’t compel answers. Nor does it compel the truth.” Canter grinned wryly. “So I guess his testimony is about as reliable as that of any other individual closely involved in a murder case.”

Chief Inspector Jack seemed darkly amused as he muttered, “’Closely involved’ is too right.” The amusement faded. He eyed Cantor with a look that Valentina thought might even be concerned.

“Are you up for another interrogation, Mr. Mortalis?”

Valentina shot Dozy a relieved look. So it was up to “Mr. Mortalis” now! And asking for help rather than demanding it.

Cantor nodded, so Chief Inspector Jack pulled back the sheet from one of the other bodies.

With the exception of Molly, everypony (even the Chief Inspector himself) flinched back from the corpse’s expression – its face was twisted into a rictus of fear.

Cantor took a breath to steady himself and muttered, “Right. Time to get to work.”

Molly, meanwhile was giving Merivale a pointed poke to the ribs. To which, Valentina could have sworn she heard the diviner reply “Calm your tits, filly!”

Again Cantor invoked his newest spell. Again the dark power bubbled and seethed. Cantor looked like he was having trouble staying upright – he had mentioned the magic was unusually draining. So Valentina hurried to his side to help hold him up.

“You better make this fast,” she said, sotto voce, to Chief Inspector Jack.

The Chief Inspector, noting how Cantor was swaying, seemed inclined to agree.

The first question was presented to Cantor, who promptly asked the corpse, “How did you die?”

The corpse shuddered as it drew in a breath.

It screamed.

Valentina instinctively dragged Cantor away from it, placing herself between the staggering unicorn and the dead body.

The sound was horribly loud. Far louder than the whispery wheeze of the other corpse. It showed no signs of letting up. It was an unending, wordless shriek of terror.

“Enough! Be silent!”

Valentina looked back at Cantor, amazed he had found the strength to speak with such authority.

The corpse fell silent.

Valentina looked around the room.

The door was still swinging from where Baynes Hostler, consulting illusionist, had fled. Tobias Greenbroke and Molly Halter had both fallen back to one wall and were hugging one another. Merivale, her nerves already on edge, had fainted dead away. Dozy had caught her and was trying to wake her up. Even Chief Inspector James Jack looked very thoroughly rattled.

Cantor drew in a shuddering breath. Somehow he still maintained control over the spell, his concentration unbroken by the wailing of the dead.

“I think we can chalk the cause of death up to ‘fright.’ Wouldn’t you agree, Chief Inspector?”

The Chief Inspector gave Cantor a troubled look. “That was quite unpleasant. Do you think it’s safe to ask more?”

Cantor’s expression said, quite clearly, that he hadn’t the foggiest notion. He shrugged. Jack sighed. Then, as the rest of the room’s occupants began to recover from their sudden scare, he indicated another question.

The Chief Inspector also muttered something about needing to bring along ear-plugs as Cantor spoke again.

“Why did you take the knife out of the vault?”

This time the corpse spoke … stuttering and stumbling along, “Scared! Have t-to … have to … must protect … they’re after m-me … n-nothing can stop them … nothing … so s-scared!”

And then, without warning, the corpse’s face twisted and the voice changed: it seemed to deepen, to grow colder and more feminine, “the blade can protect you, the blade can make you safe.”

Valentina felt goosebumps start up all over her body. She felt Cantor shiver too.

It wasn’t exactly the Pony of Shadow’s voice – not quite, but it was as if the corpse was trying to imitate her.

The corpse continued, in its earlier voice, “Yes! S-safe! So safe and quiet and red. I can make them all such pretty, pretty red … so s-still and s-safe ….” the sound gradually fell away.

Cantor swallowed hard. “Uh … next question please.”

There was a brief pause. Chief Inspector Jack looked like he was trying to collect himself as he shuffled through his remaining papers. The other ponies in the room were just as nonplussed. Tobias had let go of Molly and was eyeing the door as if thinking Baynes had the right idea. If it weren’t for Cantor, Valentina would likewise have been tempted to make a sudden exit.

“Were there any unusual disturbances at the museum that week?”

Another shuddering breath drawn by the corpse, Valentina braced herself for another shriek. Instead, the corpse spoke, much more coherently than before.

”There was an after-hours delivery on Friday evening. It was strange. The timing … everything was all wrong, but accident or not what’s inside the box is far too valuable to try to return.”

There was a brief pause, then, ”It’s looking at me ….”

Cantor swayed on his hooves, Valentina shifted to take more of his weight. She shot the Chief Inspector an urgent look. He nodded and produced another question.

“Who all was in the building when you took the knife from the vault?”

”Jacob Greene, Finnegan, Janice, Murray, Whinney Whitacker, Sonders, Yoke and … and … her shadow.”

The same eight, Valentina noted. And the Pony of Shadows.

One more question left. Chief Inspector Jack frowned, his eyes hopping from paper to paper, before, with a sigh, settling on his final query.

“Why did all of this happen?”

There was a long silence. Just when Valentina had started to think that the corpse wouldn’t answer, it whispered:

“Veteris delictorum misit diu tenebris.”

The body’s mouth fell open again. Then its muscles contorted, wrenching its expression back to one of deadly terror. The spell was spent. It lay still.

Cantor, eyes no longer aglow with that seething light, leaned heavily on Valentina. She was honestly surprised he was still conscious.

“That sounded like Latin. Does anypony here speak Latin?” The Chief Inspector surveyed the assembled ponies.

“I do,” said Molly. “It said ‘Old Sins Cast Long Shadows.’”

“Not exactly helpful, eh?” was the Chief Inspector’s response.

“Perhaps not. But it was an answer,” Cantor sounded exhausted.

“Are you …?” Valentina began to ask, but Cantor waved her to silence with a muttered, “I’ll be fine. Give me about ten or fifteen minutes of rest and I’ll be good to go.” He smiled weakly over at her, “Just so long as I get a good long nap before anypony asks me to cast any spells again!”

“I believe that concludes our business here, Chief Inspector. Are we free to go now?” Dozy had come up to support Cantor from the other side.

Chief Inspector Jack considered the trio.

“You’ll be heading back to your hotel. You’ll take Molly Halter and Tobias Greenbroke with you. Molly, you’ll bring the tablet’s remains and the wrapping cloth back with you when you come – and Tobias will make sure there aren’t any mishaps along the way.”

“Why Molly?” Tobias looked puzzled.

“Because he,” and here Chief Inspector Jack jerked a hoof at Cantor, “is going to provide her with instruction on how to work that little spell of his.”

“Molly?” Valentina blurted it out in surprise. While it was clear Molly was perhaps a bit too fascinated with magic involving the dead, Valentina would have thought Merivale, as a diviner, would be the one most suited to learning more about such strange question-asking magic.

Chief Inspector Jack chuckled, “Yes, Molly. She’s a forensic pathologist; quite gifted, and quite magical. Digging answers out of dead bodies is what she does. She’s very good at it. Closest thing Shetland Yard’s had to a real necromancer in almost a century, based on the records I’ve turned up. You’ll teach her that spell.” That wasn’t a request, and Cantor nodded.

“Very good. You’re free to go. And please try not to cause the Yard any more trouble while you’re visiting our fair isle, Mr. Mortalis? I’d take it as a personal favor if the rest of your visit is blissfully uneventful.”

“Him and me both,” Cantor muttered.

21. Bargains

Cantor found Molly Halter to be a surprisingly apt pupil. During the walk back to the hotel, she had already begun discussing the magical theory and applications of power that were used in the quasi-animating interrogation magic involved in speaking with the dead. Cantor was quite willing to “talk shop,” as it were, and hurry the lesson along – especially given that he was sweating proverbial bullets at this unexpected delay.

Neither Dozy nor Valentina seemed worried, so Cantor was inclined to trust that the time-table that had been established over the past few days had enough flexibility to work in a quick magic lesson. Especially if it got them on the good side of Shetland Yard!

Then again, from what Cantor understood, there was a strong probability that the rest of his living friends already had contingencies in place to go ahead with the whole “rescue Jon Quill” business if Cantor himself were unavoidably detained. Even so, Cantor would much prefer to be in the process of leaving first Lunadun and then Albion. Though Hive Naught was actively helping him hide, it was only a matter of time before Doctor Fether found him. And that was a confrontation Cantor would rather avoid entirely if he could manage it.

“Oy, think little miss resurrectionist ‘ere c’n actually learn that spell o’ his?” Magpie sounded doubtful. She and Fairweather both had also been quite curious to see Cantor’s interactions with what he thought of a “normal” haunting. It had been their first time witnessing such an encounter. Morari had seen Cantor deal with troubled spirits once before.

”I suspect she can.” Morari adopted the tone he used for academic lectures. “Her special talents seem to lie in extracting information from the dead. Doubtless she already knows several spells that might overlap, in terms of magical discipline, with Cantor’s corpse speaking spell. She might not attain mastery of it as soon as she views Cantor’s notes in his spell-book, but (if my past forays into magical education are anything to go by) it shouldn’t take her more than a few hours of study and work before she’ll be able to replicate the spell.”

”That is good, sir. A few hours and we will still be well on target to extract Jon Quill. ‘tis fortunate that events at Shetland Yard proceeded so smoothly. You did not … ?” Fairweather’s question trailed off. There had been discussions about Cantor potentially using a touch of enchantment to smooth the way, should it become necessary.

Cantor shook his head at the shade and muttered, “I didn’t have to. Thank Celestia.”

“Hmm?” Molly glanced at the empty spot on the sidewalk that Cantor had just spoken to. Seeing nopony there, she arched an eyebrow. “Not more work, I trust? Not that I would mind the delay.”

Valentina frowned at Molly and tightened her grip on Cantor’s foreleg.

Cantor blinked. “What? Oh, no. Just … uh … “

“Don’t say ‘talking to yourself.’ I shan’t believe it.” Molly grinned.

Cantor flushed slightly. That had been what he was about to say. Not a very original conversational dodge, he knew, but goodness knows he was worn out by the feats of magic he had been performing.

“I suspect he was talking with one of his current …” Dozy paused slightly, “hmm, traveling companions.”

“Traveling companions? I’d love to hear more about that.”

“I’m sure you would,” Valentina and Magpie spoke in unison, and with a similarly sharp tone. Fairweather chuckled.

Cantor sighed. They were walking by an old church, Saint Maretin's-in-the-Fields, and the stairs there looked too good to pass up. “Mind if I take a moment?”

Molly perked up, “What? In the crypts? They've got a cafe down there.”

Cantor gave her a slightly troubled look. “No … on the steps. For a rest. My bad leg is … tired.” Cantor barely stopped himself from saying ‘killing me.’

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” Molly looked a tad embarrassed and appropriately contrite.

Inspector Tobias snorted, more with amusement than impatience. “She’s always like this. If it’s dead, and there’s a mystery, she’ll poke at it until she’s found out all she can.” Tobias frowned suddenly, he seemed to be considering whether or not to continue. Then, with a shrug, he added, “Are there spooks with us at the moment?”

Cantor had plopped down on the stone and was rubbing at his rear legs. Dozy adjusted his shades and hat as he casually leaned against the black iron fence. He still wore his young Hoofrey Bogart disguise. Cantor found himself thinking that should a distraction and a quick getaway become necessary, all Dozy would need to do would be ditch the hat, coat, and glasses and there’d soon be a swarm of auto-graph seekers and paparazzi crowding around in no time at all. It was one of several contingencies they had worked out on the assumption that the Chief Inspector might decide to have Cantor picked up and held rather than let him continue to roam free.

Cantor grinned at Tobias and Molly. “Actually, yes. We are presently in the company of three spirits. Before you ask no, they’re not the usual sorts of haunts I deal with and no, I’ve not yet been able to lay them to rest. They’re helping me, I’m helping them, and we’re trying to sort out the whys, hows, and wherefores of their unnatural awakening. It’s a right mess.”

“Oy, if’n yer makin’ introductions get on with it!” Magpie was perched on the sill of one of the church's second floor windows and carefully watching the street. She was also eyeing the announcement of a new display of paintings at the National Art Museum which lay just across the road.

Cantor chuckled. “We have Magpie here, who just told me to get on with making the introductions. She’s a clever girl from Manehattan. Unfortunately she was murdered about two centuries back.” Tobias and Molly glanced up at the seemingly empty space Cantor was pointing to.

His hoof moved to indicate two other apparently empty places in quick succession, “Here we have an old scholar, Morari the Maneless. And there is somepony you may have heard talk of recently, Admiral Fairweather.”

“Charmed.” Admiral Fairweather gave an off-hoof bow.

“Admiral Fairweather says he’s charmed to meet you.”

