II. In the Dark Backward

by Loquacious of Herd

Rating: mature
Tags: Adventure, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other, Drama, Original Character, Mystery
Length: 52798

In which we rejoin Cantor the Lame as he continues to explore the mystery of the Rise of the Trotting Dead.

"Love, Thieves, and Fear Make Ghosts."

We rejoin Cantor the lame on the Equestrian mainland, where he and his friends (both living and dead) are intent on continuing their researches into the root cause of the recent rise of the Trotting Dead. Their goal? To put an end to the unnatural awakening of the dead and restore them to their eternal slumber.

Published 2017-05-02 03:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-07-03 16:21:55 UTC

2. Shades.

The sun had set. It was now fully dark. And rather stormy. The smell of rain filled the air. Cantor, Valentina, and Jon Quill had left the Castle. Colonel George Lusk made sure to lock it up after his three visitors.

They had talked for several hours, well into the evening, and George had learned some fascinating tidbits of his own from them. George had long held the belief that the Red Reaver’s blades might actually be two of the mythical Four Blades of Fear wielded centuries earlier by the Winter Queen. But this was a hypothesis for which he had never found much supporting evidence. Now though, with the information his three visitors had supplied, it sounded like he might have to take a quick vacation over to Albion to poke around in Oxherd’s Bodleian library. If they were right, George could get more corroboration for that theory from some old tomes there. Cantor had been kind enough to supply George with a list of the relevant volumes.

You’re never too old to be curious, or so George believed. It was one of the things that kept him feeling young at heart on days when his body disagreed strongly about his real age.

George had not been pleased to learn that somepony had stolen one of the Reaver’s knives from the Ashmulean, Oxherd’s museum. Cantor, Valentina, and Jon Quill had left out some of the more shocking details, such as the nature of the villains they suspected were responsible.

That the theft had turned bloody and destructive, leaving eight ponies dead, came as no surprise to him. George sighed at the thought that it was time to pay even more attention to the papers, especially any news coming out of Shady Hollow, to see if disappearances started up again. If they did, George would have to let somepony know. Somepony young enough to intervene.

His visitors had departed with considerably more information than when they had arrived. George still wouldn’t let them have unfettered access to his own resources in the basement. A couple of those boxes he hadn’t even let them open. Less because he didn’t trust them with the knowledge and more because some of that stuff was irreplaceable. Easiest way to prevent accidents was not to bring it out for others.

The three ponies had left, but George had lingered. Something felt off about their parting. But what precisely? George ran over the events in his mind again. Cantor had gone ahead, with Valentina, to see about fetching a carriage. Jon had stayed behind with George, chatting in a most distracting fashion. George couldn’t shake the feeling that Jon’s chatter might have been designed to distract George from something going on. But from what?

In any event, George thought, Cantor, Jon Quill, and Valentina wouldn’t be back soon. Those three already had a train to catch the following morning and from what they had said, they needed to be in Canterlot sometime in the next few weeks. Jon and Valentina had been chatting about their itenerary as the carriage rattled away. George had overheard them through open front door.

They had parted on good terms, especially considering that the three researchers still had unanswered questions and no opportunity to get those answers in the foreseeable future.

Or, at least, so George thought.

Still, something about their departure had seemed … well, off ... George had no better word to describe his feelings. He frowned. He suddenly couldn’t quite recall if he had actually seen Cantor in the carriage with Jon Quill and Valentina when it drove away.

One more look around the Castle, then it was off to his own bed. Before George left he double checked the locks on all the doors. Just to be sure. He found nothing amiss. Perhaps it was just nerves. A stormy night and telling tales of Jack of Blades and the Red Reaver's Knives was enough to give anypony the heebie jeebies, after all!

“Oy, all clear. ‘e’s gone. Ollie Ollie Outsinfree!” Magpie’s nasal sing-song and thick accent echoed through the Castle's darkened basement. She had been trying to flip the light switch and get the overhead crystals glowing again. Without success, of course. The Thieving Magpie, being incorporeal, lacked the body necessary to interact with much of the tangible world. The room remained shrouded with the dim, red glow of emergency lighting.

From a dark corner near the stairs the shadows seemed to fall away, revealing Cantor Mortalis. He had remained behind, invisible, and listening to his three spectral companions. Companions which he believed were (in fact) both real and what they appeared – namely the ghostly apparitions of deceased ponies. To Cantor, this seemed the most plausible explanation for his spectral “other friends” ... the ones only he could see and hear. Admittedly, there were plenty of ponies were far more comfortable with the idea Cantor was delusional rather than accept the idea that he could see dead ponies. Regardless, Cantor generally chose to trust in his own perceptions ... even when they flew in the face of common, accepted understandings of how the world, life, and death worked.

Magpie had been shadowing George, to make sure that Cantor didn’t start poking around until after the old Colonel was no longer on the premises.

While some strange magic from back in his college days meant Cantor could see in the dark, he was hardly a paragon of grace and stealth ... nor a born infiltrator. True, his newly developed talent with invisibility helped tremendously in such cloak-and-dagger affairs, but it only worked when there were shadows around and when he was standing still. As for sneaking, well, should there be a fall (with much crashing and banging, as always seemed to be the case in such matters) best if nopony else was in the building to possibly overhear and investigate.

Even before an angry (and frightened) mob had broken his leg and necessitated the life-long use of a brace, Cantor was more agile with words, emotions, thoughts, and feelings that he ever had been with his body. There were days he suspected he’d do ever so much better if he could just leave the distracting thing behind! Not that he planned to. At least not any time soon.

The ghosts still needed him among living.

“He seemed a nice chap. I hope we’ve not brought trouble to his doorstep with our enquiries.” This ghost was a unicorn named Morari the Maneless. His voice had a low, pleasant burr running through it. Morari had been quite flattered to find his work on the Reaver’s wardings was remembered by those interested in her fell history. Not that Morari had actually ever seen or fought the Reaver back when he was still alive, but Morari had done the arcane work of improving Trotwine’s old binding-magic for use in keeping her contained after others had defeated her in battle.

Morari fell into step beside Cantor, eager to continue their researches. Like Cantor himself, Morari felt quite at home in a room filled with books and boxes, surrounded by the smell of dust and paper. While once an enchanter of some note, Morari – being dead now – usually couldn’t make use of magic himself. And the occasions when he could tended to be exceptionally dangerous and unpleasant for all concerned. Morari pushed his spectral spectacles up his muzzle so they rested right on his star-like blaze. True to his name, he had no mane whatsoever.

”Sir is a gentlecolt. Gentlecolts are prepared for trouble, and handle it appropriately. The Colonel will be fine.” Admiral Fairweather spoke up from his position atop the stairs. His was voice deeper, gravelier, and more authoritative than Morari's. One time leader of the Wonderbolts, this pegasus haunt still wore his be-medaled officer's jacket and bicorn Admiralty hat. Of the three haunts, Fairweather had been dead the longest – and, as one of the undead, he had been restored to his right mind (courtesy of Cantor's enchantments) the most recently.

Cantor nodded. He also used his silvery magic to turn on the light crystals.

“Thought ya didn’t need tha light, wot?” Magpie started wandering around, walking on the walls and cielings. Cantor wondered at that a bit. As a haunt, up and down were somewhat relative. In theory she should be able to fly. Admiral Fairweather flew more often than not. But in life Magpie had been an earth pony. Perhaps it didn’t occur to her that she didn’t technically need to be standing on anything to float there.

Or perhaps she just liked standing upside down on the ceiling and making faces at the other spooks.

“Well, I don’t need it,” Cantor’s eyes still shone black – all pupil, his blue iris’ nowhere to be seen – “but we’ve already established that you three can’t see in the dark, and I’ll want all of your help poring over these files.” There was an unhappy edge to Cantor’s voice.

“Still feeling guilty about the whole smash-and-grab plan, Cantor?” Morari tried to poke his ghostly head through the vault door. He rebounded from it with a musical sound, like a gong. Only the haunts (and Cantor, of course) could hear it. Morari rubbed his horn in consternation. Somepony had warded the thing quite well indeed!

Cantor was carefully opening boxes and digging through them to get at the papers that George hadn’t been willing to let them see.

“Damn straight I’m feeling guilty about it! George was nicer than he needed to be. I like the old coot. But with Furlong and the Mares of S.M.I.L.E. against our continuing researches into the rise of the Trotting Dead, ‘feeling bad about it’ isn’t enough reason to abandon this rare chance to make up lost resources in the information gathering department.”

Yesterday had not been a good day. It had been a crushing realization: arriving in Gnuark airfield in Manehatten, only to discover that all the information and leads they had so painstakingly gathered over the past few weeks in Albion – an ancient tablet, its covering cloth, and (most importantly) their extensive notes on the location of the Vale of Dreams – had been intercepted by the Mares in Black, agents of S.M.I.L.E.

Furlong himself had emerged from the shadows to meet them. Furlong had made it quite clear that his secretive intelligence agency (an agency that operated so far behind the scenes most ponies didn’t believe it actually existed outside the pages of some popular comic books) considered Cantor’s continuing research into the rise of the Trotting Dead to be far too dangerous. Given that Cantor was apparently the only pony around whose magic could actually put an end to some of the more spectacular and dangerous displays of dark power involved, they were stepping in to put a stop to his investigations. They had other ponies better suited to look into such things, or so Furlong said.

But Cantor had no intention of staying stopped. This matter concerned the unquiet spirits of the dead, and so it concerned him personally. If he had to start again from scratch, so be it. If Cantor’s suspicions were correct, if the ancient demon Grogar and his lost city of Tambelon were returning to Dream Valley from the Shadow Lands where, legend had it, they had been banished in the ancient days of myth and legend ... then Cantor had to know. In times long past Grogar’s magic, or a stolen scrap of it, had been forged into the Blades of Fear – and that was the likeliest power Cantor had found thus far to explain why the dead had begun rising in new, and disturbing, ways.

Morari, Magpie, and Fairweather were not like the ghostly haunts Cantor had dealt with most of his life. And there were other unusual haunts like them still trapped out there in the dark corners of Equestria.

Furlong, it seemed, just wanted Cantor to deal with those other hauntings ... even going so far as to feed Cantor tidbits of information about the appearance of evil vortexes of shadow-power and their captive, fear-maddened ghosts. But Cantor believed that it would be far better to find the true source of the problem and deal with that. Even if those researches wound up being dangerous.

Right now, those researches were only being quite illegal. And more than a little rude. Cantor found the rudeness bothered him more than the legality, which probably said something about his character.

“Indeed. While hardly the behavior of a gentlecolt, in times of need, genteel behavior must sometimes be set aside. Kindly note, my friend, that I make no censure of your activities this night. I encourage them … albeit with a heavy heart.” Admiral Fairweather was hunting among boxes, crates, and shelves as he spoke.

Magpie snorted. “Yer heart’s gone to dust and ashes centuries back, same as mine! Nuthin’ heavy ‘bout us no more.” She grinned at Cantor, “I guess ‘is nibs has to make that up fer all of us!”

Cantor, who was now carefully reading old clippings, chuckled, although there was a slight hint of something more painful than humorous in the sound. “Hey now, I’m in shape!”

There was a brief (and incredulous) pause from the three haunts.

Cantor looked up at them all. His smile was wry and held just a tinge of self mockery. “What? Round is a shape.”

“Technically correct,” Morari was amused.

“Hey, Cantor” Magpie suddenly sounded much more serious than usual. Most of the time her tone was either annoyed or smug. “I seen that look you wear before. It don’t suit ya. Speakin’ as the only filly here, there’s nuthin’ wrong with round ’n’ soft in a stallion. C’n be extra comfy fer nappin’ with!”

Cantor blinked at Magpie in surprise. “Uh … thanks. That’s … well, that’s totally irrelevant to our work tonight, but still nice to hear. Especially since our modern social sensibilities would beg to differ.”

“P’raps Valentina would like summat’ soft ‘n’ sweet ta nap on!” Magpie grinned.

Now that sounded more like her.

Magpie’s grin grew wider, “’r’ Quill!” And that sounded even more like her. Cantor couldn’t help but smile a bit as he shook his head.

As usual Cantor ignored Magpie’s scandalous (though good natured) jabs. As much as he could anyway. Given his own preferences, Valentina was a far more likely prospect for a dalliance than Jon Quill (even if Jon seemed the sort of colt to be up for almost anything.) And as a prospect, Cantor reflected, Valentina was still exceedingly unlikely! Why, even if he could discover a way to resolve his spectral friends’ problems and find himself at leisure to just enjoy life and pleasant company again, Cantor was almost positive that she wouldn’t be ... well ... interested; even if Cantor somehow was by then.

As for being interested himself, Cantor rather doubted that he was, really ... though he hadn’t actually given much thought to the matter. Sure, Valentina was quite attractive, and a dear friend ... but there were plenty of areas where they weren’t exactly compatible. For one: Valentina thrived on excitement and adventure while Cantor preferred a much less dangerous lifestyle than his current endeavors afforded him.

And as for Magpie’s other bit of teasing, Cantor sincerely hoped Jon wasn’t interested. That would become awkward fast ... especially since Cantor didn’t like breaking ponies’ hearts. Not that, Cantor thought, he usually was the pony in a position to do so! His voice might be musical and magical, his mind might be clever, and his nature good and kind, but Cantor didn’t see himself as the sort of stallion you'd ever find gracing the cover of some fashionable magazine. Regardless, all of this was a distraction from their work.

“Miss Magpie! Please! Are you not supposed to be assisting?” Fairweather glanced disapprovingly over his shoulder.

Magpie stuck her tongue out at him. ”Oy! Fine. A pox on all yer letters. Ne'er a break to have fun.” She did come over to peer inquiringly over one of Cantor’s shoulders.

Ten minutes of paper-shuffling later and Magpie gave a sudden start. Ghosts shouldn’t be able to go pale, but somehow she did.

“Is something the matter, Magpie?” Morari, who was looking over a different pile of papers, had noted her sudden discomfort.

“No. … Just … Did na expect … uh …” Magpie trailed off. The other haunts couldn’t recall the last time they had seen the young mare’s ghost so shaken. Meanwhile, Cantor was staring in shock at one of the papers on the table, the same one that had caused Magpie such distress.

“Sweet Celestia, look at this! You were adorable!” Cantor held the newspaper clipping in his hooves. He read it over. He looked up at Magpie and his face twisted with sorrow and sympathy. It was an old pain, one Cantor wore with great familiarity. “I’m … I’m so sorry that it ... that you … well ....”

Magpie snorted. ”T’weren’t yer fault. Jack’s the one what cut m’throat back when. Damn that red knife.” She shivered at the memory.

Cantor’s gaze returned to the clipping and its picture, one of twenty four.

“Missing – Miss Margaret Annabelle Pie.”

“Margaret?” Fairweather looked up in confusion. He had just found the box he had been hunting for, the archived welcome registries and guest logs for the time between when Jack’s Red Blade had last been seen in on display in the Castle and the day it had been discovered missing.

“Maggie. ‘r’ Mags if ya please. Nopony calls me Margaret.” Magpie had her annoyed voice on.

“Annabelle?” Morari raised an eyebrow.

“Oy! Yer not me real da’! No usin’ me middle name.” Magpie sounded even more annoyed.

“I see. Mag Pie. I wonder if you are related to … no. No matter.” Cantor sighed. The picture was of a younger filly, but it was clearly the same pony whose ghost they knew as the Thieving Magpie.

Magpie didn’t look at the article. She didn’t look at the picture. She had deliberately turned away from both before stepping back from the table. She had gone far quieter than was usual. Cantor stared at her. His soft face hardened. He knew what he had to do next, and he knew this wouldn’t be easy.

“Magpie …” Cantor began.

She interrupted, “Look, jes’ get on with it. We need …”

Cantor cut her off, “I need to tell you this. I have a calling Magpie. And while lots of ponies don’t understand it ... or even believe me, thinking you don’t really exist … that ghosts don’t really exist … I do have a job. One job. No pony seems to like it much, even the ones who believe me, and I can’t say I like it much either some days, but it’s more than what I do. It’s who I am. You know this.”

She blinked. “’r ya really doin’ this?”

Cantor nodded, “I am.” He sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was rich with feeling. Even without the magic of enchantment flowing through it, it was musical and sweet and captivating. He addressed the spectral filly as if they were meeting for the first time. “Magpie, I’m Cantor Mortalis. Spirtualist. Medium-in-training. Speaker for the dead. I try to help haunts and ghosts find peace, to return to their rest. Obviously you three aren’t like the other ghosts I usually deal with. Whatever has raised you is something far worse than just sorrow or guilt over something unsaid or undone. I’ll still find a way to help you … somewhere, somehow. But none of that changes this.”

“I’m an intercessor, Magpie. I convey the messages of the dead to the living.”

Cantor paused, reflecting that moments like this were one of the reasons he usually believed he actually could perceive the spirits of the departed. If Magpie had just been a figment of a sadly broken mind all this time, how is it that Cantor could find independent proofs of her living existence? How could she provide him with information – with observations – that he could not possibly have learned on his own?

But in the dark corners of Cantor’s mind he reflected that there were ways ... and those possibilities were far worse than him simply being insane. He buried those thoughts again. This was no time to become paralyzed by fear and “what-ifs.” Assuming he was saner than many ponies thought him, there were serious problems to be addressed. And here, before him, was a problem he understood. He had dealt with its like often enough ... too often, truthfully ... in the past.

Magpie spoke up during Cantor’s pause, struggling to hide the pain she clearly felt, “I don’t have nuthin’ I want ta …”

But Cantor interrupted again. “I also, when it’s needed, convey messages from the living to the dead. To help ease the grief and pain on both their sides of the veil. And while they’re not alive any more, they’d want you to hear this. Even if they didn’t, I think you need to hear this.”

Magpie said nothing. She still refused to look at the newspaper clipping.

“I don’t know much about your life. You don’t talk about it. My suspicions aren’t worth two bits. But I do know how you died. And I can tell you don’t think anypony cared.”

Cantor’s pause lasted three heartbeats.

“They cared, Margaret. They cared. When Jack …” Cantor paused to brush away the tears that were leaking from his eyes. “They missed you. They wanted you to still be alive. And to have a good and happy life. Better than what you had. They cared enough to look for you. I don’t think they ever found you. If they had, I wouldn’t have found your spirit bound where it was.”

Magpie was crying. She did so silently, ghostly tears sliding down her transparent cheeks.

Cantor stood up, and limped over to give her a hug. Most living ponies couldn’t touch the spirits of the dead. But he could.

She hugged him back.

“I’m s-“ Cantor began but Magpie cut him off.

“If’n ye say yer sorry ta me one more time, mister, I’m gonna smack ya right in the gob!” She shook one spectral hoof at him.

Cantor blinked in surprise. “Er … but …”

“Not yer fault! Right in the gob, ya big lug!” Magpie turned and began to read the newspaper clipping, she traced the names there with her fore-hoof.

When she looked up again, she had stopped crying.

“Thank ye, Cantor. I … I didn’t know I needed that.”

Cantor nodded. He hoped he didn’t look as exhausted as he felt. There was still a lot of research to be conducted before dawn. And a train to catch shortly thereafter.