Tobias looked a bit skeptical, but said, “Always a pleasure to meet a Wonderbolt. If you don’t mind my asking, does this business with your friends here have anything to do with the affair in Canterbury or the business with the Ashmulean?”

Dozy shrugged. “Maybe. We’re not sure.”

Cantor nodded, “There are some indications that there may perhaps be some sort of connection between the magic in that knife Carl used and the sort of magic that’s begun disturbing the long dead – waking them up in a most terrible fashion, and keeping me from being able to help them go back to sleep. It’s possible the Pony of Shadows may be indirectly involved too.”

Molly gave a low whistle, then shook her head. “Troubling stuff, to be sure. Also: do you always water down your answers with so many qualifiers? That string of ‘maybes’ and ‘perhapses’ was quite impressive!”

”She’s gotten ya pegged neat and tidy!” Magpie was clearly amused.

Cantor was surprised and he thought his expression likely showed as much. “Huh. At a guess, when I’m not sure about something, I’d rather not make definite statements.” His half-grin was on the apologetic side of things, “I’d hate to mislead somepony by accident!”

“Just mislead them on purpose, eh?” That was Tobias. Dozy fought back a laugh.

“Uhm. Yes.” Cantor.

“Good to know.” Molly nodded. “Also, if you lot know of anything you haven’t thought to tell us about the Ashmulean break in or Canterbury, Tobias here can take back an addendum or two to your reports. I’m sure a few more papers won’t weigh down old Toby!”

“That depends on how heavy that clay tablet is, Molly.” Tobias had adopted a serious tone.

“It’s surprisingly light, actually,” Dozy chimed in. “Alas that we don’t have anything else to add that wasn’t in our earlier statements.”

”Odd.” Morari muttered.

”How so?” Fairweather was watching the sky, frowning at the clouds.

”The tablet, from what I’ve seen, seemed a bit on the dense and heavy side. Would you agree, Cantor?”

Cantor nodded and climbed carefully back to his feet. “Enough rest. Thanks for the breather. On to the hotel.”

Valentina offered her fore-leg, but Cantor waved it off with a, “I’m feeling considerably better.” The way her mouth scrunched up indicated she was inclined to disagree, but she said nothing as she started trotting along beside him.

Magpie was grinning. And she elbowed Fairweather, who very studiously ignored her. Morari rolled his eyes.

“So, your usual haunts – you said they were fixated on some unfinished business.” Molly was also trotting alongside Cantor.

“Yes. My friends here don’t have anything like that, though.”

“Do you think your usual sort of haunts lie? Or are is it just that they can be mistaken?” Molly was quite curious.

Cantor shot her a sidelong glance, “I don’t really know! Why in the world would you ask such a thing?”

Molly shrugged, “That ‘Jane Doe’ – you said her name was Abigail? Well, either she was lying about the nature of her death or she was mistaken.”

Cantor blinked in surprise. “How would you know that? Most spirits know how they died.”

“Toxicology analysis. She had been drinking, true. Rather a lot. And she did fall in the river and drown. But there was considerably more than just an overabundance of cider in her system when she went into the water.”

Cantor just stared. Molly continued, with a sort of clinical dispassion – which Cantor suspected would be a handy trait for somepony who spends her time analyzing the oddities of the deceased, “So the question is did she know she had been drugged? If she did, did she know by who? It could have been a suicide and she just didn’t want her sister to know. Or she could have been slipped something without her knowledge. Or, for that matter, she could have known who drugged her and she was trying to protect him … or her.”

“Any chance you could talk to her again for us?”

Cantor shook his head, feeling a bit rattled. “Sorry … she’s gone.”

“Pity.” Molly blinked as Cantor stared at her, aghast. Molly hastily added, “Er, that is, it’s not a pity that she’s at peace – but it is a pity we didn’t have the foresight to talk with her a bit more. Could have gotten a better idea of where to take that investigation from here. Thanks, though – you were of great help.”

“Always glad to be of service,” Cantor’s reply was delivered with an undertone of confusion, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this filly.

Molly grinned, “Any chance you could teach me how to see hauntings while we’re studying that spell?”

Cantor sighed and shook his head. “No. Sorry. Tried to, repeatedly, back at Nighthaven. Never found any sort of spell or ritual that could duplicate it. And as for how I do it … well, like Merivale said, I just do it.”

Tobias grunted and then added “Just as Merivale said, its kind of like how a pegasus can stand on clouds, right? I asked a pegasus how they did that standing-on-clouds trick, once, and they gave me that very answer: they just do.”

The hotel came into view. Not much further now.

“I say,” Dozy chimed in, “You wouldn’t happen to know when those documents we requested will be delivered, would you? It’s been several days now.”

“Documents?” Molly was clearly confused.

Tobias’ tone was studiously blank, “The files in question are being redacted. They will shortly be available for Cantor’s use. I believe the Chief Inspector expects to be kept abreast of any developments resulting from them.”

Cantor managed to keep from smiling. Among the other reasons that Dozy and Bogart had been slow to deliver the tablet and cloth had been that Shetland Yard was being slow to deliver on the unusual files Hive Naught had requested from the Yard.

“What documents?” Molly poked at Tobias.

He frowned at her, but addressed his answer more to Dozy. “Hive Naught asked for case files of the largely unexplained and buried sort, specifically anything that might relate to ghosts or hauntings. The Yard has some, and – given Cantor’s performance today – I suspect they’ll be somewhat more willing to hasten them along. You’ll get them. And soon. That’s a ‘soon,’ soon, rather than just another way of saying ‘stop-bugging-us-about-it-‘cause-it’ll-be-never,’ soon. Cantor might find some leads there to help out his own restless friends. And he might find a few leads to help reopen some cold cases.” Molly drew a breath, but Tobias spoke over her, “Before you ask, no – they didn’t break open the black vault. So don’t get your knickers in a twist because you called dibs!”

“Black vault?” Valentina was the picture of wide-eyed curiosity as she took Tobias fore-leg.

”Clever girl!” Magpie sounded amused.

“Eh, collection of files and old spell books from the last necromancer Shetland Yard employed. Molly’s been bugging the Chief Inspector and petitioning the Superintendent for access since the second week she started working for the Yard.”

“Hang on a tick, are you saying Shetland Yard actually employed a bona fide necromancer back in the day?” Dozy sounded incredulous.

“Unofficially? Oh yes. Admittedly the last one was about ninety years ago. It wasn’t widely known. Nor did the Yard admit to her presence. Still doesn't, truth be told, even though there have been a few questions asked about the subject from time to time. Really it is something of an open secret.” Molly smiled. “When you deal with the sort of investigations the Yard is involved in, having somepony around who can interact with the dead can be a huge help. Ponies with Cantor’s sort of gift don’t come along every day. Many ponies would consider all mediums, spiritualists, and intermediaries of his ilk to be charlatans of one sort or another … but on rare occasions they are the real thing.”

Molly’s smile dropped away. “We’ve dealt with fakers before, you know. And right now, Cantor, you do look like the real thing. But if you have been conning us, I shall be quite put out.”

Cantor hoped he didn’t look as worried as he felt.

Molly continued, “But assuming you aren’t a faker, well then – perhaps once your troubles with Bedlam are sorted out you can apply as a consultant with the Yard. Assuming your usual ‘free lance’ spiritualist gigs aren’t providing enough excitement.”

Cantor let out a bark of laughter. Enough excitement? Just getting away from Doctor Fether was going to be excitement enough for quite some time – and the clock was ticking on that front.

As they entered St. Maretin's Lane (and a pair of zebra guards fell in line with Dozy) Cantor found himself hoping devoutly that he would be able to get Molly properly trained and out the revolving door before he had to catch his train out of Lunadun. He’d rather not have to explain to the Yard that he was fleeing the country. But flight was fast becoming necessary. Dealing with Fether would otherwise involve delays … assuming he could be dealt with at all … and what with concerns about Grogar’s possible return, spending months disputing his psychiatric state in the courts of law were simply out of the question.

“It is so kind of you to see me on such short notice, Doctor Fether, and I must commend you on your choice of a neutral ground for our little chat. The pastries here are simply divine! Are you sure you wouldn’t like a biscuit? No? A brandy?”

Ziggler was all smiles and pleasantry, lounging on a couch drawn up to a small antique table.

Doctor Tarrant Fether didn’t trust the old showpony any further than he could have thrown him. Not that there seemed likely to be any throwing going on. Not in such a public place as this gentlecolt’s club, nor with Burl and Horst both busy trailing Jon Quill.

“Thank you, no. I understand that one of your troupes is currently aware of the location of Cantor Mortalis?”

“Ah, yes, dear Cantor. I must tell you the story of how we first met sometime. It’s a trifle sordid, though it didn’t turn out nearly as scandalous as one would expect when the term ‘grave robbing’ pops up, and, I assure you, all of the legal difficulties have been quite settled.”

“How charming. Where is he now?”

Ziggler blinked, his expression of wide eyed innocence was overdone, of course.

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know!”

Tarrant Fether frowned. Even knowing of the earth-pony's skills as an actor, he strongly suspected Ziggler might actually be telling the truth this time.

“But I suspect I could find out,” Ziggler continued.

Tarrant’s smile was for politeness sake only. “Please do.” Tarrant began to rise from his chair.

“But …” Ziggler poured out another glass of brandy for himself. He signaled a waiter for another bottle. “Oh, and do sit down,” he waved a hoof at Doctor Fether.

“Yes, Mr. Ziggler?” Tarrant’s tone indicated that his time was valuable and Ziggler’s credit was soon to run out.

“But I wish to be sure everything is above board when it comes to dear Cantor’s detention and treatment. Did you bring the papers I asked?”

Tarrant Fether stared at Ziggler, it was the sort of gaze that seemed to bore through a pony. But Ziggler was used to harder looks than that.

“I did.” Tarrant Fether produced a plain folder and proceeded to lay out its contents on the table.

Ziggler looked through the papers. He tsked and tutted and hmmd. He read over the documents very carefully, taking his time. The waiter returned with a fresh bottle of brandy. Ziggler kept a mental note of exactly where this uniformed stallion was in the room. There were certain things Ziggler didn’t want him to overhear.

“Well, well, well … I see you are quite thorough, Doctor Fether. Everything appears to be in order.”

“Yes. It is. I will have Cantor. I will assist in his recovery.”

“Perhaps you will at that.” With a sigh, Ziggler slid the folder back to Tarrant Fether. “You do realize that dear Cantor will be contesting this. Our mutual friends have retained a solicitor for him.”

Fether’s eyes narrowed slightly. Outwardly there was no other display of emotion. But Ziggler suddenly felt quite uncomfortable – if anger were heat, Ziggler suspected he’d be blistering from the force of Fether’s reaction. Regardless of his expression Ziggler wasn’t cowed. No, Ziggler had anger enough of his own simmering beneath his plump, jolly exterior.

“I see.” Doctor Fether’s voice was cold.

Ziggler’s smile was intended to disarm hostilities. It made no impression on the good doctor whatsovever. Still, Ziggler continued, “Now, now. No need for that. Regardless of what you may think, Doctor Fether, I am entirely uninterested in causing you trouble … nor in getting between you and my dear, old friend Cantor.”

Fether raised an eyebrow in somewhat less than polite skepticism. He was right to be skeptical for Ziggler was lying.

Time for a touch of truth, to help the lies go down easier, Ziggler thought. “Cantor is a dear friend. You are clearly quite driven. There’s no profit in getting between you. Further I suspect that you may be right in that he needs professional help. But my own voice in the proceedings was overruled, which is why he hasn’t been delivered to you. Nor will he be.”

“Obstructing Bedlam’s attempts to secure a madpony can lead to legal trouble, Mr. Ziggler. Substantial trouble.” Doctor Fether’s slight frown returned.

Ziggler looked around carefully. The waiter was elsewhere in the club. Good, he had a few minutes unsupervised for what was to come next. “Quite right! And that’s one of the things I wished to speak to you about – on my own initiative, I assure you.”

“Go on.”

“I, that is myself independent of Cantor’s other friends, wish to be assured that your interest in Cantor won’t extend to causing problems for those who have been aiding him in his continuing refusal to accept your generous offer of free room, board, and medical care.”

“Why do you think I would be inclined to acquiesce to this request of yours, Mr. Ziggler?”

At first glance, Ziggler’s grin was all ingratiating smarm … but underneath the expression hinted at wickedness and cruelty, fed by his personal anger. Fether’s analytical gaze dissected the expression in a heartbeat.

“Because, Doctor Fether, if you don’t leave my friends and I alone, I’ll personally make sure that regardless of whether or not Cantor Mortalis is ever institutionalized again you, Doctor Tarrant Fether, will never, ever, ever have him under your personal care.”