Magpie’s gaze hardened as it fell on a different picture. A picture of Jack’s Red Blade. One of the Four Blades of Fear. And, they suspected, one of the reasons for the rise of such unquiet dead as Morari, Magpie, Admiral Fairweather ... not to mention whatever unknown haunt was (according to the information Agent Furlong from S.M.I.L.E. had provided them) still bound beneath Canterlot Castle.

“We’re gonna stop this, Cantor. We’re gonna make this right.” Magpie glared at the image of the knife which had taken her life.

Cantor nodded. His face was grim.

“Whatever it takes,” Cantor agreed, “we’re going to make this right.”

3. Bones.

Oscar sat in the foyer and eyed the door to Furlong’s office. He kept fluffing and resettling his wings. His eyes darted among the contents of the folders he had brought with him.

Oscar was more jittery than usual. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that he didn’t have an appointment. Whenever that thought crept up from where he was keeping it squashed down he would either go pale or flush – which, given his red coat, had him slowly cycling between crimson and a pink almost as pale as his feathers. He’d then rebury that thought, but only for a little while.

The secretary, Miss White, had checked her boss’ schedule when Oscar had shown up trailing paper and notes. Oscar had asked if Furlong was busy that morning. She had raised an eyebrow in a most pointed fashion, while her mild (and imminently professional) voice had informed Oscar that yes, Furlong was quite busy, and (more importantly) that she didn’t have Oscar himself down in the appointment registry. Oscar still found it distracting that Miss White was chocolate brown with a mane that held at least three shades of darkish blue. There wasn’t anything white about her! Even the scent of her perfume was, Oscar noted, Midnight Breeze.

Miss White, thankfully, showed no signs of asking Oscar to leave. Oscar wasn’t sure what this meant, exactly. His mind raced down the possibilities, analyzing away – which was his job here at the League after all. Perhaps it came from his talent with numbers and calculations (a talent reflected in his abacus cutie mark) but sometimes it seemed almost as if his thoughts were beads shifting on the strings of his mind, all held together by the frame of his will. Sometimes he even fancied he could hear the clicking sound of his own thoughts rearranging themselves.

Click-clack, went one thought-bead.

Perhaps Miss White rather liked him, and was affording him extra latitude by subtly and indirectly facilitating access to Furlong? Not enough information to support this hypothesis. Oscar didn’t know Miss White any better than he did the rest of the secretarial pool. Oscar frowned at the realization that this might be a critical failing in information gathering, given that he, himself was effectively part of that pool.

Oscar noted there were six pictures on Miss White’s desk. Three of her dogs, two of her parents, one of a seascape. Two of the dog pictures were new as of this week, but the frames which held these new pictures were the same old frames that had held the earlier ones.

Click-clack, went another bead.

Perhaps she rather disliked him, and was affording him the proverbial rope necessary to get into substantial trouble with their boss? Again, not enough information to support this hypothesis either. While his general nervy-ness often kept him from normal office socializing, Oscar didn’t think he had offended Miss White so much so that she would have it in for him. Then again, social cues were his weakest point. Also, the Mares in Black didn’t exactly have truly “normal” office socializing. Super secret intelligence agencies were notoriously cliquish. Everything was on a need-to-know basis. Even the water cooler gossip!

Oscar noted that Miss White had four quills in the quill stand on her desk, rather than the usual three. Was she expecting extra paperwork today?

Click-click, went a third bead.

Perhaps Furlong had left some sort of directive about what to do when analysts spontaneously dropped by? That seemed somewhat likelier – Furlong hadn’t gotten to his position in S.M.I.L.E. without the ability to foresee and react to what would otherwise be unexpected developments. Without other data, Oscar decided this would be the likeliest of the three scenarios. At this conclusion the shifting beads of his thoughts seemed to settle into a more stable pattern.

Oscar noted that the hoof-shaped dent Agent Drops had left in the wall had been plastered over and painted sometime in the past two days. Whatever statement Furlong had intended to make to his other agents by leaving it there for a week must have been sufficiently delivered.

Through all these considerations, observations, and reflexive calculations it didn’t occur to Oscar that, even in this current time of heightened vigilance and danger, Miss White might just be a bit bored with the routine of scheduling meetings and that she was simply curious to see what would happen next.

Miss White had already buzzed the break room with a directive that roughly translated as “I'm going to need more Popcorn.” If Oscar pulled his head out of numbers and patterns and data once in a while, he might have known what an MP08 was.

The door opened. Agents Foxtrot and Bravo came out. They looked worried and Furlong’s “ … be sure you’re armed,” was a very troubling footnote to the otherwise unheard conversation.

Foxtrot blinked at Oscar in surprise. Oscar, in turn, was practically juggling his papers and reports as he tried to rush nonchalantly into Furlong’s office. Rushing nonchalantly wasn’t a trick Oscar had ever mastered.

Foxtrot extended his back leg and caught the door, holding it open an extra moment so that Oscar could squeeze in.

Furlong looked up from his desk. He frowned.

Oscar’s attention darted around the chamber. His thoughts tumbled and shifted, rearranging themselves as half-noticed details raised the relative importance of some lines of inquiry while lowering the importance of others. Oscar noted that Furlong had made an abortive move to shift a folder and cover the map on his desk. The map was of the Badlands. There were notations on it, too many of which were skulls and crossbones. The folders were dossiers on agents and other intelligence assets. Missing assets, judging from the color of the tags peeking out. A chess set sat nearby, the game there well underway. Oscar noted that black would achieve mate in three moves.

What worried Oscar the most was that Furlong’s plants hadn’t been watered properly. They were at least a full day overdue, judging by the slight drop in the vibrancy of their color. If Furlong was too distracted to take proper care of his plants, then things were far worse with their work than Oscar had suspected.

“Mr. Furlong, sir. We may have a problem,” Oscar began.

Furlong’s frown deepened. One corner of his mouth hitched up in something that was most definitely not a smile.

“We’re the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria, Oscar. We always have problems. What’s important enough that you felt the need to barge in here today?”

Oscar dropped his folders on the desk. One of them dumped its contents on the floor. He scrambled among the falling papers as he said, “Sorry! Sorry! It’s just …”

Furlong sighed. He checked his pocket watch.

Oscar noted that Furlong’s gaze wasn’t on the time but rather on several of the mystic crystals that ornamented the inner lid. Given some of the recent rumors galloping around the office Oscar would say the odds were strongly in favor that at least one of those crystals was enchanted to warn of danger. Or imposters. Possibly both.

Oscar continued, “I’ve found a discrepancy.”

Furlong raised an eyebrow, “Only one?”

Oscar flushed. “Well … no … but this one bothers me. I thought you should be informed immediately.”

“What’s the discrepancy?”

“Sir … if … er … if the reports I’ve been looking at are correct …”

“Spit it out, Oscar.” Furlong’s tone was surprisingly patient.

“We’ve lost a changeling.”

There was a momentary pause.

“What do you mean, ‘we’ve lost a changeling?’” Slightly narrowed eyes, a hardening in the expression, and a tone of voice that had become considerably more blankly professional than before. Oh yes, Oscar had Furlong’s attention.

“Well, reports from Manehatten have both Drones Three Ten and Eight Zero Eight …”

Furlong interrupted to say, “Thretan and Bob, go on, Oscar.”

“Yes sir. Thretan and Bob are both on their way to Applewood.”

“And?” Furlong continued to stare quite intently at Oscar.

“And the last two reports from our operatives in Hive Naught – the ones in Albion – provide their usual list of the staff of that theatrical agency as well as their activities. Forty eight ponies of various types and occupations, a contingent of zebras retained as security, and – of greatest interest to us – eight changelings.”

Furlong frowned.

“Eight?” Suddenly Furlong didn’t sound pleased at all. “Eight in Albion and two on their way to the west coast of Equestria makes ten, Oscar.”

“Quite right, sir.” Oscar nodded. This was going better than he had dared hope.

“Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company employs eleven changelings.”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Is this just a problem with the reporting?” Furlong didn’t sound particularly hopeful.

Oscar winced. “Well, that’s always a possibility, sir. But …” Oscar drew a deep breath, “The last two reports were consistent on that point. Two of Hive Naught’s changelings are now here in Equestria and under observation, eight are overseas.”

Furlong cocked his head to one side and narrowed an eye.

“Only two reports?”

“Last Thursday’s and today’s, yes sir.”

Furlong rested his chin on his fore-hooves and his elbows on his desk. His brow furrowed with thought. Behind him, the framed portraits of Celestia and Luna seemed to stare down at Oscar. Oscar found he was holding his breath.

Furlong shook his head. “It could be nothing, Oscar. There are inconsistencies in our reports all the time, as you well know. ‘Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence’ …”

“’Three times is a conspiracy,’ yes sir, I know. I just …”

“You just what, Agent Oscar?”

Oscar was sweating. “I … I just …” suddenly his voice was filled with passion, a passion that was usually reserved for numbers, “It didn’t add up, sir.” His tone, and his face, fell. “I … I thought you should know.”

There was a pause. One that stretched out far too long for Oscar’s liking.

“You can go now, Oscar.”

Oscar’s heart dropped. It felt surprisingly like entering free-fall, and his wings twitched reflexively in an attempt to catch himself. It also felt like somewhere inside his mind the strings had all come undone. Like the abacus had broken. It was as if the constant, shifting order of the beads of his thoughts was slowly spilling out, tumbling into a messy heap on the floor. He had miscalculated. This had been a bad idea after all.

Oscar rose, and reached out to gather up his files. He had begun to tremble quite badly.

Furlong stopped him by placing one of his own hooves there first.

“I’ll keep those.” Furlong’s gaze had already dropped to one of the loose papers that had fallen free from its manila folder.

Oscar backed towards the door. On the bright side, at least he hadn’t gotten fired on the spot.

“Oh, and Oscar?”

Oscar froze.

“Good catch. Check the next report as soon as it comes in. If we’re still only counting eight Hive Naught changelings in Albion, let me know immediately. Miss White will be informed that you’re to have access.”

Oscar let himself out. He was suffused with relief. He felt like he was floating. In his mind, the strings were back in place, the beads bright and polished. And, best of all, it added up. He hadn’t miscalculated after all.

Meanwhile, Furlong flipped between a couple of the pages. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, whether something different or simply corroboration of Oscar's suspicions. Furlong knew Oscar’s eye for these sorts of details was considerably better than Furlong’s own. What Furlong had was an eye for talent. That was what had landed him in a management role. Even if Oscar was relatively new to the agency, Furlong’s gut told him that if Oscar was worried about this, then this was something worth worrying about. Furlong trusted his gut.

But what to do about it? S.M.I.L.E. was already critically over-tasked. To the average pony, things seemed to be sailing along smoothly in Equestria and the world at large. That the average pony hadn’t noticed anything strange, odd, unsettling, or unusually dangerous was due, in large part, to the hard work of Furlong’s field agents.

Unfortunately, with agents and intelligence resources in the Badlands now going missing in disturbing numbers, it simply wouldn’t be possible to find somepony within the agency who had the free time needed to babysit Mr. Mortalis and keep him out of harm’s way.

Furlong sighed. He opened a drawer and reluctantly pulled out a folder. It was one he had hoped he wouldn’t need to use. Certainly not this soon. Furlong flipped it open and stared at a photograph. At a glance, it was an image of a unicorn in a doctor’s coat. A closer look at the picture showed a stallion with what one might call a clinically stern expression, an expression that grew more unnerving the longer one stared at it. Probably because it was clear the unicorn in question was attempting a friendly smile ... but that smile did not touch his eyes.

There was considerable information appended to that image. Several pages of notes. Furlong eyed the latest entry to that folder: copies of tickets for an ocean-liner bound for Manehatten.

Doctor Tarrant Fether, Professor of Abnormal Psychology, was coming to Equestria. He was accompanied by the Knott twins, an identical pair of massive and brutal earth-pony orderlies with whom the good doctor had frequently worked.

They were hunting for Cantor Mortalis. They believed him to be insane, delusional, and in need of psychiatric care … lest the “voices” Cantor believed he heard drove him to commit dangerous acts.

Furlong wasn’t certain that Doctor Fether was entirely wrong in his professional assessment. Even if Doctor Fether was too personally biased by his past experiences with Mr. Mortalis to be able to offer up a truly dispassionate analysis of Cantor’s mental condition.

Doctor Fether wasn’t chasing Cantor just because of the outstanding court orders for Cantor’s detention and treatment. No, for Doctor Fether, this was somehow personal. Furlong frowned. The details on exactly why it was so personal were still unclear, and that was troubling. Furlong preferred to have all the relevant details at his hooves. When there were skeletons in the closet, Furlong wanted an exact count of all the bones. Regardless, Furlong did know was that for Fether this was somehow about Fether being right and Cantor being wrong; this was about the proper order and structure of the universe; this was about there being no such things as ghosts ... just a well intentioned pony with a sadly broken mind.

Not ideal, as far as leashes went, but it would have to do.

Furlong buzzed his secretary with a businesslike, “Miss White?”

“Sir?”

“Have Agent Tango report to me at once.”

“Sir.”

Time to put a few contingency plans in motion. If Furlong was right in his suspicions then once Cantor Mortalis finished dealing with the business in Canterlot’s Crypts, that half-crippled scholar would be ignoring Furlong’s warnings and plunging directly into danger. An unexpected move from Hive Naught, who were old friends of Cantor’s, potentially indicated they were shifting resources to support the ill advised researches of the self-appointed “speaker for the dead.”

S.M.I.L.E. would need to stop that from happening. Cantor might actually be what he claimed. After his activities in Albion, Cantor had moved to the top of the short list Furlong maintained of ponies who could potentially be gifted with the ancient and lost magic of necromancy. If so, Furlong would prefer him alive to deal with other hauntings as they came up. But then the problem became how to contain Cantor.

Furlong grimaced at the Doctor Fether’s folder. He was already having second thoughts. Third thoughts even. It was risky. But ... it didn’t spend bureau resources to keep the situation with Cantor under control. And bureau resources were already overtaxed.

Cantor wouldn’t like it – but a temporary stay in Bedlam was preferable to permanent occupancy of an unmarked grave in the Badlands. Furlong’s resources were stretched thin, but he was reasonably sure that with a few of the right nudges he could finesse the timing involved to keep events with that oh-so-charming unicorn mystic from spiraling too far out of control.

And if Hive Naught was getting more actively involved again, well, Tango had served with distinction the last time S.M.I.L.E. had deployed “Operation Swiss Cheese.”

Furlong only hoped that Cantor was wrong about what was going on in Dream Valley in the Badlands.

“If you are quite finished playing in the dirt, Doctor Caballeron, we should continue. Dawn will be here in a few hours.” The Pony of Shadows’ voice was as cold and whispery as ever. Worse she was beginning to sound annoyed. She lingered in the cave mouth and eyed the sky.

Caballeron growled, “These are necessary precautions, mon cher. It is better to have these resources and not need them, than need them and not have them.”

“And you’re sure you don’t just need them to further line your pockets? I’ll remind you Ahuizotal is paying quite handsomely for this job.” As usual, there was an undertone of mockery – Caballeron suspected she was implying that Ahuizotal was wasting at least some of the money he was spending to retain the rogue archeologist for this mission.

“We’re already on one detour, to repair those magical rings you pointed us to. At least this is a minor side trip and along our planned route rather than something hundreds of miles in the exact opposite direction of our actual goal. If we do meet others out here in the Badlands, we’ll need something worth trading. Whether to get information out of them, or to convince them to leave us be.” Caballeron’s own tone sharpened considerably, “Unless you think making yet more corpses would be a productive activity. It turned out to be so very helpful last time.”

She chuckled at that, damn her. But she fell quiet. Caballeron’s jibe had hit its mark. The last time she had indulged her taste for killing it had cost them considerable delay and exposure – and it ultimately led to a confrontation with that hardier-than-he-looked unicorn Cantor. A confrontation that had proved far more difficult than Caballeron would have initially suspected.

Cantor had very nearly burned away this particular pony-shaped scrap of shadow and hatred that lurked under a tattered cloak. From things she let slip, and Cantor's own insinuations, there were probably more tatters of her at large in Equestria. There was least one more that Cabelleron knew of ... the one who stood by Ahuizotal’s side and thus allowed that jungle devil to speak, through her, to Cabelleron himself.

There were days Caballeron regretted intervening to save her life from Cantor's assault. If, in fact, the Pony of Shadows was technically what one could call “alive” at all. But Caballeron couldn’t really continue this mission for Ahuizotal without her aid. At least … not yet. Soon, though, if all went as Caballeron had planned.

Caballeron almost had the central grave open. The rest of the buffalo had been interred around it in the sandy cave. This desert holy site had been abandoned for quite some time. And, like many such places, it looked as if the buffalo were only the most recent ones to make use of it. Many of the carvings were familiar to Caballeron. They spoke of Chicomoztoc, although Caballeron’s own grasp of the Nahautl language was rather shaky, so what exactly those carvings said he couldn’t know for sure. The important part was that this dated the cave back at least a few hundred years. Long enough to have the possibility of something truly interesting buried within.

Caballeron was sweating as he pried away with a shovel. In part from the labor involved. Mostly because of what he hoped to find.

Five days since they had made landfall in Horseshoe Bay and now they were deep in the Badlands. It was even creepier than the last time the two had ventured here at the start of this little retrieval mission for Ahuizotal. A month or two shouldn’t make so much difference, Caballeron thought – that it had was worrying. What was going on around here?

Nothing good.

Then again, ‘nothing good’ was the usual state of affairs when things like the Pony of Shadows wound up involved. It was one of Caballeron’s main reasons for insisting on this grave robbing detour.

The carved stone gave way. It shifted aside, revealing the previously undisturbed grave beneath.

Caballeron grinned in triumph. Over his shoulder he called out, “Make sure nothing’s creeping up on us.”

“Very well. But this is the last one, Doctor. After this we trot.”

Caballeron began hunting through the personal effects of the mummified body he had unearthed. As Caballeron thought, it was a pony, not a buffalo. One that had been buried here centuries before the buffalo tribes decided this was holy ground. The pony's heart had been removed and his leathery face still bore the yellow and black striping sanctifying the body to Tezcoltlipoca. Hoof-rings, feathered headdress, robes, dried flowers, a cracked obsidian mirror, ritually broken clay flutes … all useless. Caballeron gritted his teeth and tore into the burial site, crushing artifacts beneath his hooves. There had to be something here. Something that would serve as a charm. Something that would protect him from her.

It was here ... somewhere ... he knew it! He could almost feel it. And he was rarely wrong about such intuitions.

There! In the hole where the pony's heart had once beat lay a small, golden medallion. It was set with sun-stones and was beautifully carved. It bore an inscription of the calendar of eternity and other celestial imagery. Caballeron could almost feel the protective energy as he held it in his hoof. He quickly threaded the thing through a leather thong and hung it about his neck. It lay against his chest, concealed beneath his scarf.

Caballeron paused in his desecration. He felt … better. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing eased. The contrast was, he found, unnerving. Over the past week, he had come to suspect that the near constant presence of the Pony of Shadows as his “assistant” in this work was somehow magically influencing his general mood … but with that influence suddenly blocked, it was as if a deeper darkness had lifted from his naturally dark heart.

Poisonous. Caballeron thought. She’s poisonous. Just being near her corrupts.