Ziggler spoke softly, but with an iron assurance. This was no casual threat. Then again, Fether knew that Ziggler was good at bluffing.

“I don’t believe you.” Doctor Fether decided to call the bluff now, rather than later.

Ziggler sighed, then produced an old newspaper and tossed it across the table. One of the articles had been circled in red.

Fether glanced down at it and blinked. Given good doctor’s immense self-control, Ziggler was as pleased as if the unicorn had recoiled in horror.

“I’m sure a medical ethics’ review board would be entirely unwilling to let you treat a pony (mentally disturbed or not) when you are the one who is personally responsible for the aggravated assault …”

Then (quite suddenly) the jovial tone dropped entirely from Ziggler’s voice. The fat earth pony’s eyes flashed with a deep rage as he snarled, “ … not to mention maiming …”

Ziggler paused and took a deep breath. He unclenched his teeth and regained control of his tone before continuing “… of this theoretical patient. Which is to say nothing of leading a mob on, what did the article say? A witch hunt? And one that left two buildings in ashes in addition to sending a pony to the hospital.”

Ziggler’s smile was a mask, as was his friendly tone, “Oh no, Doctor Fether. Should this information come to light, I’m quite sure that your superiors in Bedlam would arrange matters so that Cantor wouldn’t ever be treated by you. That is assuming they didn’t voluntarily transfer him to some other institution so as to avoid any hint of … impropriety.”

Another pony might have lashed out (verbally, physically, or magically) in the face of Ziggler’s revelation, but Doctor Fether just gazed expressionlessly at Ziggler. Ziggler could almost hear the turning of wheels and gears as Fether considered the various possibilities.

Several minutes passed in silence. Ziggler recovered the old newspaper and tucked it away.

“Very well, Mr. Ziggler. I will … overlook … Hive Naught’s role in maintaining Cantor’s current fugitive status. Nor will I seek restitution upon them should Cantor succeed in escaping Albion. Is that sufficient?”

Ziggler blinked, again adopting an expression of innocence. In part because their waiter had returned to the bar from the backroom. Ziggler was reasonably certain that stallion hadn’t seen the business with the newspaper.

“Did I say Hive Naught was involved?”

The evasion wasn’t good enough. And that was confirmation enough for Doctor Fether.

“Kindly don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Ziggler. You’ve said your piece, and we have established that I shall not seek to harm your business interests. Is that all? I have considerable work to attend to. Cantor isn’t an easy pony to catch.”

“Actually no. I’ve got another condition of sorts for you – this one a friendly warning.” Ziggler’s tone sounded friendly enough, but once again the undercurrent was anything but.

Fether sighed. “More threats, Mr. Ziggler?”

“Call it advice. If, in spite of my associate’s efforts … in spite of Cantor’s own capabilities … you do wind up in possession – even temporarily – of my dear friend Cantor, you would be best served not to harm him.”

“I don’t harm ponies, Mr. Ziggler. I heal them.”

Ziggler snorted with disbelief. “Oh yes, and I know of several of the ‘treatments’ available to doctors working over somepony saddled with the sort of diagnosis you’d give my dear friend Cantor. Shackles, collars, isolation, ice baths, scalding steams, starvation, beatings, leeching, psychotropics. But let me assure you that if you Cantor comes to any real harm while in your care … if, Celestia forfend, you opt for ‘surgical intervention’ or the ‘shocking cure’ … well, Cantor’s pleas for restraint will not keep some of my more volatile associates from taking matters into their own hooves.”

Ziggler leaned forward, “Oh no, harm Cantor and I will push them to go after you.” Ziggler, his smile falling away, sat back. “Not that they’d need pushing. Count yourself lucky that we’ve kept them well leashed thus far.”

Fether’s frown had deepened, not at the threat, but due to the result of his ongoing calculations.

“You started with the stick, Ziggler.”

Ziggler started to sweat. Fether had caught on faster than Ziggler had planned. And Fether had dropped the false courtesy of addressing the earth pony as “Mister.”

“My information about you, Harold Ziggler, indicated that you should have started with a carrot. And that the carrot would be a particularly enticing one. Only if you suspected I would refuse it should you have fallen back on the stick. You’re changing up your usual modus operandi. I have to wonder, why is that?”

Ziggler grinned nervously. “Oh, there are reasons, of course.”

Fether’s eyes widened. “Of course. Smoke and mirrors. Slight of hand. You’re the distraction.” Doctor Fether abruptly stood up.

“Good day, Harold. I believe our business here is concluded. You have delayed me too long already.”

Fether was right, Ziggler thought, but Ziggler hadn’t quite delayed him as long as he was supposed to … at least not yet.

“You haven’t asked about the carrot, Doctor.”

Fether hesitated, “You have one?”

“I do.”

From half way across the room, their waiter shot Ziggler a worried glance. Ziggler ignored it.

“If you don’t wish to test my patience further, Ziggler, you will share it. Now.”

Ziggler leaned in again, gesturing for the doctor to bend down. When Fether did so, Ziggler whispered in his ear.

“I can tell you where Cantor is going. Once he’s out of Albion, his resources will be much curtailed.”

Fether laid a hoof on Ziggler’s shoulder and squeezed. Hard.

“Where?”

“Tambelon. In the Badlands.” Ziggler winced as the doctor withdrew his hoof. That was going to leave a mark.

Outside the chimes of a nearby church struck the hour. Fether left the club with unseemly haste.

Ziggler grinned as he raised his brandy glass, a silent toast to the departing doctor. “Cheers, old bean! You should find some very interesting reports waiting for you back at your desk.”

The waiter, who had approached to once again refill Ziggler’s glass, raised an eyebrow. “Sir?” The implied question had nothing to do with either the food or drink available.

Ziggler noted the faint green shimmer that slid across the fellow’s eyes and said, with a certain smugness, “Pity Fether wasn’t at his office half an hour ago, when he could conceivably have done something about it all, eh?”

“You do realize that Thretan is going to be in one of her moods when I tell her that you’ve informed Fether where Cantor’s headed.”

Ziggler shrugged, “Pah! I’ve done her a favor.” The waiter raised an eyebrow in a silent (and unbelieving) inquiry.

The old show pony sighed at the disguised changeling, “This way we avoid trouble with Bedlam, Cantor gets out of the country, and I will bet good money that Fether is now going to personally follow him to the Badlands.”

Ziggler’s smile was calculating and cruel. “If Thretan feels that strongly about the matter, well … the Badlands aren’t exactly what one would call ‘safe.’ Accidents happen there all the time. I’m sure Thretan still remembers how to arrange for a most unfortunate ‘accident’ to happen to Doctor Tarrant Fether. An untraceable accident that won’t lead to trouble for us here in Albion. And there’s no need for dear, sweet, naive Cantor to know anything about it.”

22. Escapes

“Evening, Alice.” Jon Quill smiled at the office secretary and gave her a little tip of his hat. His heart wasn’t really in the smile, though. Jon was distracted with the same worries that had been dogging him since he fled his interview at the Bedlam. At least he had remembered to lock up the office behind him today.

“Mr. Quill, before you go,” Alice waved him over to her desk. Jon raised an inquiring eyebrow at her.

Alice opened a drawer and removed a small blue card. It was an Oyster Travelcard – a transit pass good for all of Lunadun's public transport services, from the Tube to the trollies. This one looked newly purchased. Jon was puzzled as to why she was handing it to him.

“Uh …”

Alice peered at him over her glasses.

“Mr. Quill, a zebra popped in about twenty minutes ago. He said he had seen you drop this on your way into the office this afternoon.” She pronounced ‘zebra’ so it rhymed with zed; Jon had never got the knack of that – his own pronunciation was the zee variety. It was one of many nuances of speech and bearing that marked him out as foreign in the Griffish Isles.

Jon just stared in confusion, first at the card and then at Alice.

“But I didn’t go out for lunch today.”

Alice gave a half shrug.

“That’s what I told him, sir. But he was very insistent. Described you quite accurately. And then he asked me to promise to give this pass to you.”

How odd. Then again, this was the Lunadun office of the Yellow Star. Odder things happened here on a regular basis. Jon doubted Alice would bat an eye if a visitor spontaneously combusted. There were likely procedures in the employee handbook for just such an eventuality.

Jon tucked the card into the brim of his hat, then paused.

“Alice, did the zebra leave a name by any chance? Did you recognize him at all? Could you describe him to me?”

Alice gave Jon a studiously blank look. “He was a zebra, Mr. Quill. He was white with black stripes. Or possibly black with white stripes.” She smirked, “He was rather buff! You do know how to pick them, Mr. Quill.”

Jon adopted an innocent expression to go along with his, “What? Me?”

Alice pursed her lips, Jon’s innocent expressions hadn’t worked on her … well, ever – at least not that Jon could recall. “Yes, you.” Alice’s own expression shaded towards thoughtful, “He was dressed in the Stalliongrad style. With three golden earrings. Left ear. And he walked with a slight limp. I think he may have injured a leg a few days back.”

“Thank you, Alice! You’re a treasure.”

“A buried treasure,” she gestured at the piles of paperwork around the room.

Jon grinned, “Fear not! Someday your prince charming will come dig you out!” And with though, Jon bounced out the door.

Another zebra. And again with that northern style to their clothing. Jon’s eyes darted around the street. It was crowded, and the street-lamps were being lighted against the gloom of the early evening. A gloom which the perpetually overcast Lunadun sky didn’t exactly help. At least it wasn’t raining, or foggy. Jon didn’t much care for the damp.

Were the zebras more of Doctor Fether’s hirelings? Jon fretted as he paused in front of Lunadun Theatre Booking's shop (all West End shows, all prices.) A quick glance at his reflection in the one window not papered over with posters for upcoming musical and theatrical events showed that one of the two Knott twins was trailing him.

Regular as clockwork, those two. They were good, but Jon Quill had years of experience in both tailing and being tailed. One didn’t thrive as a reporter for the Star if one couldn’t keep up with somepony who didn’t want to be followed … and learning how to tell when you, yourself were being followed was another knack that had grown along side Jon’s skill with stealth.

Jon couldn’t lose the Knotts. He’d tried. The closest he had come involved distractions and elaborate switchbacks – and that had bought him perhaps five minutes to get a message to Pennyfarthing. The Knotts just waited, watched, and followed. Always around.

But the zebras were new. There were at least three of them, Jon suspected. Maybe more. And for the past few days every time he’d left work, he’d see at least one of them. Jon would have dismissed them as tourists, were it not for the fact that they had been keeping at least as careful a watch over Jon’s travels as the Knotts were.

Jon picked up the pace a bit. He was adept at weaving through the crowd. Behind him a Knott simply strolled ahead. The crowd got out of his way.

There. Seated at one of the Max's outdoor tables up the block, just past the chocolate shop on the right: it was a zebra. Heavy furred coat, three gold earrings in his left ear. It must be the fellow who had left the transit pass!

As Jon trotted up, the zebra put down the newspaper he had been idly scanning and rose, leaving a few bits on the table. The fellow walked right up to Jon and deliberately jostled him.

Jon’s “I say!” was cut short by the zebra who, with a grin, said, “It’s time to shake your tail, Jon Quill.”

Jon Quill blinked. The zebra looked up at a passing pegasus. She nodded at the two ponies beneath her, raised her camera, and took a picture. Jon blinked at the flash. She had been pointing her camera at the circle just at the end of the street. Seven Dials. Jon looked that way.

A tall pillar, rising from a square base in the middle of a small round dais in the middle of the circle. Ponies and carriages trotting around it. No benches, but the pillar's base made an admirable seat.

Cantor Mortalis was sitting there.

Jon felt his heart leap. But, rather like a leap off a cliff, it immediately plummeted.

The Knotts were going to get Cantor.

Jon couldn’t allow that to happen. So, while his first thought was to run to Cantor and warn him to get away, Jon turned and bolted down Neal's Yard – a tiny side street. At least one of the Knotts would follow, Jon knew, and that would be one less for Cantor to have to flee from.

Overhead, through the din of the crowd, Jon heard the faint click-click of a camera. Two flashes.

Behind him he heard the raised voice of the zebra, “Watch where you’re going you oaf! No, don’t you try to run off, you stepped on my hoof! What do you think you’re doing?”

Stars above bless the fellow, Jon thought to himself, he had just tangled with one of the twins. It might only buy Jon seconds, but in this part of Lunadun, seconds could be enough to loose oneself in a crowd.

Jon began to grin.

Why, he wouldn’t even need to stop to buy a metro transit card to board one of the trains at the Underground station which lay only a couple of blocks away!