Now, Caballeron grimaced, time to see if she noticed that he wasn’t quite so vulnerable to her dark influence any more.

He casually bagged a trio of anklets – silver with turquoise, same as most of the jewelry he had already stripped from the long dead buffalo shamans interred here – and called out, “I think that’s all, mon cher. We should be good to go.”

“Good.” Her reply strongly implied that it was about damned time. To Caballeron's considerable relief, she gave no sign of having noticed his new trinket.

Brushing dust and sand off his jacket, Caballeron fell into step beside her. They set off into the maze of canyons and crags. Overhead the stars slowly turned. The Pony of Shadows huddled beneath her scorched cloak, as if even their dim and distant light were painful to her.

Caballeron reflexively checked the flashbangs and the white phosphorous grenades he kept concealed on his person. If it came to a fight, he knew light and fire could do a number on whatever passed for her body. Once she realized Caballeron was moving to cut her out of this mission for Ahuizotal, there was almost certainly going to be a fight.

Caballeron still couldn’t piece together what, exactly, such a wicked thing as the Pony of Shadows actually wanted from all this. Ahuizotal wanted a mystic diamond from a vault somewhere in the distant north. Caballeron and the Pony of Shadows had already acquired another diamond from Albion, one which could deactivate the vault’s guardians. Caballeron had been slowly trying to piece together the precise location of the vault from the clues the Pony of Shadows had dropped in conversation. Given that the diamond they had already retrieved came from Princess Platinum’s coronation regalia, specifically from her father, King Bullion’s, scepter – the Rod of the North – Caballeron strongly suspected their ultimate target was the legendary treasure-vault of the last Unicorn King from those now frozen lands. A place abandoned when the ponies of old had fled the windegos to come south and found Equestria.

If they could reactivate Trotwine’s old ring gates, then Ahuizotal’s diamond (not to mention and all the other treasure in that lost chamber) could be dumped at the old jungle devil’s feet as soon as they breached the Silver Vault. At a little less than a meter in diameter, Trotwine's rings were a bit too small to serve as a mystic gateway for Caballeron to escape through, though. So afterwards it would still be a long hike south for the archaeologist himself. Regardless, Caballeron would get a share of the treasure in addition to earning a king’s ransom for turning the magical diamond over.

So then Ahuizotal would get the diamond – whose properties and purposes Caballeron didn’t know and wasn’t keen to find out. It was probably something to do with weather magic, judging by Caballeron’s past experiences with that particular villain. For this service Caballeron would get paid, and paid well. Further he’d get the satisfaction of actually beating Daring Do in the grand game of relic acquisition. That alone was worth almost as much as the money. Maybe more!

Caballeron’s mind turned away from happy thoughts of his own rewards to the troubling puzzle of his incorporeal assistant. So what, then, did the Pony of Shadows get? Oh, she acted the part of a cowed minion to the jungle devil Ahuizotal. A simple messenger and go-between. She acted it well. But Caballeron was no longer convinced that she didn’t have some game of her own. And whatever game that was, Caballeron suspected it was likely far nastier than anything Ahuizotal could dream up.

Caballeron didn’t like being played for a fool.

But Caballeron also rather enjoyed being among the living, so he wasn’t about to bring his suspicions up to her any time soon. Even when she didn't have reason to suspect he was preparing to move against her interests, the Pony of Shadows had casually toyed with his life and sanity. That business with the Red Knife back in Albion still gave Caballeron shivers when he thought about it. And he was a stallion that didn’t get the shivers easily or often. He was exceedingly glad that she hadn’t wanted him to keep the accursed, whispering blade around, but instead had mailed it somewhere else. Holding it for a few moments had been more than bad enough.

“So, mon cher, how much further to Dream Valley?”

“As the vulture flies? We’re less than a dusk away. But since you haven’t got wings …” the Pony of Shadow’s mocking pause seemed to imply that she, herself, wasn’t earth-bound, “We’ve still got three nights left to walk. Perhaps a little less.”

“Hm.” Caballeron frowned.

They trotted on quietly for a while. As they rounded a rather fanciful natural rock formation, sculpted by wind and blown sand over many hundreds of years, Caballeron spoke up.

“This feels wrong.” He was worried and he sounded it.

“How so?” She didn’t sound nearly as mocking, nor as cold, as she usually did. Caballeron suspected she agreed with him.

“The land. It’s … empty.”

“It was but little populated when we were here last.”

Ah yes, fun times stealing a fallen meteorite – a lunar rock as it turned out – from a dig-site in the desert.

“Yes, and since we’ve returned to the Badlands we’ve seen, what? Three ghost towns, the shattered remains of one stage-coach, half-a-dozen abandoned camp-sites, and one … just one … tribe of buffalo – a tribe that was on the move and had armed outriders. We’ve seen more bones than ponies.”

She was silent.

“And the buffalo didn’t even send a scout to check on us, mon cher. I know they must have seen us against the skyline.”

Her cloak twitched in a fashion Caballeron had come to interpret as a shrug.

A few more moments passed in silence.

“If you’re asking me what forces are at work here to cause this ... localized distress, then I have no answers for you, Doctor.”

“Really? No answers for me? I’m shocked and surprised.” Doctor Caballeron’s tone indicated he was anything but.

“It could be thunderbirds. Or vampiric jackalopes. Or skin-walkers. Or chupacabras. Or changelings. Or Oniate Dry-Fingers. Or Itopa’hi Sharp-Knees. Or Tlanuwa Iron-Feathers. The list goes on and on. And that assumes there is only one unusual danger at large rather than several of them. These are the Badlands after all. Even the dimmest of ponies should be able to work out that this means it isn’t safe here. ... Regardless, in three nights we’ll be able to rule out one possibility.” She almost sounded worried.

Caballeron raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll be at Dream Valley. If Lost Tambelon has returned … if Grogar’s back … we’ll know it then.”

“And what will we do if he is, mon cher?”

“You can do whatever you like. But me? I’ll run.”

The chilling thing, Caballeron realized, was that – for once – she was entirely sincere.

4. Friends.

Cantor awoke with a start, mid-snore. He snorted, coughed, and cleared his throat. The train had just rattled over a particularly bumpy bridge.

Cantor blinked groggily and got almost half-way through saying “Sorry” before Magpie’s spectral glare and shaken hoof cut him off. While Cantor wasn’t sure that Magpie actually would haul off and smack him for an unnecessary (as she saw it) apology he didn’t want to risk it.

“Well, good to see that Cantor’s at least working on that reflexive ‘apologizing when he’s surprised,’ thing. ‘tis a bad habit which would be better broken.” Morari sounded both thoughtful and pleased. He was seated on the bench beside Valentina, not that she could see him. He was also peering over her shoulder.

“Sooner rather than later!” Admiral Fairweather agreed. Fairweather was also still taking in the whole “cross-country train-travel” thing with delight and wonder. This modern era was full of surprises and delights.

Thankfully the train was not crowded today. As a result, Cantor and his friends had one small sitting car all to themselves.

Cantor shook his head to try to clear the mental cobwebs. He also felt unusually warm and heavy. He had been deeply asleep so it would take him a while to return to true wakefulness. Cantor looked out the window. Outside the light was noticeably different from the pale, pastel glow of dawn he expected to see. He frowned.

How long had he been sleeping?

“You needed the rest, dove.” Valentina was seated across from Cantor in the carriage. She had on her reading glasses – more as a fashion statement than because her eyes needed the assistance. She was reading the book ”Red Blade.” Several of Colonel Lusk’s other works on Laughing Jack were piled beside her. Morari was following along, looking over her shoulder and reading the story too. Cantor noted Valentina was almost finished with the thing. She hadn’t even started it when last Cantor recalled resting his eyes ... for just a moment, or at least so he had intended.

Also, there hadn’t been a pillow tucked between Cantor’s seat-back and the carriage wall when he had fallen asleep. There was now. Apparently he had slept quite heavily indeed not to have noticed somepony tucking it in behind his head.

“We need …” Cantor was interrupted by a yawn. Valentina book-marked her place with a Ponyville tourism brochure before shutting the paperback. Cantor continued, “Uhm. We need to work out what we’re going to do going forward. Get some strategic planning under our belts.”

There was a soft, rhythmic sound in the car. Something other than the constant clickty-clack of the train’s wheels along the rails. It took a moment for Cantor to place it.

Jon Quill was snoring.

Jon Quill was also sprawled over Cantor’s midsection with his forelegs wrapped tightly around the unicorn. Thus the extra warm and heavy sensation Cantor had already noted.

Well, Cantor thought to himself, it’s not the first time I’ve been used as a pillow.

Judging from Jon’s expression, Cantor was a comfy pillow. Cantor was relieved to note that at least Jon didn’t drool.

There was a twinkle in Valentina’s eyes as she removed her glasses and stowed them away. Then her expression grew a bit more serious.

“You really did need the sleep, Cantor. You were up most of the night doing those necessary ‘researches.’” Valentina included the air-quotes with one hoof.

Cantor grimaced. Valentina sighed. She leaned across the narrow space between her bench and the one shared by the two stallions to pat Cantor reassuringly on one foreleg.

“No worries, dove. You got us some more information on those knives. And some more leads to follow up on, should our attempts to get into the Badlands go south.” Valentina blinked, then grinned, “Or would that be ‘go north?’”

Cantor raised an eyebrow. Valentina chuckled and added, “Oh, la! You know what I mean!”

Cantor’s face scrunched up in a grimace. “I do indeed!” He stretched his forelegs, trying not to shift his weight too much.

Jon Quill hugged him tighter and continued to snore softly.

Magpie looked far too amused by this, even more so than Valentina. Cantor rolled his eyes at them both. He pursed his lips in mild disapproval, and once again looked out the window. The scenery looked vaguely familiar. His frown deepened.