But where to go? He must assume the Knotts would keep pace, so he bolted away from the Seven Dials (there was another flash overhead.) Jon crossed Neal Street and knocked down a young stallion with a bag of new horse-shoes as he did so. There was another smaller alley just ahead on the right. He could duck down that and ...

Jon’s train of thought and forward progress both abruptly derailed as another zebra – a regal mare with several golden necklaces and an impressive collection of battle-scars, stepped out of a Psychic Readings and New Age Bookstore, grabbed him by the fore-leg, and swung him through the doors. Jon, wildly off balance, collapsed into the waiting forelegs of Pennyfarthing. Pennyfarthing looked like he had been rushing to get into position. The clerk, or perhaps the store's proprietor (a pale blue earth-pony with a crystal ball for a cutie mark) just stared at the three of them in shock and confusion.

Jon couldn't help but think that anypony employed at a psychic's miscellaniary really ought to have seen this coming.

The zebra matriarch tossed the stallion behind the counter a small purse. The fellow caught it, dropping the pack of tarot cards he had been holding. Wands fluttered to the floor, as did The Chariot. The stallion seemed just as confused by this gesture as by odd behavior of his new visitors. There was only one other pony, a unicorn with an eye-patch, present in the shop. Unlike the blue earth pony, this unicorn seemed entirely unfazed by the nature of Jon’s sudden entrance.

Jon blinked in surprise at Pennyfarthing and said, “My hero!” in a rather breathless tone. It wasn’t something Jon had planned to say, sometimes his mouth seemed to operate without the oversight of his brain. Pennyfarthing blushed.

“Go. East. Make for Drury Lane.” It was the zebra. She was addressing the unicorn with the eyepatch. He nodded, and then a wash of green fire played over his body.

Jon Quill found himself looking at Jon Quill. Only this new Jon Quill, after removing his eye-patch, was apparently blind in one eye.

The blue earth pony fainted. The zebra matriarch caught him.

The new Jon Quill reached out, took the hat from the old Jon Quill – who was lying, mouth agape, in Pennyfarthing’s forelegs. New Jon plucked the transit card from the hat-brim and tossed it to old Jon.

“We wouldn’t want to forget that, now would we?” New Jon grinned as he ducked out the door and began to hustle down the street.

“What … ?” Jon’s barrage of questions were cut off when Pennyfarthing placed his hoof over Jon’s mouth and whispered, “Quiet!”

A moment passed. Two.

Jon, Pennyfarthing, and the zebra matriarch all tensed as just on the other side of the glass windows (piled high with crystals, totems, fetishes, books, and a large poster showing a pegasi's chakras) they saw the massive form of one of the Knott twins hurry down the street. He paused at the intersection. He looked ahead. Then right. Then off he went down Trottingham Court, chasing after the imposter.

“This is a rescue,” Pennyfarthing said.

“If there is trouble, you go with your friend, yes?” Jon was surprised to discover that the zebra matriarch had a melodiously pleasant voice. She was addressing Jon Quill directly. Her accent was a little thick, he thought. She continued, “You go, I stay. Delay Fether’s … how you say … ‘goons.’”

Jon reached tentatively up to his bare head.

“That … uh … that …”

Pennyfarthing answered. “That was Bob, he’s a friend of Cantor’s. Cantor’s got the oddest group of friends. You'll fit right in, Jon. They’ll get your hat back to you, don't worry. Right now we’re getting you and him out of the country. Next stop, the Underground. Covent Garden Station. We’re changing trains a couple of times and then you’re heading to Hedgerow. They’ve got you a room at a hotel near the Airfield, and tickets have already been arranged.”

“Tickets?” Jon blinked in confusion.

“To the mainland. Your Airship leaves tomorrow morning. The Westphalia.”

Burl Knott looked up from his cider. There had been a flash of light directly over the sidewalk table where Jon Quill had just bumped into a zebra.

The two exchanged words, then the zebra went on his way. Jon Quill looked befuddled. He stared up the street at the circle. Jon’s eyes widened (for a second Burl thought Jon has seen him), and then Jon fled down the tiny side street.

Burl sighed softly to himself. He turned to the young colt who was leaning against a nearby wall, amusing himself by reading the papers. The young fellow perked right up as Burl tossed him a bit.

“Run to Bedlam. Fast. Tell Fether something’s up. Mr. Quill’s bolted …”

Burl’s gaze was on the alley the reporter had just vanished into. There were two more flashes of light from right above the spot. Some pegasus with a camera. She flew off in the same direction as Mr. Quill. Burl hoped it wasn’t important. But what had Jon seen at Seven Dials to spook him so? Burl turned and peered out one of the Crown's other windows towards the pillar just out front.

Cantor Mortalis. The stallion was trotting away up Earlham Street.

Burl’s tone hardened. “And tell him we’ve spotted Cantor. Fether needs to get here now.”

The colt sped off. Burl ducked out a side exit, surprisingly quietly. A glance back at Horst showed that his brother had been delayed. There was a rather burly zebra making a fuss about having been run into by Horst. “Run into” their sweet aunt Myrtle! The fellow had bodychecked Burl’s twin and was trying to delay him by force as much as by words.

Burl shook his head. That zebra was asking for a broken ankle and an entirely insincere “Sorry about that” from the younger Knott. As per their instructions, Horst ducked down the side street. Stick with Mr. Quill like glue.

Burl paused for a few moments. He knew he wasn’t the quickest thinker, but he’d had plenty of time to think over this eventuality. He had spoken with Doctor Fether about just what to do in this situation.

Notify the Doctor. Done and done. Burl and Horst had spent a fair number of bits recruiting some of the shiftless youth who frequented the areas of the city where Jon Quill had been haunting. Some were runners, some were extra eyes and ears.

Burl frowned again at the side-street where Jon and Horst had both vanished.

Perhaps they should also have recruited a tough or too. Attempting to seize Cantor alone was deemed very dangerous. The unicorn was an enchanter, and there was a good chance he could mess with the minds of one of the Knotts.

Two Knotts? They’d put a knot on his head and have him unconscious in a sack before he could bewitch both of them.

Horst would have suggested waiting on Fether. Or leaving off chasing Cantor, even if this was the first time they had gotten so much as a glimpse of the fellow, to regroup and grab Mr. Quill before tracking Cantor down together. Horst tended to be more cautious, more sensible.

Burl, though, he wanted this business done. And a chance to catch Cantor was too good to pass up. If he had to improvise, then so be it. Cantor shouldn’t be able to use his golden voice against Burl if his mouth were tied shut and he was shoved into a bag.

And Burl was clever enough to have arranged a couple of precautions. He popped in his ear-plugs. That should make it a bit harder to ensnare his mind! Even if Cantor succeeded, then Burl would only hear mumbled mutters instead of arcane suggestions.

At least, Burl hoped so!

Out the door and across the circle. Burl moved with speed and surprising grace. He didn’t bother avoiding ponies in the crowd – his rush across the Dials was the sort of thing other ponies avoided, or were knocked sprawling.

Cantor glanced back at the commotion, saw Burl, and then fled as fast as his gimpy leg could manage. He ducked down an alley-way just past an ice-cream shop. Cantor could move pretty quickly when he was panicking, Burl noted.

Burl was covering the distance between them. It would only be a matter of time before the elder Knott had his quarry well in hoof.

Cantor swung right down Tower Court and stumbled. He stayed upright only by virtue of grabbing at one of the streetlights. Cantor kept on, fleeing across Tower Street through a lull in the traffic there, then he tried the stage door entry for the Ambassadors Theatre. It was locked. Time lost, Burl was closing.

But the main door to the theatre was open, and Cantor ducked in – much to the surprise of the staff at the window, who gave a shout at the unicorn's hasty (and unpaid) entry.

Burl got to the Theatre moments later, having barely dodged an oncoming carriage on the cross street. His own passage rattled the Ambassadors' door and left the door-pony sprawling. Following the sound of banging doors deeper into the building, Burl was heartbeats behind his quarry as Cantor fled through an exit, into a narrow (and rather cluttered) yard in the midst of this block of buildings. Burl burst through the door a moment later.

But ... there was no Cantor here. Just an elderly earth-pony. She was wrapped in a shawl and leaning on a cane. She looked up at Burl in confusion.

“Can I help you, young colt?” Her voice quavered. Burl barely registered her words, what little he could make out through the ear-plugs. This was shocking! Bewildering. Confusing. And Burl didn’t like this sort of confusion. It really got his blood boiling.

Burl’s eyes darted around the close. Doors were shut on the rear of a number of businesses and at least one other theatre. No sign of any open windows in reach, nor any places to hide. The walls were well beyond Cantor’s capabilities to climb.

Burl’s gaze snapped back to the mare. His eyes narrowed. She was breathing a little too heavily for somepony who just happened to be lingering right here, right now. His growing anger had a target now.

When Burl wanted to move, he could move fast – striking with the sort of speed and ferocity ordinarily associated with venomous snakes, he seized the old mare by the throat and hoisted her into the air.

“Where. Is. Cantor?” Burl’s growl would have been intimidating at the calmest of times. The threatening, angry tone could have cowed a strong stallion. He popped one of his ear-plugs out to better here her response.

This old mare just struggled, helpless in his left hoof. She gasped out, “Not … here …”

Burl slammed her into a wall. He was careful, using only a fraction of his strength. She shouldn’t have broken anything.

“Where?”

Some part of Burl noted that the mare in question was considerably less feeble than she should be. And she hardly seemed dazed by being tossed about. Good. If she was tough, then he could squeeze harder.

“Where!?”

“Gone!” she coughed out.

Burl felt a sudden sting in his left fore-leg. Then a slow, spreading numbness. He looked away from the old mare’s face to see that she had stuck a dart into his leg. It looked like the sort of thing one would ordinarily fire from a blow-gun. The sort of thing used to inject venom or drugs.

Oh, that was a mistake. Burl was proper angry now.

“You’re coming with me.” He hurled her back towards the Ambassadors, hard enough to rattle the metal door when she bounced from it to the ground. “Doctor Fether has questions.”

“No …” the old mare spoke with a much younger voice. “Doctor Fether has problems if he wishes to tangle with Cantor ... or with me.”

She looked up at Burl, rubbing her throat. Burl’s left fore-leg still burned and tingled, the parts that weren’t fast going numb.

There was a wash of green light, like a blaze of fire, and Burl found himself facing a changeling. It took less than a breath for the elder Knott to work it out.

“You sodding bitch. That was never Cantor at all.”

“You’re brighter than you look.” Was her reply, there was an insectoid buzz that underlay her words.

Burl hurled himself at her. He was grinning. Changelings didn’t enjoy the sort of legal protections that other ponies did. Beating one to a pulp and dragging their broken body back to Bedlam to answer questions would involve virtually no problems with the authorities. And, Burl, thought, it would make a pleasant end to what was otherwise looking to be a most frustrating and ruinous evening.

She was fast, gliding along the side of his blow to bite him. Her fangs were sharp, and he felt the same sort of creeping pins-and-needles sensation that promised rapid numbing begin to spread from where those fangs went in. This changeling was venomous, then.

Burl was burly, and tough, it would take substantially more venom to put him down than it would your average earth pony. These stings were barely slowing him down.

Burl stumbled, she darted in, and he rose in a powerful uppercut. It had been a feint, and it worked. This blow had all his substantial strength behind it.

She went up, sliding along the side of the building, ripping bricks from it in passing. She ricocheted twice, bouncing around a tower-like protrusion, and up to the far end of the yard. She left cracks in brick and stone where she struck.

Burl chased after her with a roar. His cry echoed through the district.

Amazingly, the changeling was shaking off the damage from being flung. She looked like she almost managed an acrobatic roll with that last bounce. Amid the growing hue and cry from the Ambassador (and the distant sound of police whistles), Burl plowed into the changeling just as she got to her hooves and was spreading her wings. He drove her across to the end of the open space and into another wall. Mortar shattered, bricks crumbled. He reared his right hoof back to smash her head.

She struck at his left foreleg, knocking it aside. Only, Burl suspected, because of how numb it had already gone. His punch missed, though it put a hole through wall of the building. On the other side lay a store-room, where a shocked stallion was unboxing a crate of figurines for Ogres and Oubliettes.

The changeling needed to end this fight soon. Any authorities who arrived would be siding with the oversized earthpony and not the bug, Burl knew. And whoever nabbed her, he could arrange to have her delivered to Doctor Fether.

She didn’t try to run. Instead she threw herself against Burl’s chest, she drove the spurs on her knees into his body, repeatedly. Which he almost didn’t notice because she also seized his throat with her fangs and bit down hard. Hard enough to choke off his ability to breathe.

The numbness was spreading faster now. Burl brought his right hoof around and struck her hard in the side of the head.

That may have been a poor choice, given that her fangs were in his neck. The wound they left as her head whipped to one side was ugly. He didn't think her fangs had severed his jugular though. If they had, this would all be over very soon. As it was, Burl collapsed to the ground with the changeling on top of him.

Burl twisted and kicked. Both his rear legs caught her in the gut. She went straight up, smashing into a fire-escape, the metal warping and tearing free as she careened through it. Burl was having trouble focusing. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling all through is body. And the colors now swimming in his vision made it look like the world had turned into an oil painting … one that was melting away.

Above him, the changeling hung. Her body caught in the twisted metal like a fly in a spider’s web. Burl almost felt good about that.

But no. Unless whatever she had injected him with was an even stronger hallucinogen than Burl suspected, he watched her twitch, trying to shake herself free.

Then, a wash of green light.

A kitten hopped its way down from the wreckage. It gave Burl a dirty look. Followed by a hiss and a swipe at his nose. But the kitten was also staggering quite drunkenly from the damage she had sustained as she made her way up to one of the opening back doors. A few onlookers began to press in from various businesses. They hadn’t seen that last transformation. There was the usual astonished gabbing in the aftermath of a fight. Calls for doctors and constables.

Horst arrived first. He pushed his way through the crowd and gathered up his fallen brother.

“Burl! What happened Burl? I heard your scream and came running.”

The fool should have stuck with Jon, Burl thought, but he couldn’t seem to get his mouth to work properly. It took all his effort to get out two words. “Cantor. Changeling.”

Horst glared. “Right. We’re getting you out of here.”

Horst hoisted Burls body onto his back and set off for Bedlam.

On board the train, Jon Quill found himself catching his breath in a largely empty car near the rear of the train. Two unicorns and an earth pony in a trench-coat and glasses (who Jon thought looked vaguely familiar) were sitting opposite Jon and Pennyfarthing. The zebra matriarch had stayed behind at the station. There had been some sort of terrible hue and cry that had gone up just as they were starting down the steps.

Pennyfarthing looked over at their fellow passengers. He asked them, “Did everything go as planned?”

The stallion in shades shrugged and said, “We’ll know soon enough.” He removed his glasses and reached across the aisle, “Hello Jon, I’m Dozy. Old friend of Cantor’s. Pleased to meet you.” The fellow looked like some famous actor, but Jon couldn't immediately think of which one, and there were more pressing matters at hoof.

“Any friend of Cantor’s is a friend of mine,” Jon said. “Where is he now? We need to get him away from Lunadun. Away from Albion entirely! That Doctor Fether is crazy. I don’t know why but he’ll stop at nothing to get his hooves on Cantor.”

Dozy gestured to the unicorn to his left.

It wasn’t Cantor. While roughly the same size and build, this unicorn was black and tan and considerably younger. Jon’s expression became quite worried. Comically so. The others present began to laugh.

“Illusions, Jon. Illusions. This other fellow here,” Cantor’s voice came from the very un-Cantor-looking black and tan unicorn, “Is Lucian.”

There was a flicker of light from Lucian’s horn and, like a light turning off, it was Cantor sitting there in the corner-seat.

Jon threw himself across the aisle and gave Cantor a hug. Even Jon was a little surprised at the fervor of the greeting.

“Cantor! I’ve been so worried …!”

Cantor awkwardly patted Jon on the back. “There, there … Jon. It’ll be fine. We’ll get you caught up with what all’s been going on since we parted company. Plenty of time for chatter on our way back to Manehatten.”

“But …” Jon began.

Dozy interrupted, “Taken care of.”

“But …” Jon began again.

“That’s been taken care of too,” Pennyfarthing chimed in. “Easy now, Jon, Cantor’s friends have been planning this out for days. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be enjoying dinner on the Westphalia.”

Lucian grinned, “Tickets have sold out for its return voyage to Manehatten. There’s a local actress of some reknown (Katherine Hoofburn, you may have heard of her) who’s accepted three new roles in Applewood. She and her entourage, which includes you, Jon, will be traveling back to Equestria tomorrow. On an exclusive engagement of the airship in question.”

“But Cantor? The warrants?”

Cantor grinned. “Luggage, Mr. Quill. Just call me luggage.”

It had been ten minutes since Horst had finished his report to Doctor Fether.

Fether hadn’t been in his office when Horst and Burl had arrived. Some of the staff doctors were treating Burl. They had said that his wounds were messy, but they shouldn’t prove life threatening. The venom was problematic, but they had gathered samples from Burl’s wounds and the more common treatments seemed to be keeping him from going into shock. They expected to have an antidote identified within a few hours. Depending on what that antidote was, they could potentially have it ready very soon after that.

Horst wasn’t pleased to have had to wait. It had been nearly an hour before Doctor Fether had returned from whatever errand had kept him from his office at this critical juncture.

Time wasted. Time lost. If only Fether had been there, his brains and the Knotts’ brawn would have spoiled the ambush and extraction of that cursed Quill! Horst was sure of it.

Doctor Fether was even less pleased than Horst with the current situation. Given Burl’s condition, that realization had somewhat of a chilling effect on Horst’s anger. The Knotts knew that Doctor Fether was not the sort of pony you wanted to make angry.

“I am afraid that I will no longer require the use of your services, Mr. Knott.” Fether’s tone held the usual, coolly professional, sound that he used every day.

Horst blinked in surprise.

“Sir? I … we … it wasn’t our fault.”

Fether looked up and raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. “I do not mean to disparage your efforts, Mr. Knott. Nor those of your brother. Your work has been exemplary. But Cantor had more assistance than I had planned upon. Through the aid supplied by his friendships, he has outmaneuvered us. We do have a starting point, and I intend to use it. The disturbance you were a part of will have witnesses, your own hired observers among them. The descriptions of Jon Quill and Cantor’s accomplices will be of some help … though, given that some of his accomplices are changelings, that help will be limited. I anticipate that I will be able to follow the trail and reconstruct his movements. But it will take time. Days.”

“Sir?” Horst was puzzled.

Fether sighed. “Time enough to reach a port of call and arrange to, as I believe your brother put it, ‘smuggle himself out of Albion.’”

“Can’t we stop him?”

“Only if we can catch him. And the delays our adversaries have arranged render the chances of that extremely small. If their goal was Hedgerow, they could be on an airship even now. If they were headed for another port of call, there are boats and airships leaving later tonight, and early tomorrow. Realistically, factoring in the aid of his allies with the Hive Naught Theatrical company, Cantor should be able to avoid difficulties at customs. That they’ve grabbed Mr. Quill now indicates that they are preparing to move now.”

“You’re … you’re giving up?” Horst couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Of course I’m not ‘giving up.’” Doctor Fether’s reply was waspish. Horst fell silent. When Fether was angry enough to let that anger seep into his voice, it was best not to draw his notice.

“No, I had prepared for this eventuality. I will be taking a sabbatical. A research trip to the mainland of Equestria. That will give me roughly a year to hunt him down and detain him. To treat him before he comes to harm … or brings more harm to others.”

Fether gave a small, tight smile.

“But I cannot bring along two orderlies on a sabbatical. You and your brother have more than earned your bonuses. Rest assured, I appreciate the long hours you have put into the tasks I gave you. I will leave commendations for you both with my superiors here in Bedlam before I leave.”

Horst frowned.

“That’s not good enough!”

Fether looked honestly surprised by Horst’s angry response.

“It isn’t?”

“No, Doctor Fether. It isn’t.” Horst leaned over and placed his forehooves on Fether’s desk. It creaked under the weight of the earth-pony.

“One of Cantor’s associates hurt Burl. They hurt him bad. That makes this business personal. For him and me both. If you’re going after Cantor, we’re coming with you.” Horst stood back up and carefully straightened his jacket. “We wouldn’t want anything amiss to befall you in your travels.”

Fether’s eyebrows rose. “But your work here? As I said, I cannot bring you with me.”

Horst grinned. “Burl and I, we have considerable personal leave accrued. Haven’t taken any days off in years, not since our niece got married. I think perhaps a little trip away from all of this would do us some good. Help my brother recover. We can arrange for medical leave for part of it.”

Horst blinked. “Do … do you think there’s any chance we’ll visit Las Pegasus? Burl and I have talked about going there someday.”

Fether just shook his head. It was rare when ponies’ behavior surprised him, but Horst's just had. “I have no idea, Mr. Knott. But thank you. Thank you both. It will be a week, at least, before the paperwork is together. In the mean time, we have a trail to follow.”

Horst nodded. As he let himself out of Fether’s office he added, “To the end, Doctor Fether. We’ll follow it to the end.”

23. Departures

“It’s so good of you to have dinner with me, Captain Schwartz,” Katherine Hoofburn’s voice was playful and inviting, she smiled with enjoyment. Only the faintest hint of tension around her eyes and the slight tremble of her hoof as she raised a glass of white wine indicated that she wasn’t exactly in the best of health. After all, this wasn’t exactly Katherine Hoofburn.

A good night’s sleep, coupled with some of the exceptional medicinal concoctions available to an expert in drugs and poisons – along with Bob’s excellent abilities at patch-work – and “Ms. Hoofburn” was back up to a condition best qualified as “mostly mobile.” Thretan still needed a cane to walk about. In part because she was keeping large sections of her body thoroughly numbed by her own venomous secretions while they healed.

As she sipped her wine, Thretan reflected that she’d walked off worse beatings in her time.

But not often, nor recently.

“Please, Ms. Hoofburn, call me Gunther.” The old griffon smoothed the ebon feathers on his head. He had a fierce, lean presence that made him seem larger than he was. “It is a pleasure to have a lady of your repute aboard my ship.”

Katherine’s smile lit up Thretan’s face. “And what a lovely air-ship she is! I’ve never seen finer.”

“Nor are you likely to.” Grav Gunther Schwartz beamed with pride. Even so, there was still a measure of careful reserve in his dealings with his star passenger.

It was their first evening out. Eight hours since they had departed Hedgerow Airfield. The ocean lay beneath them, Albion behind, and Equestria ahead. Five days, at least, until they reached Gnuark Airfield in Manehattan.

Every passenger ticket for this flight had been purchased for Katherine Hoofburn and her associates, through the auspices of the Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company. Thretan was there as Katherine Hoofburn, the real Katherine had remained behind to deal with the upcoming unpleasantness that would be resulting from their extraction of Cantor Mortalis and Jon Quill. Bob was aboard, as were four other members of the Hive’s theatre troups – two pegasi, an earth-pony, and a unicorn. There were also four zebra security along. And Jon Quill.

Thretan gave a little smile and lowered her voice. “I take it you know Jon Quill? You certainly seem to have recognized him.”

Captain Schwartz narrowed his one good eye and nodded sharply. “Aye, that I do. Was a passenger on the ride from Manehattan to Lunadun a few weeks back.”

Thretan chuckled, “In my position, avoiding the press entirely is difficult. Controlling press access by allowing selected members to accompany you is much easier. And having Jon Quill along offers certain advantages.”

“Advantages?” Gunther’s tail twitched. He glanced at the corner table where Jon Quill was presently chatting away with Diana – one of Hive Naught's pegasi, a skilled gaffer and some-time photographer. Her use of a flash camera to signal Jon Quill’s movements had helped direct the efforts of the Hive Naught agents who had snatched him from under the watchful gaze of the Knott Twins.

“He writes for the Star. Nopony will believe a word he says. Which,” Thretan continued in a mischieveously naughty tone, “allows me to misbehave as much as I please.”

Gunther laughed. He also relaxed somewhat. The question of why somepony like Jon Quill was accompanying somepony like Katherine Hoofburn had been a source of tension between captain and the passengers.

“I trust you don’t object?” Thretan batted her eyelashes.

Given the cramped quarters of the Westphalia’s dining room, the setting wasn’t exactly private. Indeed, not only were Jon and Diana also dining in the corner, but along one wall Bob (disguised as a unicorn with an eye-patch) and Lorry-Kelly (an earth-pony designer) were discussing the finer details of some of Ms. Hoofburns upcoming costumes. The one zebra in the room was staring out a window with a stoic expression, but Thretan could tell she was excited to be traveling again.

Gunther grinned and shrugged, “As long as he has a ticket, who am I to object? If a beautiful pony such as yourself wishes to keep company with that chattering mockingbird, well, it’s your ear he’ll be bending.”

Thretan blushed and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘Beautiful pony,’ indeed! This sort of thing was how you got hippogriffs. But with captain in such a good mood, the time was ripe to broach a rather delicate matter. Especially since Valentina had just arrived to clear their dishes.