“Uh … how much longer is it until we get to Ponyville?”

“We’ve got a few minutes.”

“What?!” Cantor was shocked and surprised. Jon skipped a beat in his snores.

Valentina still seemed amused. “Cantor, dear Cantor, we’ll work it out. You do know you overthink things sometimes, yes?”

“Oy! Sometimes? Just those time’s ‘e’s awake! … ‘r’ Dreamin’!” Magpie managed to sound both amused and annoyed.

”I still think that has something to do with his training at Nighthaven Academy.” Morari added.

”Perhaps. I, for one, am more concerned about Cantor’s affinity for worry. There is nothing wrong with thought alone.” Fairweather paced to the far side of the car, looking out the windows there at the land whizzing past.

Cantor shrugged, yielding the point.

Jon Quill blinked, yawned, and looked around. Cantor looked down at him with raised eyebrows and a down-turned mouth. It was not an approving expression.

The reporter blushed and sat upright with a, “Sorry! Nodded off there. What did I miss?”

“You missed Cantor getting a nap. Don’t worry, Jon dear-colt – you’ve not missed much of his worrying about what we’re doing next.” Valentia’s tone was still teasing.

Cantor couldn’t help but chuckle. “All right, all right. Maybe I have been worrying a bit much about this … but we do kind of need this visit to go well. It would be nice to get one problem off our backs.”

Jon frowned around another yawn. “Sorry. Why do we even need to talk to your sister again?”

Cantor sighed. His tone, when he answered, was serious enough that Valentina lost her amused grin.

“Because that’s the first step to shaking free of Tarrant Fether.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. Him.” Jon looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Cantor gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Hey, no worries Jon. So you talked to the stallion. No harm in that. Fether’s Fether.”

Jon still looked distressed. Cantor continued, “I know what Tarrant thinks about me.”

Jon’s face fell as he said, “Do you? Do you really?”

Cantor grinned. “Short version? I’m possessed by demons and I don’t know it.” Cantor sounded quite amused by the thought.

Jon Quill’s grimace made it clear he thought this wasn’t a laughing matter. “How can you …?” He began.

“Joke about it?” Cantor finished the journalist’s statement.

“Hold on a tic. Did you say ‘possessed?’” Valentina shook her head, not sure if she had heard correctly.

”Ruddy sawbones! I ain’t never been no demon.” Magpie muttered to herself.

“Yep! That’s Fether for you. Oh, don’t worry Jon. I know Fether’s got some very persuasive arguments on the subject. And he’s used them on you. But I’m more confident than ever that that’s not what’s going on with me.” Cantor’s tone was surprisingly authoritative.

But then Cantor continued, in a rather less confident tone, “Well … let’s just say I’m almost entirely certain. I suppose there’s always going to be some doubt.”

Morari facehoofed. Fairweather rolled his eyes and muttered, ”Leave it to Cantor to undermine his own position. We must teach the lad to have some real faith in himself.”

“Why are you more certain now?” Jon was curious.

Cantor’s face fell, the amusement vanished. “Because now I’ve actually seen the sort of demon he thinks has gotten into my head.” He looked over at Valentina. “You have too. The Pony of Shadows.”

There was a pause. Valentina shivered slightly at the memory.

Cantor continued. “You know that I can see in the dark … but it’s more than just that. I can see darkness. I saw her. Really saw that … thing. And I can tell you, my friends here …” he gestured around the cabin at the haunts “… they are nothing at all like what I saw back then.”

Valentina chimed in, “I saw Morari there too, Jon, if that helps.”

“What?” Cantor and Jon Quill spoke as one.

Valentina cocked her head to one side. “Didn’t I say? Well, what a goose I am!”

Magpie looked at Valentina with an expression of shocked surprise. The ghost opened her mouth to say something, but apparently thought the better of it and just shook her head in confusion.

Valentina continued, “When Caballeron was getting ready to smash Cantor’s head in with that iron book back at the Bodleian, Morari did some sort of spell …”

“A force bubble, simple – but effective.” Morari added.

Valentina continued, not even realizing she’d been interrupted, “… and Caballeron’s blow bounced off of it.” Valentina looked unusually thoughtful and a touch embarrassed. “I thought I had mentioned all this before. Sorry, dove! From what I recall, Jon, Morari’s about yay high …” she raised one hoof.

Morari obligingly stepped beneath it. Valentina’s memory for his height was spot on.

“ … horn about yay long …” Valentina held her hooves apart. Again Morari obligingly positioned his head so that Cantor could see the length matched.

“… he wore glasses, had a white blaze on his forehead, he had a well trimmed goatee and no mane whatsoever.” Morari nodded and pushed his glasses up on his muzzle to rest on his blaze.

“He was also transparent ... like smoked glass. His horn and eyes were … I don’t know … roiling? Seething? It wasn’t a very nice looking magic.” Valentina shook her head.

”It was cast off energy leaking from the Pony of Shadows. It wasn’t a nice feeling power to draw upon, I can assure you!” Morari added.

“He glared right at Caballeron and said,” as Valentina took a breath and dropped her voice to imitate the smooth burr of the long dead scholar, Morari himself struck a pose and lip-synched along with her, matching her movements with his own, “’Leave him be, living pony, the dead protect him!’” The accompanying gestures were theatrically dramatic.

Valentina nodded. “It was quite impressive.” Morari certainly looked pleased with himself, Cantor thought. But Valentia then went on to add, “Well, briefly impressive. Of course the Pony of Shadows immediately sucked all that black magic out of him and he just screamed like a foal and faded away.”

Cantor tried very hard not to laugh as Morari’s pride visibly deflated during Valentina’s closing assessment.

Jon, on the other hoof, looked rather relieved to hear that somepony other than Cantor had seen one of the spooks, even if just briefly.

Cantor’s smile faded. “However, continuing our researches with Fether on my trail would be …” Cantor trailed off.

“Difficult?” Valentina chimed in.

“Yes. Difficult is a nice way to put it. Shaking him loose won’t be easy either. Step one would be to get the courts to rescind the order for my detention and confinement in a mental health care facility.” Cantor gestured with his hoof, indicating the important point here, “And the most helpful thing we can do on that front is convince my sister to withdraw her support for my confinement.”

“Not your mother?” Jon piped up.

Cantor shook his head, “No. Mom’s highly unlikely to change her mind about her lunatic son.” He sighed. “I love her to pieces, and – in her own way – I’m sure she loves me too, but … well …” Cantor raised an eyebrow. “You do know I am the product of a mixed marriage, yes? Dad was a unicorn, but mom’s an earth-pony. Even if her folks are of gypsy descent, the whole ‘strange magics’ thing is something mom just doesn’t get. Honestly I think it scares her. My sister Rosa is an earth-pony too, but she’s quite a bit more open minded about these things! Enough to give me much more benefit of the doubt.”

Cantor grinned.

“Plus, Rosa’s a medical professional. She’s been involved with my health care on other occasions when I’ve been committed. Her word counts for a lot in these matters.”

“She’s a doctor?” Valentina seemed pleased by the thought.

“No. She’s a nurse. She does all the heavy lifting and real medical work that the doctors don’t want to do!” Cantor’s tone was fond as he recalled his sister’s occasional gripes about her job.

“I see. So if your sister the nurse says you’re sane enough to wander around Equestria freely …” Jon began.

Cantor completed the thought, “… then that, coupled with Hive Naught’s lawyers in Albion already contesting my detention in their court system, should be enough to get the orders dropped. At which time Fether won’t have legal grounds to hold me.”

“Fether won’t like that,” Jon sounded rather troubled by the thought.

“He won’t, but Fether’s mind is all gears and numbers; he’s far too by-the-book to come after me on his own volition without the full backing of the law.” Cantor sounded quite convinced on the matter.

Jon Quill, on the other hoof, wasn’t. Having seen first-hoof Fether’s obsession with Cantor’s supposedly delusional state, Jon felt certain the good doctor would never give up his pursuit. But Jon decided there wasn’t much point in bringing this concern up right at the moment.

“Also,” Cantor continued, “please don’t call sis ‘Rosa.’”

“No?” Valentina raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Cantor nodded, “My father was the one who was all about the fancy names. I mean, really, ‘Cantor Mortalis?’ There’s not even a decent way to adapt that to a less overly high-brow vernacular. ‘Mortal Singer’ or ‘Singer for the Dead’ sound like I’m fronting some goth-metal band. Sis got off lucky in that regard. Why even before moving back to Ponyville, she’s been using a different, and more common, form of her given name.”

“So, Nurse Red?” Jon asked.

Cantor shook his head. “No, but almost. Rosa Cuer: Redheart.”

“And you think you can convince your little sister, Nurse Redheart, to give you a clean bill of mental health?” Valentina, noting the train was beginning to slow, started packing away the books she had been reading.

Cantor grinned. “I can be very persuasive! So yes, I think I can. At least temporarily.”

“Do you think we’ll meet any celebrities? Is there time for a visit to the Castle? For that matter, why not see about getting one of the more potent magic-users living here involved in our researches? Isn’t there a really good library in town?” Jon Quill was back to his lively, question filled self.

Cantor shook his head.

“Jon, we’re trying to keep a low profile, remember? Odds are good that Fether will come here soon looking to track me down. And if we get mixed up with some of the more prominent locals, we’ll just make it easier for him. After all, even if we do convince my little sister to withdraw her support for my detention, it’s still going to take a decent amount of time for everything to sort itself out with the courts and yet more time before the orders are officially withdrawn. If Fether catches up with us in the interim, while things are still in some sort of gray area ... well ... surely a juicy story or two isn’t worth the trouble that would entail, eh?”

Jon’s face fell, but he nodded in agreement.