Her eyes shone as she said, “Oh, you flatter me …” then she blinked. “Perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, I could trouble you for a favor, Gunther?”

He puffed out his chest a little as he said, “What favor might that be?” Even with the drinks he had consumed and the charms she had deployed Thretan noted the captain maintained a touch of reserve. He was nopony’s fool.

“I have a piece of luggage stowed away which I would much prefer to have in my own quarters. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I have somepony bring it down?”

Gunther relaxed slightly. “Why, that wouldn’t be a problem at all.” He snapped his talons.

Valentina, attentive as always, answered, “Sir?”

“The lady wishes a piece of luggage brought down. See to it.”

“Bob has the key, Valentina.” Thretan gestured towards the disguised changeling.

“I’ll see to it at once, ma’am!”

Gunther frowned after the stewardess. It sounded almost like she was trying to keep from laughing.

“But do go on,” Thretan added, leaning towards the griffon over their table. “I wish to hear more about your remarkable adventures.”

Gunther grinned. “But of course! Now, let me think. Ah yes, so there we were, on the steps of the ruined temple …”

Fifteen minutes later Gunther’s tale was interrupted. There was a commotion in the navigation room. It sounded like Mr. Grady, the ships purser, was preparing to pitch a fit. Mr. Grady wasn’t the sort to throw such a pitch casually. If he was upset, something was wrong.

As Gunther turned to rise from his chair, the door to the forward portions of the gondola opened. The captain’s “Excuse me” was delivered at the same time as Cantor’s own.

“… Your pardon, Mr. Grady,” Cantor – all deferential smiles – continued to address the purser as he entered the dining room, “but Ms. Hoofburn has called for me and we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Valentina was helping Cantor along. She didn’t seem surprised at his presence.

Captain Grav Gunther Schwartz’s one good eye narrowed. He idly scratched at his eyepatch with one talon.

“Mr. Mortalis,” his tone was polite, but clipped and hard. “This is a surprise.”

“I hope that it shan’t be too inconvenient a surprise.” Cantor’s soft, self-effacing smile didn’t do anything to improve the griffon’s mood.

Gunther looked from Cantor to Ms. Hoofburn. He jerked a talon at Cantor as he addressed the lady, “This is the piece of luggage you wanted retrieved?”

Thretan smiled her best Katherine Hoofburn smile. “Quite! He’s a dear friend of mine.”

Gunther shook his head, there was almost a sorrowful air about him.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hoofburn, but rules are rules. No passengers without a ticket.”

“I’ve a ticket, Captain Schwartz.” Cantor produced the slip of paper from somewhere inside his cloak. A cloak that looked considerably less tattered than the last time he had been on the airship.

“Let me see that,” Gunther swiped it from Cantor’s grasp. He eyed the paper.

A tense moment passed. One which saw Mr. Grady peering over Valentina’s back. The purser was clearly shocked by the proceedings. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to stop Gunther from heaving the apparent stow-away overboard into the ocean (which would be quite the scandal for the Grav Airship line) or simply tossing Cantor off the air-ship himself (and damn the paperwork involved.)

The griffon let out a soft chuckle. It grew to a laugh. It took Grav Gunther Schwartz a few moments to regain his composure. He handed the ticket back to Cantor and wiped away a tear.

“Luggage! So you’re what was packed into the big box, eh? ‘This end up’ … ‘fragile cargo,’ and such?”

“Captain?” It was Mr. Grady.

“He has a ticket Mr. Grady. The ticket identifies him as luggage being transported by Ms. Hoofburn here.” Gunther raised an eyebrow at Cantor. “Similar to how you made it to Albion in the first place, eh? Seems fitting you should return to Equestria the same way.”

Cantor stood politely at attention. Gunther frowned at him and made a shooing gesture towards the cabins.

“Well, boy – move along! Your mistress wants you stowed in her cabin. I’m quite sure Ms. Valentina here can show you the correct room.”

“We’re going to have some words about this when we reach Gnuark,” Mr. Grady spoke quietly in Valentina’s ear. His voice was pitched low, his tone was a very businesslike sort of unhappy. She nodded at him, then escorted Cantor out of the room. But not before Jon Quill had hopped up and given Cantor a hug. Bob also stood up and shook Cantor’s hoof, joining the unicorn and the earth-pony on their way out.

Gunther remained standing as he watched the three of them, escorted by that smug minx Valentina, trot off to Ms. Hoofburn’s suite. He turned back to the actress and resumed his seat. She raised an eyebrow at him. He snorted and said, “It seems I’m not the only person here with some interesting tales to tell.”

“Oh, Gunther – it is still Gunther, isn’t it? – we’ve plenty of time for stories. I’d much rather spend this evening hearing some of yours. Do go on, you were discussing a ruined temple? And I seem to recall you mentioned something about … ghosts?”

“Quite right! So there we were …”

Jon Quill sat on one bed. There was a frown furrowing his brow.

“So … that’s it then,” Cantor concluded, “My next stop is to hit up various cartographic societies in Manehatten, if necessary we’ll pop over to Canterlot – as the governmental agencies there will surely have the data I need. I’ll use the notes I copied out of the Iron Book of Shadows to find the Vale of Dreams, then it’s off to make sure Tambelon hasn’t returned.”

“I’m going to need to get more ink!” Jon grinned. “And we’ll need to get some camping gear.”

“Oh no. No, no no.” Morari had his head in his ghostly hooves.

”Oy, ya said that ‘is nibs needed the help o’ the living! Not like they’re beatin’ down ‘is door to offer it, eh? Beggars and choosers, ya old scribbler. Beggars and choosers!” Magpie was grinning. Admittedly, at the moment she was mostly supporting Jon Quill's inclusion on the grounds that it would clearly annoy Morari.

“Did … did you say ‘we?’” Cantor blinked in surprise.

“Of course I said ‘we!’ There’s no way I’m letting you go off trying to solve the mystery of the return of the Trotting Dead on your own!” Jon grinned. “You’re a friend, Cantor. That would be enough, even if there wasn’t a truly fantastic tale involved.”

“But it’ll be dangerous, Jon.” Cantor saw that his concern wasn’t going to dampen Jon Quill’s enthusiasm.

“All the more reason for me to come along,” Jon Quill stated with firm conviction.

”A fair point, Master Mortalis,” Fairweather looked on approvingly, ”Your friends from Hive Naught are not going to be able to accompany you, their aid henceforth will be more indirect – both for their own protection and to keep Doctor Fether from tracking you quite so easily. The lad could be of considerable assistance.”

”But …” Morari began, but Fairweather cut him off.

”He is willing, Master Morari. Eager. With the work we are about, I would gladly take spirit over aptitude, experience, or skill.” Fairweather paused, Magpie was laughing. Morari furrowed his brow with a pained, and somewhat surprised, expression. After a moment, the Admiral chuckled. ”Ah. The pun was ... not intended.”

Cantor had his eyes closed. He sighed. He opened them and looked at Jon Quill.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Jon grinned and figeted happily. “So … next question!”

Bob groaned, “Does he ever run out of questions?”

Cantor grinned, “I don’t know! Do you talk in your sleep Jon?”

Jon blinked. “I might! If so, kindly leave your answers to my nocturnal babblings written down for me. But more to the point, how are we getting you off the airship?”

Cantor grinned, “Why, out the front door of course.”

Bob grunted and added. “Disguised, naturally.” Bob suddenly grinned and started rummaging in a bag under Thretan’s bunk. “And here I’m being a ninny! Nearly forgot. Dozy got you a present Cantor. Something that may help in your researches.”

Cantor blinked in confusion.

Morari sighed and muttered, ”I suspected something of the sort.”

Bob’s grin got wider as he pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was the size of a largish tome, and quite heavy. “You won’t like it, Cantor.” Bob sounded pleased as he handed it over.

”He’s right, you won’t.” Morari sounded rueful.

”Whatsit?” Magpie perched on Cantor’s back where she could peer over his shoulder while he undid the wrapping. Cantor occasionally forgot that he could actually feel the touch of a ghostly spirit (and vice versa) should Cantor wish it. Magpie wasn't a heavy burden, even so. Light as a hoof-full of feathers, really.

Inside the parcel there were two broken pieces of a large clay tablet and an old cloth with faded embroidery.

Cantor stared at them in disbelief. Jon gasped. Magpie started laughing with delight.

“These are … this is …” Cantor stumbled over his words.

“Those are the originals, yes. Might be needed in your researches. Particularly if you’re going to be trying to chase down Caballeron and the Pony of Shadows. They were both very interested in it, after all.” Bob spoke with a casual matter-of-factness.

“But … Shetland Yard …” Cantor’s expression was shifting from shock to worry.

Bob coughed. The cough sounded very much like “Stage-props.”

Cantor and Jon just stared at the changeling.

Bob gave a short, sharp laugh and patted Cantor reassuringly on one shoulder. “Relax! Dozy will be offering Chief Inspector Jack apologies for the ‘unfortunate mix up.’ The situation is well in hoof. So don’t worry. You’ve got other things to worry about, after all. And I’m sorry to say that my own path takes me to Applewood with Thretan. Once we get you settled and into Manehattan, you won’t have our charming company to help you along.”

Bob's smile softened, and grew more serious. “Though he didn’t say it, Dozy’s sorry to see you go. He’s sorrier still that he can’t accompany you, Cantor, and do more to aid you.” Bob held up a hoof to forestall Cantor's interruption. “Your just being around these past few weeks has been good for him. Good for all of us, though I don’t understand the why’s and wherefore’s of it all.”

“How so?” Jon asked.

Bob shrugged and a look composed of thoughtful consideration and moderate confusion mingled on his chitinous muzzle. “We’re ... uh … less hungry when Cantor’s around, Jon. Heck, I don’t know if Dozy’s even felt peckish since Cantor showed up that night for the play. Dozy hasn’t fed at all, and he’s just seemed ... I dunno ... more settled? Stronger? Better off, somehow. And I’m guessing that that’s rubbed off on the rest of us, ’cause I’ve not felt much in the way of hunger pangs for days ... even Thretan’s not needed to feed more than a few nibbles.”

Cantor was frowning in puzzlement as well. “That’s ... good?”

Bob nodded, “Very good, as far as I’m concerned!”

Jon Quill was still confused. “But Bob, I’ve watched you eat lunch with as much gusto as anypony! Whatever are you talking about?”

Bob grinned, showing his fangs. “Not hungry for food, Jon, ya ninny! Hungry for love. We changelings do need to devour it, you know. And, until joining Hive Naught, I’d have said that hunger never entirely goes away. It certainly didn’t when I was part of Chrysalis Hive. Nor when I was wandering UnHived. And let me tell you, without feeding, that sort of ... hmm ... starvation grows and can really drive us to do some pretty awful things. Gives us something of a reputation.”

Jon Quill couldn't help but shiver.

Bob tried for a reassuring smile. The fangs didn’t help. But his tone was one of gratitude as he continued, “That’s why Dozy and Cantor started Hive Naught, after all. To help changelings harvest the love we need in ways that weren’t quite so ... uh … wicked. Even without a true Hive-Queen to manage the whole mess, our actors have learned how to harvest love from the shows’ audiences and share that love with the rest of us so we all stay fed. But, the weird thing is ... since joining the Naught’s and coming to trust and rely on the Hive, my own hunger ... it just hasn’t been as bad. Sometimes I forget about it altogether. And that’s something I never dreamed was even possible.”

Bob shrugged. “So, yeah. Having you around, Cantor. It’s good. Particularly for Dozy. Though he won't say it (’cause he doesn’t want you to feel obligated to him, Cantor) I sometimes think if ya stayed around, he wouldn’t need to feed at all.”

Bob shook his head and chuckled, as if the idea (while pleasant) was also rather absurd. “Regardless,” the changeling continued, “Dozy, Thretan, and the rest of us; we wanted to give you a little gift as a way to say ’thanks’ for that. Like I said, I don’t understand how or why, but I’m truly grateful that it’s worked out for us the way it has. Smuggling you a relic really ain’t no thang compared to that. Just a little gift to send you on your way.”

Cantor sighed. He seemed a little embarrassed. He also grimaced at the broken tablet. “Well … thanks. Now, how do we get these relics past customs?”

Bob answered, “Stow ‘em in a box, Mr. Luggage, along with your satchel and anything else that you might not want the authorities taking too close a look at. Ms. Hoofburn will be unloading through international customs, then heading to a domestic connection to take our lot on towards Applewood. ”

Bob’s grin grew more mischievous as he continued. “While your box will start out at the international terminal, we’ll make sure it gets to the domestic terminal without anypony else taking a look-see inside. Nah, your box will be unloaded onto the domestic baggage claim belt, so you can just pick it up and walk out the front door. No custom’s inspection at all. Easy peasy. Shouldn‘t be anypony around lookin‘ for this stuff in specific, after all.”