“Which reminds me, on the off chance you see a bright pink pony pronking her way around, for the love of Celestia try to blend into the background. She’s the only pony here who might make enough of a fuss about my return to leave memorable gossip about it around town!”

“Pronking?” Valentina’s tone was questioning. One eyebrow had shot up. She was walking beside Cantor, ready to help steady him if his bad leg gave out.

“Yeah!” Jon chimed in, “Like this!” And he began prancing around with a rather silly gait. Rather than walking or trotting or even galloping, he hopped – all four hooves bounced off the ground simultaneously then all four hooves landed back on it … he hopped in a circle around Cantor and Valentina.

“Just so, Jon. Just so.” Cantor nodded. Jon returned to a walk. They were making their way out of the train-station and into town.

Cantor drew a deep breath. He felt himself relax. Ponyville always had a certain … feel.

”Oy, this place feels nice.” Magpie’s tone was more suspicious than approving.

”I suspect there may be a number of magical factors at work in that regard.” Morari was frowning as he looked around at the pleasant, rustic buildings and the equally pleasant, rustic ponies.

”What, like that?” Fairweather pointed at a distant, massive structure. It bore a strong resemblance to a tree, but was made entirely of crystal. It seemed to glow in the early afternoon light, bathing the land around it with soothing, pale rainbows.

Morari raised his eyes and blinked at the distant castle in surprise. He nodded.

“Is that pink pony you mentioned a friend of yours?” Valentina inquired.

”Oy! I wish Cantor had a few more ‘good friends’ around, eh?” Magpie nudged Cantor in the ribs.

As usual, Cantor ignored Magpie. “She’s everypony’s friend.” Magpie giggled. Cantor’s sigh managed to sound both good-natured and frustrated. “You ever know one of those ponies who gets into parties? I mean really gets into them? Like magically, reality-bendingly so?”

Valentina smiled. Jon did too. He added, “They can be fun!”

Cantor chuckled and shook his head, though he clearly wasn’t disagreeing with his friends. “She’s like that, only more so. Combine that with a foal hyped up on sugar. Oh, I suspect she’s matured and mellowed over the years since I had much to do with her, but … well … let’s just say I’ve never been a fan of being the guest of honor at a surprise party.”

“Oh dear,” Valentina sounded appropriately sympathetic. She knew Cantor was the sort of pony to be exceedingly uncomfortable with that kind of attention. Admittedly, Valentina got considerable pleasure from pushing him into social situations outside his comfort zone.

“And …” Cantor drew out the word, a wry smile on his face, “… even ponies who are magically good at something can occasionally mess it up. Badly. Really badly. Not from lack of effort or enthusiasm, nor from bad intentions, but …”

Cantor grimaced. He shook his head at a distant memory. “Let’s just say that some things, in retrospect, are in very poor taste.”

“How poor?” Jon was intrigued.

Cantor stopped walking and just stared at him, stone faced.

For a moment Jon thought Cantor wasn’t going to answer. But then Cantor said, “The last time I was released from Ponyville General’s psych ward, she threw me a surprise, impromptu, and very public ‘Congratulations on Getting Out of the Insane Asylum’ party.”

Two living ponies and three ghosts stared at Cantor in shock.

“It was literally the first thing I saw as I walked out the door of the hospital.”

Cantor’s tone was reflective. He still sounded amazed at the memory, and perhaps – with the benefit of several years to take some of the sting out of a most unpleasant experience – even a little amused, as he continued, “She had decorated with brightly colored open cages. And there were birds wandering around everywhere. Specifically blue-footed boobies. There were straight-jackets hung in the trees with lantern-lights in them.”

Jon Quill was making strangled noises. Valentina looked like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“The cake said: ‘Congrats on Getting Out of the Booby-Hatch!’”

To her credit, Magpie had been trying to hold in her laughter. But that last detail was too much for her. Only Cantor and the other haunts could hear Magpie’s shrill guffaws as she collapsed against Morari, unable to stand on her own four hooves.

Valentina raised a hoof to her mouth in horror, her eyes had grown wide.

“Please, Cantor … no more!” Jon Quill pleaded.

Cantor, however continued, “Oh, and she had spiked the punch with anti-psychotics.”

“No!” Jon was aghast.

“’Just in case!’ she said. Thankfully nopony who got accidentally poisoned as a result wound up getting too sick,” Cantor grinned suddenly. “I’ll spare you a description of the party games she had arranged. Or of the music. Worst party of my life. Possibly worst party ever. Of all time.”

Cantor raised an eyebrow and looked at the comically shocked faces of his traveling companions. “Once it sank in how much of a disaster it was, she felt awful about it of course.” Cantor’s eyes twinkled. “Do you want to guess how she tried to make it up to me?”

“No. Please merciful sisters, no!” Valentina seemed caught between laughter and tears. Jon Quill placed his hooves over his ears and just shook his head.

Cantor nodded, he spoke slowly, with great relish, enunciating every word with deliberate emphasis. “Oh yes! … By throwing me another party.”

Magpie lost her grip on Morari and slid to the ground. Cantor reflected that if she actually needed to breathe there might have been a very real danger of the filly passing out – she couldn’t seem to stop laughing to catch her breath.

“So, yeah.” Cantor paused and then his expression hardened, “In all seriousness, if you see her around try not to get noticed. We really don’t need the exposure.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t run?” Valentina sounded half serious.

Cantor shook his head. “Running would only attract her attention.” His voice lowered to a dramatic whisper as he added, “She’s inescapable.”

“Once we’re done with the Trotting Dead, Cantor, remind me to come back here and do an exposé about some of the more colorful characters in town!” Jon Quill had regained something of his usual chipper attitude, but now he was actually paying attention to the other ponies around – hunting for signs of approaching trouble.

Valentina, pacing beside Cantor, frowned suddenly. “Hmm. But what about the library? Or finding help from one of the local magi?”

Cantor sighed. His mouth twisted up like he was tasting something sour and the furrow in his brow grew more pronounced. “For now can we just leave it at ‘I don’t want to do those things?’ Short version – I foresee much risk of critical delay and very little possibility of actual aid coming from it.” He paused and considered. “Maybe after Canterlot.” Cantor still sounded quite dubious about the prospect of securing any kind of arcane assistance here in Ponyville.

”I say, do you hear that?” Fairweather was looking around.

Valentina perked up, she had heard it too.

Somepony was rapidly approaching. They were shouting, “Spooky!” They sounded happy.

Cantor’s head jerked up and around. His expression was one of surprise.

There was a mare making a beeline for him. Thankfully she wasn’t pink. She was pale blue, with purple eyes, and a silvery-gray mane and tail. She was beaming with joy.

Cantor greeted her with a delighted cry of, “Goosey!” She bounced up and gave him a big hug.

Magpie (who was still laying on the ground, gasping and trying to recover herself) looked up in wide eyed surprise. ”Oy! Now I know Cantor didna jus’ call some filly a ‘goose!’ …” she frowned, “Well, that ‘r’ it don’t mean what it use ta, way back when ...” With Morari's help, Magpie began to get back up on her hooves.

“It’s so good to see you, Spooky!” The newcomer smiled and held on to Cantor‘s forelegs.

“It’s great to see you out and about, Loosey-Goosey!” Cantor replied.

“’Spooky?’” Jon muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Cantor chuckled. “Nickname. From way back. Jon Quill, Valentina, this is an old friend of mine. Her name’s Screw Loose.”

“We met in the asylum!” Screw Loose seemed quite pleased about it. “Cantor’s a really good fellow. Even if he is … uh … spooky!”

The three haunts exchanged amused glances at the thought that Cantor, due to their ghostly presence, was considerably ’spookier’ than many ponies might imagine.

“Oh!” Valentina smiled. “Nice to meet you.” She held out a hoof to shake. Screw Loose took it graciously.

“So, you worked at the hospital?” Jon asked her.

Cantor facehoofed.

“Nah!” Screw Loose beamed and held her hooves wide, striking a proud stance. “I was barking mad!”

Cantor gave her a pained look. He said, “Really? … Really? That was a terrible joke, Goosey.”

She grinned. Screw Loose’s words seemed to rush out at a galloping pace, “I’m … uh … much better now! I have my own home. And a job. The medicine and … uh … the magics are finally working reliably and consistently. I haven’t thought I was a dog in months! Not even during the … uh … full moon. And they haven’t had to put me in one of the soft rooms or jackets for even longer than that.”

Cantor grinned. “You’re still a good girl, Loosey. Always were, even then.”

She bumped her forehead against his shoulder affectionately and added, “And you’re a good pony, Spooky. I’m still not afraid of you. Never have been. Never will be.”

Cantor looked genuinely touched, perhaps even a little teary eyed, at that.

Screw Loose looked up at him with a smile. “Sorry if I’m a little manic. I get … uh … jittery sometimes. It’s the meds. You know how it goes. What brings you back to town?”

Cantor sighed. “I need to have a talk with my sister. You wouldn’t happen to know if she’s working today?”

Screw Loose nodded, “Oh yes! I saw her about … uh … fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I was just up at the hospital getting some pills.”

“Um … really?” Jon barely managed to stop himself from continuing on in a rather personal and highly impertinent flurry of questions.

Screw Loose nodded enthusiastically. She definitely had the jitters. It showed in her voice and in her body language. Her hooves couldn’t seem to stay still for long. “Yep! Allergy season. Had to … uh … get something to clear up my head. Stop sneezing.”

Jon and Valentina both looked a bit confused as to why a pony would go to the hospital for something as simple as allergies.

Screw Loose noticed their confusion. She chuckled and explained. “Me? I have to be careful before I just take a little something for the sniffles! Nothing over the counter. Might … uh … interact, you know? That could be bad. So I always make sure to check with my doctors and the pharmacist before I take anything. And when I take something new, or something I haven’t had in a while, I try to do it in … uh … whadayacallit … oh yeah, a controlled environment.”