“I say,” Jon Quill piped up, “Do you think we’ll run into Caballeron or the Pony of Shadows again?”

Bob shrugged. “Dunno. I told Cantor already: Hive Naught’s sources indicate that Caballeron caught a ship heading for Equestria a few of days back. They were trying to figure out the ports-of-call along his route along with where and when he might conceivably be making landfall. He’ll probably beat us to the mainland, but the Westphalia is faster – so we’re cutting down his lead. Assuming that those two villains are poking around the same spooky mystery Cantor is, I suppose there’s a chance you could cross their paths. But that’s an awful big assumption.”

Cantor nodded and tucked the broken tablet into his satchel. He sighed, then tossed the bag to Bob and said, “Would you get this boxed up and stowed away? I’m a little leery of the ladder up to the cargo-hold.”

Bob nodded. After he left, Cantor stretched out on one of the cabin’s two beds while Jon Quill started arranging and rearranging his various scribbled notes. Even though the bed was small, Cantor found it to be much more comfortable than the crate he had been occupying back in the hold.

It was a little over half an hour before Bob returned. Cantor had been dozing, but Jon’s hoof helped shake him awake. Just as well, Cantor thought, for he had been having a rather distressing, yet strangely familiar, dream. This time, possibly because he had been abruptly awakened or possibly because he hadn’t been fully asleep to begin with, he could recall a few more details than usual.

In the dream there had been a frozen mountain-top, with a snow-storm blowing over it. Rising from the icy surroundings were the stumps of ancient, weathered columns which led to a doorway set in the side of a cliff. A figure (indistinct within the shadows) moved within the subterranean chamber, and a mare’s voice was crying out in a foreign tongue – “nekrάggelos boēdromέō!” The sound of it was sweet and musical and full of dreadful urgency.

Cantor strove to shake off the stupor and the chill that had come over him as he had lain nearly napping. “Sorry, what?” Cantor blinked up at the disguised changeling and the reporter.

”I stand ready to be of service,” Admiral Fairweather spoke a trifle before Bob.

“I said, wake up and get the spooks. The Admiral. Thretan’s found us an angle.” Bob had a map in one hoof. He sounded pleased.

“An angle? What?” Cantor sat up.

“The Winter Queen.” That had Cantor’s attention. Bob continued, “Think Fairweather could plot the major battle-sites and the location of her barrow on this?” Bob unrolled the map he held. It was a surprisingly complete parchment showing the Griffon Lands and the mountain wastes that lay north of it.

”Reasonably well, yes. But you speak of hunting the proverbial needle.” Fairweather sounded dubious.

“Fairweather says he can provide reasonable directions, but that’s not likely to be good enough.” Cantor relayed.

“Point taken, but any information he can provide would be good.” Bob produced a pen, ink, and parchment. “Quickly now, if you please.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon Quill did indeed look rather bemused.

Bob sighed. “It’s Captain Schwartz. He’s an old adventurer, retired now. Thretan wants to make him a ‘gift’ of whatever information we can provide about the location of the Winter Queen’s final defeat. Also information about whatever other Griffon princes of old went down along with her and where they’re buried too. From what I gather, Gunther might be looking to take a vacation from the boring day-to-day of being an air-ship captain. If Hive Naught can get him pointed in the right direction …”

“… then maybe we can get some legwork done towards figuring out if the Winter Queen’s barrow has been disturbed!” Cantor had caught on. He turned to the Admiral’s ghost and picked up a pen. “Well then, let’s get to it!”

The remainder of the transoceanic flight was refreshingly uneventful. Getting through customs at Gnuark went more smoothly than Cantor had hoped … but not perfectly. Jon Quill had been taken aside for a “random inspection.” He made quite an indignant fuss about it. On the one hoof, this was probably one of the reasons why the inspection wound up taking as long as it did. On the other hoof, it kept official attention well off of Cantor. It was over an hour before he and Cantor had been able to make their way out of the international terminal and head over to the hub where domestic trains and airships could be found.

Bob had gone ahead. Cantor hoped that the changeling wasn’t having too many difficulties in sneaking Cantor’s satchel from one baggage claim area to another.

”Well. This is ‘least as dull as last go-round.” Magpie was amusing herself by standing on the ceiling. As a ghost, up and down were often rather subjective to her, at least when she wanted them to be.

“Terminals are mostly about waiting. Interspersed with moments of hurrying up.” Cantor added.

“Hmm?” Jon Quill looked up from the newspaper. He had snagged the latest edition of the Yellow Star and was tsking over some of the more sordid articles. His primary complaint seemed to be that several of his fellow reporters preferred to stay at home and effectively make up stories out of the whole cloth rather than stretch their legs and actually look into the weird and bizarre bits of gossip that came across their desks.

“Nothing,” Cantor grinned, “Just talking to myself.” He eyed the spot where Magpie hovered, she was busily sticking her tongue out at him.

Cantor lowered his voice, “Still no sign of Bob or my bag?”

Magpie hollered, loud enough that Cantor winced. “Report, blokes!” Thankfully, Cantor was the only living pony present who could hear her.

”No bags yet.” That was from Morari, who had crept ahead along the conveyer belt to keep watch for the various deliveries of luggage.

”Nor any sign of Bob.” That from Admiral Fairweather, who was where he could keep a close watch on the broader hall beyond the carousels.

“Hmm.” Cantor frowned. He hoped something hadn’t gone wrong. The baggage claim area had thinned out substantially in the past half-hour. Most ponies had claimed their cases and left. Apart from a lone unicorn stallion (and the newspaper he was reading) on the far side of the chamber, Jon and Cantor were the sole occupants.

”Madamoiselle Magpie,” Fairweather sounded both startled and amused, ”Remind me – what is that thing you say?”

Magpie raised an eyebrow, “Oy?”

”No, no. Something about heads up? And cute?”

Magpie sudden smile was a sight to behold. ”No! Really? Is it Hearthswarming already? Have I been a good girl?”

“What’s this?” Cantor looked back up at Magpie and frowned in confusion. She just grinned at him. It wasn’t until he heard Jon’s startled gasp that he lowered his gaze.

“Why hello colts! Haven’t been getting into any trouble without me, have you?”

It was Valentina. She was still in her uniform.

”Head’s up! Stewardess inbound – the cute one!” Magpie was quite gleeful.

“Valentina! What are you doing here?” Cantor was equally shocked and delighted. Then a sudden worry clouded his expression, “You didn’t get into trouble on my account, did you?”

“Oh, la! Just a bit of a talking too. Not much else they could do since I resigned.” Valentina pulled off her hat and tossed it in a nearby trash bin.

“Resigned? What? When? And what will you do now?” Jon Quill raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. Resigned. Just as we arrived. I’m not a stewardess any more. Now my official title is ‘Administrative Assistant.’” Valentina settled herself on the bench between Jon and Cantor. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Assisting who? With what? Where?” Trust Jon Quill to ask questions. Cantor was still trying to gather his wits at Valentina’s sudden appearance.

“Why, Mister Bogart of course! Both the elder and younger Mister Bogart, if you take my meaning. I’m on long term assignment for them – scouting locations throughout Equestria and beyond. You never know where an actor might be called to go. And it’s good to have somepony around who knows the lay of the land – the right restaurants, hotels, that sort of thing.”

“But … but you surely can’t be coming with us,” Cantor spoke with considerable concern, “it could be dangerous! And I’ve been so much trouble to you already.”

“Cantor, dear Cantor, haven’t I told you all this before? I like danger. I like excitement! And this business of yours is my idea of a jolly good time. Oh no, Mister Mortalis, I’m sticking with you.” Valentina’s smile softened, “And while you’re a sweet one to care, I’ll thank you to remember that you’ll need somepony around to help protect you should you run afoul of trouble again. Spooks and spirits may be your department, but should you cross Caballeron again, best to have help in kicking his flank. Not to mention Thretan would kill me if I didn’t do my utmost to keep you safe from harm.”

”She might at that,” Magpie was still grinning.

”It will be good to have the young lady along.” Fairweather nodded in agreement.

”Just so long as Magpie doesn’t wind up being a bad influence on her,” Morari muttered, but it was clear the old scholar was pleased to have Valentina along.

“Besides,” Valentina’s winked conspiratorially, “I’m now your connection to Hive Naught! How else can they get information and resources to you except though very, very unofficial channels? Channels like me!”

The last of Cantor’s reserve faded, he smiled gratefully at Valentina.

“Thank you, Valentina! It will be good to have you along.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mister Luggage, sir! Now, where’s your bag?”

1. Introductions

“This will be the death of you, you know.”

“At least once, I would imagine. But this is also too important to just ignore.” The pale unicorn rested the side of his head against the wall-paper, watching the clouds roll past outside the window. The gentle hum of the airships’ engines, as much as the frosty air, was soothing. Airships tended to run cool, especially the smaller models where the gondola containing the passenger compartments was attached beneath a rather ornate gas-bag. Even if the thing bore a passing resemblance to a dragon, heating was one of the few luxuries you wouldn’t find up here in the clouds.

“Not that, you need to remember to eat and sleep. You worry too much. And we are quite capable of keeping watch. Trust me, I know what it is like to be ridden hard by an idea and unable to concentrate on such niceties as dinner and napping – muses can be such temperamental and inconvenient things.” It was a pleasant voice, with a low masculine burr to it.

The unicorn said nothing, but his stomach rumbled in agreement to the suggestion of food. He’d half a dozen sandwiches packed in his satchel. Eating would have to wait until tomorrow. You’d think, he grumbled to himself, that with the past few weeks of hard work and short rations a little more of the pudge would have vanished from around his middle. But cheap food tended to be something that packed on the pounds, and he hadn’t exactly been doing the sort of physically strenuous labor that builds muscle either. Just walking around was challenge enough some days.

“The transoceanic crossing, from what they said, will take at least five days. So there’s nothing you can do until we make landfall, and you’ve been worrying with this too long. It has been months, and as far as we know, it could be months more. Right now, you need rest. That will help most with perspective.”

More silence. The pale unicorn’s blue eyes drifted shut. Judging from the dark circles beneath them, it had been some time since he had gotten enough sleep.

“’ead’s up – Stewardess inbound. The cute one!” this voice was considerably more nasal and feminine.

The pale unicorn’s eyes opened cautiously.

“Good evening sir, may I bring you some light refreshment?” A perky smile; a short, smartly cut mane; and a professionally friendly tone of voice. Further, only the hint of an accent betrayed this pegasus’ origin as an Albion native.

The pale unicorn smiled up at her. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Ponies told him his voice was musical. Some even described it as enchanting. After a slight pause, he went on, “It’s very kind of you to ask.” Then his stomach growled again. That sound was more percussive than melodious.

She raised an eyebrow. He grimaced and rolled his eyes.

“Sir, may I at least bring you some water and crisps? Having a passenger faint from hunger on the very first day of the flight simply won’t do. Fainting isn’t on the schedule until Thursday.” She pronounced schedule with a soft ‘c’ – more like ‘shed-ule.’ Definitely Albion raised.

“Take her up on the offer. You look dehydrated.” His voice offered quiet encouragement.

“Oy, yes. Have a nosh.” Her tone was considerably more pushy.

The unicorn sighed. “Very well. I’ll take whatever you recommend.” He smiled, focusing his attention on her nametag and – for the first time – really looking at her. Body the color of cream, mane and tail the color of strong tea, eyes the color of honey. Stewardess uniform of the Grav lines, complete with little hat … and her cutie mark was a steaming cup. If he had to choose one word for her it would be “vibrant.” The pale unicorn didn’t really look at ponies all that often. He had spent years learning how to look around them without actually seeing them. Bodies were distracting. “Thank you again, Valentina.”

She smiled, and this time it was entirely genuine. “My pleasure, sir!” And off to the galley she went.

The pale unicorn rubbed at his eyes, “Hopefully I shan’t have to dine and dash,” he muttered.

“Given that we are several hundred feet above the ocean, dining and dashing would be a poor plan. Even if you were a pegasus, which you aren’t.” The hints of amusement shone through in his academic-lecturer tone.

“Too right! Long swim back to New Amsteerdame. Gettin’ longer by tha minute.” She seemed to find the thought amusing.

“They call it Manehatten now, Magpie. Get with the times.” Again, that hint of disapproval from him. A touch of frustration. Hopefully they wouldn’t quarrel too loudly. Usually they didn’t. If anything, their disagreements had become something of a game for them both.

“Bah. Can’t be bothered to remember all o’ that.” Magpie's nasal voice was flippantly dismissive.

Magpie probably wasn’t her name, the pale unicorn thought, but it was what she preferred to be called. Speaking to ponies in the fashion they preferred was just common courtesy. “Oh so smart” and “oh so pleasant,” both, as it were. The pale unicorn eyed the rest of the room.

The Grav Zeppelin Airship Westphalia (with transoceanic service from Gnuark Airfield, Manehatten, Equestria to Hedgerow Airfield, Lunadun, Albion) had a small dining car that, at present, wasn’t half full. There were a pair of smartly dressed business ponies on their way home from overseas, from their discussion they made this trip frequently – and from earlier conversations overheard in the airport it was clear that they both lived in Canterbury but did extensive business in Fillydelphia.

There was still no sign of that researcher from the Museé de Antiquités, Bel-something-or-other (though that wasn't the name on his passport.) But this was probably just as well – that stallion had managed to be both arrogantly pushy and a little too charming back in the Manehatten terminal. He had been upset about some business involving his paying extra due to the weight of a crate he was shipping overseas. Further his insistence on being addressed as “Doctor” probably reflected an over inflated ego. The pale unicorn rather hoped that stallion stayed in his cabin for the bulk of the trip. So far, it looked promising as the passenger in question had taken dinner there rather than in the public room.

Presently one of the two big tables (big being a relative term) was hosting was a family of the Canterlot elite. Four unicorns who were on their way to a prestigious polo match somewhere upcountry. The parents had their hooves full as it was their two fillies’ first trip overseas and both girls were quite excited about the flight. The children were full of energy. Considering the circumstances, they were surprisingly well behaved.

Finally, there was an orange and yellow earth pony who looked comically like he was a field reporter for a newspaper. His name has the word “Quill” in it somewhere. Quiller? Quillian? Quilt? The pale unicorn hadn’t really been paying attention, but the reporter’s name had made him think of flowers for some reason. The reporter was dozing in his chair, at the corner table opposite the pale unicorn's own. His pencil had fallen to the floor, only to be replaced in his hat-brim a few minutes later by one of the cabin crew. Swift, discrete, efficient. They were quite something.

The antique tables were small, the lushly upholstered chairs were cramped. The polished wooden paneling, the art-deco crystal lights, and the soft carpet were all quite elegant. The wall paper had a floral pattern and tastefully understated colors. The windows looking out of the airship offered a magnificent view of a near cloudless sky and the sparkling blue sea below. With a crew composed predominantly of pegasi, the weather for the crossing was as just as perfect as the brochures had advertised.

Of all the twenty four passengers aboard, the pale unicorn (in a rather shabby cloak with a weather-beaten satchel and his well-worn leather-and-steel leg-brace) looked the most out of place surrounded by the luxury inherent in the Grav airship line. But tucked away in one of the corners of the dining room (which did double duty as the sitting room) at least he shouldn’t draw too much unwanted notice. Unlike the other passengers, he didn’t have a sleeping cabin to which he might retire. Very technically, his ticket had him on board as something more akin to luggage.

“Lucky my sister loaned me the money for any kind of ticket at all,” he muttered to himself.

“Apologies, what was that?” Again, his tone was that of an academic seeking clarification on some point of research.

The pale unicorn shook his head. “Just talking to myself. A bad habit, I know.”

Just as well the other passengers couldn’t hear the resulting pair of snorts.

The pale unicorn frowned. Over at the family’s table, the father had just put down a newspaper, The Times, and something had caught the pale unicorn’s eye amid the rustling newsprint. Not much of the article had been visible, even in the close quarters of the dining cabin, but he was sure he has seen the word “fire” and an illustration. Rising, and automatically checking the metal and leather brace on his left rear-leg, the unicorn made his slightly clumsy way over to their table. Funny thing about an airship, he kept expecting it to lurch or sway like a boat but it was as stable as any ocean liner.

The unicorn tried on a charming smile as he said, “Pardon me, sir – but might I have a look at that paper?” His tone was friendly, with just the right amount of deference. Oh, he could be quite good at the whole ‘social pleasantries’ thing … quite good indeed … it was just so terribly tiresome and draining. And there was always the temptation to use magic to lean on the pony he was talking to. A subtle … or not so subtle … push. Like me. Agree with me. Let’s all be friends. Survival skills, as he thought of them. And the biggest one he had picked up over the years was not to push at all. Not with magic. When it wore off, ponies noticed. And they weren’t happy about it. Over the years, he’d gotten pretty good at talking – he didn’t need a mystical crutch to get through most days unscathed.

“You can have it if you like, I’m done with it.” The father’s accent was definitely high Canterlot. The tone was carefully neutral, and (points to the Polo-pony) he managed not to stick his nose in the air as he said it.

“Mommy, it’s the crazy colt who talks to nopony!”

Of course the younger filly would speak her mind. Children often did. Her mother hushed her and her father started to turn a rather angry looking shade of red. But the pale unicorn only smiled pensively as he gathered up the borrowed paper and said, “Well, sometimes I think out loud, that’s true. A bad habit from my school days,” before returning to his table.

The family began to sort themselves out so as to return to their suite – if a double-room barely wide enough for two ponies to turn around in could deserve such a luxurious title. One of the fillies wanted to go up front, to the nose of the airship’s gondola. She wanted to look out the big windows there. It either didn’t occur to her, or didn’t matter to her, that the nose of the gondola housed the piloting controls and was too busy a place to host tourists. Her father made “perhaps later” sorts of excuses to the child’s thankfully somewhat restrained “I want to go there now” demands.

The pale unicorn wondered if part of the elder Polo-pony’s reserve was not merely good manners but rather had something to do with the pilot, one Grav Gunther Schwartz, being a Griffon. A fairly fierce fellow to be sure. He even sported an eyepatch.

The newspaper was only three days old. That didn’t seem possible given the travel times between Albion and the mainland of Equestria. The pale unicorn might look into the oddity later, time and energy permitting. Ah there: front page, bottom left. “Cleanup Continues after Cemetery Fire.” The picture was of a mausoleum in flames. A shocked Pegasus in the foreground in a classic “Oh the Equinity!” pose. The pale unicorn scanned the article quickly, noting the location as Whitstable by the Sea.

“Anything of interest?” He sounded cautiously hopeful.

The pale unicorn nodded. He used a touch of common magic. A silvery light picked up a spoon and with it he lightly tapped a few key sentences in the article: chief of them was the fact that the constabulary still had the area cordoned off.

“This sounds exactly like what we are looking for.”

“Hmph. So we’re lookin’ fer this sort of stuff now?” Magpie's sarcasm bled through in the question. Not that she generally reined herself in.

“Yes. And hoping not to find it.”

“I think you mean ‘hoping to find it,’ if we are to make any further progress in dealing with our little problem. Leads have been few and far between.” When he adopted that tone, Cantor thought, one might as well be back in the university, listening to their professors belaboring a point.

“Oy, yes. Nonexistent would be ‘few ‘n’ far between,’ now, wouldn’t it?” Magpie could manage snark in her sleep. Not that she ever slept.

The pale unicorn ‘hmm-d’ somewhat uncomfortably, then went back over the whole article much more slowly. Half-way through this re-reading, a plate was delivered to the table.

A dozen steaming hot waffles with fresh, chilled fruit. A pot of hot tea with cream and sugar. A carafe of ice-cold water and a crystal glass.

It smelled like heaven. Considering how this airline operated, it likely cost the earth.

“I-” he began. Words failed him. That didn’t happen often.

“Compliments of the house,” the stewardess’ tone was insistent.

“Oy! She does like you.” Magpie sounded smug. Then again, she almost always sounded smug. When she didn’t, she usually sounded annoyed.

“Hush.” He quieted her.

The pale unicorn swallowed hard and blinked twice. His eyes had teared up. Just from hunger, he lied to himself.

“Kindly tell the house that I am grateful beyond my ability to repay.”

She smiled. “If there’s anything else we can get you …”

He nodded, and then carefully began to pour himself a cup. It tasted even better than it smelled. The same was true for the waffles. It was hard not to devour them like some wild beast. The Times had been discarded to one side, open, now to the theater section.

“Ask ‘er for a bed!” Magpie's voice was chipper, and there was a slightly naughty undercurrent to it.

The pale unicorn choked and snorted and nearly dropped his cup.

“Wot? Don’t give me that look. I meant for sleepin’.” Magpie didn’t sound annoyed enough to be entirely sincere.

“Is everything alright, sir?” Valentina shot a quizzical glance at an empty spot in the room to which the pale unicorn’s shocked gaze had suddenly leapt. There wasn’t any pony there. Well, not any pony she could either see or hear.

“I’m fine Valentina. Sorry! Even fishes shouldn’t try to breathe tea.” The pale unicorn noted he must be more tired than he had thought, and he wasn’t giving himself high marks in alertness at the moment. Usually he didn’t react so brazenly to his companions’ banter. That was another survival trait he had developed. There were fewer inconvenient questions that way. Fewer straight-jackets. Fewer torches and pitchforks.

She produced a towel, and as she cleaned up the spill, Valentina’s eyes fell on the newspaper. “Ooo! Looks like ‘the Maltese Griffon’ has been held over! It’s been at the National for a month already, or so I hear.”

The pale unicorn glanced at the advertisement: the triumphant return of Hoofrey Bogart to the stage after a long absence … and there was a logo that he recognized – a beehive around a capitol “H” over which was a smaller “0.” The sight of it made him very happy. But then worry and care leapt on that reaction and wrestled it down to something less unmanageably optimistic.

“That should be quite the play, and a return to one of his iconic roles from yesteryear” the pale unicorn commented. His pleased, and pleasant, tone almost managed to hide a somewhat wistful tinge, “have you had a chance to see it yet?”

“Oh, no sir. I’ve been on the continent for the past two months. Manehatten, Canterlot, Baltimare. My sister has seen it, and she tells me the twist at the end will make you scream.”

“Wot's this? Cantor makin' small talk with a pretty lass? Well bless me buttons! Never thought 'e'd loosen up 'nough fer that!”

“Hmm. It sounds to me like he has some sort of additional interest in the play in question. We can add it to the list of 'things to be discussed in private.'”

“Oy! There's a list that we'll never be done with!” Magpie sounded disgusted.

“Interesting. Do you have any idea what the surprise might be?” Small bites and little sips, the unicorn reminded himself. Manners and behavior. He’d already made a poor enough impression on this high-class floating hotel just by being himself.

“Oh, not a clue! So many rumors. And those that have seen the show, and are willing to talk at all, aren’t saying anything believable. They do go back. So tickets are very dear, when they are available at all.” The stewardess’ eyes twinkled as she adjusted her wings a bit more smartly to her sides. “I shall leave you to your snack, Mr. … Luggage?”

There was a slight pause.

“Tip: she’s asking yer name. Play nice.” Magpie's voice was as good as a sharp nudge in the ribs.

The pale unicorn had mastered the self-deprecating smile. It was one of his best defense mechanisms, and had gotten him out of a lot of trouble over the years. He deployed it now, along with an introduction “Cantor Mortalis. That’s Can-tor as in sing, not Can-ter as in run.”

“Very well, Mr. Mortalis, you will let me know when you need anything else.”

“Cantor will be fine, Valentina.” Cantor thought for a moment. The fact she hadn’t phrased that as a request was not lost on him. Cantor grinned, “Or I’ll answer to Luggage, if you prefer.”

Valentina was holding in laughter on her way back to the galley.

“Nicely done. A friend on the staff will make this trip much more pleasant for you.” He sounded quite pleased.

“Good. Getting on this airship was our first big difficulty. The next one will be getting off of it.”

Author's Note

In this chapter, shortly after we first hear Magpie's name dropped, Cantor thinks the line: "'Oh so smart' and 'oh so pleasant,' both, as it were." This is an intentional reference to the 1950 black and white movie Harvey.

In that movie, the full line (as delivered by James Stewart's character Elwood P. Dowd) is: "Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be,' – she always called me Elwood – 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me."

And, while Cantor and the other, as yet unnamed voice are the only two characters who thus far seem able to perceive Magpie, the Author would like to confirm that she is not, nor has she ever been, a Pooka.

9. Actors

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.

24. Agents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was,” Cantor sounded worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?” Valentina asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Furlong?” Cantor looked to Bob for clarification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not going to the Badlands.”

“Now see here …” Jon Quill interjected.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why stop him?” This from Bob.

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

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

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

Bob just nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cantor is kind.”

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

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

Furlong grimaced slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

Furlong shook his head and gave a little sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends on the message,” Bob grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He checked it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fin.

Author's Note

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

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

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