Screw Loose turned her attention back to Cantor. “But yeah, Spooky, I was just speaking with your sis … I mean Nurse Redheart, a few minutes ago. She’s up at … uh … Ponyville General. She should be getting off work around six.” She grinned a bit more broadly, “I also see her every other Wednesday, just to make sure that everything is still going well. She’s nice! And great at … uh … home health care. She’ll be ever so glad you’re back, Spooky!”

Cantor’s answering smile was a little pained. “I sure hope so, Loosey. I sure hope so.”

There was a brief pause. The smile faded from Screw Loose’s face to be replaced by an expression of concerned worry. Her voice was pitched low as she added, “Spooky … if you need help …” Cantor shook his head but she continued anyway. “… they helped me. They’re getting better with this … uh … stuff all the time. They could help you too. You don’t have to live with voices in your head.”

Cantor patted her on the shoulder. He sounded a bit tired, “They’re not in my head, Loosey. Trust me.”

Screw Loose smiled and said. “O.k.!” Her tone was back to being bubbly.

Jon blinked and blurted out, “What?” He was a bit confused by the sudden, happy shift in her tone.

Screw Loose just stared at Jon quizzically. “If Spooky here says the voices aren’t … uh … in his head, I believe him. Don’t you?”

Valentina nodded. While Jon’s own “Well, yes … of course I do!” Caused Cantor to break into a grateful smile.

Screw Loose gave Cantor another quick hug and added, “Don’t let me hold you up Spooky! Will you be in town … uh … long?”

Cantor shook his head. “Sorry, Loosey Goosey. Maybe a day or two, but I’ve got places I need to go. Spooky friends to help out. Weirdness to deal with.”

Screw Loose made a sad face and said, “Aaaw!” But then she smiled, waved, and turned to trot away.

Cantor suddenly frowned. He held up a hoof to stop her and said, “Screw Loose, just a second.”

She looked up at him, her face settling into serious attentiveness at the sound of Cantor using her given name.

Cantor continued, “There’s a doctor who may come through town soon …”

She interrupted, a suspicious frown on her face, “A good doctor or a bad doctor?”

Cantor gave a wry smile, “Depends. Good for you, but very bad for me.”

Screw Loose nodded.

Cantor added, “If he asks, you haven’t seen me around here. You don’t know where I am, where I might be going, or what I might be doing.”

She nodded again. Screw Loose then cocked her head to one side. “He wants to put you in a soft room again?”

Cantor nodded. He added, “His name is Tarrant Fether.”

Screw Loose’s expression was serious. “Got it. Fether is a bad doctor. I tell him nothing!”

Cantor sighed in dismay. He continued, with a patient tone, “No, Loosey, Fether is a good doctor. He just …”

Screw Loose interrupted Cantor. “If he’s bad for you then he’s a bad doctor.” She spoke with great conviction. Screw Loose then shook her head as she turned to Jon and Valentina, “Spooky still … uh … makes everything way too complicated, doesn’t he?”

Magpie laughed and poked at Cantor. ”Oy! She does knows ya well, then, don’t she?”

Jon nodded. Valentina smiled and added, “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Loosey.”

Screw Loose gave an airy wave and said, “Ta!” Valentina returned the wave and added a “Ta!” of her own. Cantor and his friends watched Screw Loose trot away.

After a moment of silence, Cantor added, “Now there goes a small miracle. Who would have thought it? She’s doing so much better than back when ...” He trailed off. His friends could tell that he was deeply moved by this encounter. But then the joyous expression began to fade from his face. Valentina took his foreleg and gave it a squeeze.

Cantor hmm’d thoughtfully. He wore an expression which Valentina associated with rapid and careful thought. Cantor's tone, when he spoke a moment later, indicated he had come to a decision.

“O.k. ... Quick change of plans: time to do a bit of grocery shopping! Now I’m thinking that rather than track my little sister down at the hospital, I can get a dinner ready for us all at her place. One of my lasagnas can usually put Rosa in a good mood. And our conversation would probably be better held in private.”

“You cook?” Valentina was surprised. Jon Quill looked intrigued.

Cantor snorted. “Almost any pony who can follow the directions in a book of ritual magic well enough to cast a spell can follow a recipe! And lasagna is my specialty.”

5. Family.

Nurse Redheart took a sip of her after-dinner nightcap and frowned at Cantor. She was tired from a long day’s work and a reunion with her wayward brother (accompanied by two of his new friends) was not something she had been expecting. Even so, it was very good to see Cantor again. Especially since he had cooked up a feast for them all.

The remains of that feast still occupied Redheart’s dining room table. Roughly a third of the garlic-mushroom lasagna, packed with herbed ricotta cheese, a thick tomato sauce, and cooked to perfection still filled its pan. There had been a salad of greens, dried cranberries, walnuts, and crumbled goat cheese lightly tossed in a balsamic vinaigrette of which only a few bites were left. Likewise there were only three slices left of the hearty bread, slathered with garlic butter and topped with a mixture of mozzarella, parmesan, pecorino romano, and asiago cheeses which had been toasted until the cheese had turned bubbly and just a touch brown. Cantor had paired the main course with a rather fruity Shiraz. Dessert had been sorbet and drinks.

The kitchen, Redheart thought, was unsurprisingly neat and tidy. Cantor had always been the sort of cook to clean up after himself as he went along. Hardly was he done using a utensil, pot, or pan but he had it washed with soapy water and set out to dry.

There had been relatively brief introductions. Then the dinner conversation had largely revolved around mutual friends, family, goings on in Ponyville, and Nurse Redheart’s duties.

Now Redheart’s belly was full of some really good food, and between the wine and the crème-de-menthe there was a pleasant touch of softness around the edges of her thoughts.

Given the circumstances, a touch of softness was probably a good thing. Her thoughts were hard and heavy.

“Now, Cantor, let me return to the question you dodged so nimbly when I found you cleaning up in my kitchen.” Redheart smiled, but her expression was one of deep suspicion. “How did you treatments go?”

Cantor grinned, a little sheepishly, as he replied, “They haven’t yet.”

Nurse Redheart began to rub her forehead with one hoof. This was exactly what she had suspected … feared really … upon finding her brother had let himself into her house, cooked, cleaned, and brought along some new friends. She sighed.

Valentina and Jon Quill looked a trifle uncomfortable. Jon, in part, because both of Redheart’s tabby cats were curled up on him and they were quite insistent that he would be their new, and preferred, bed. No matter where he went in the house, as soon as he settled, they found a way to perch upon him. Ordinarily he wouldn’t mind (he was fond of most pets) but from his faint sniffles, it was also clear that he was mildly allergic to these two particular felines.

“Cantor …” Redheart’s tone combined disappointment, concern, and weary affection, “… you need help.”

“I know, sis.” Cantor replied. “I’m getting help. I’ve gotten help. But what I don’t need, right now, is to be detained. Nor to be kept from my researches.”

Redheart shook her head in disagreement, a stern expression in her face.

When she did so (in a manner so like that of Cantor) both Valentina and Jon Quill found themselves thinking once again that it was remarkable (and oddly heartwarming) how closely brother and sister resembled one another.

Nurse Redheart was a younger, smaller, and much slimmer version of their scholarly friend. Both had white bodies and the same blue eyes. Admittedly Redheart’s mane and tail were a trifle longer, and they were a light pink rather than Cantor’s own dark gray. Likewise, her face wasn’t subtly lined with worry or care the way Cantor’s often was. Even though Redheart, as an earth pony, had no horn – if you were to stick her beside her unicorn brother then no pony could miss the exceptionally strong family resemblance. Older brother and younger sister – they looked their parts.

And, like her brother, it was clear that Nurse Redheart had a stubborn streak, coupled with the will and drive to get things done, beneath her usually pleasant and soft spoken demeanor.

Cantor continued, “I’ve gotten friends, new and old, involved in my latest project. It’s going much better than when we spoke last.”

Redheart frowned at Valentina and Jon Quill as she said, “What? These? …”

Nurse Redheart sighed again. Both Valentina and Jon had the distinct impression that Redheart didn’t think very highly of the sort of ponies who would follow after Cantor … who would collaborate with his possibly delusional state. Redheart hadn’t exactly been warmly welcoming. Though she had invited them all to stay for dinner.

Valentina’s own expression had hardened in an all-too-polite mask. She looked like she was taking Redheart’s unspoken suspicions personally.

But, remembering back to some of Cantor’s less-than-reputable friends in Albion (and other ponies like them) Jon Quill found himself thinking Nurse Redheart might well have good reasons to be worried about unscrupulous sorts using (and abusing) her brother’s kindly nature.

Nurse Redheart continued, “Cantor, you don’t need to be wandering Equestria chasing … rumors … mysteries …”

“Ghosts?” Cantor added, with just the barest hint of humor.

Redheart’s face scrunched up in disapproval. “Whatever. It’s not good for you. Not just your body,” and here she leaned over the table to poke the plumpness that padded his ribs. “Your mind too. You run yourself ragged over this. And it’s not like you can support yourself, nor get anything like decent care or treatment for any illness or injuries that come as either direct or indirect results of your … hobbies.”

Cantor listened politely.

Redheart’s tone softened, just a touch. “I’ll admit you look much better now than when you were here last. So much better that I was hoping they had found some treatment that actually worked and that you had gotten out early.”

Cantor’s own expression shifted to one of concern, “Rosa, you …”

She interrupted, speaking with considerable passion, “You scared me Cantor! You were so … desperate. So driven. I thought …” Redheart swallowed. She wouldn’t let herself cry. Right now she was too angry for that.

“I …” Cantor began again as he reached over the dining room table toward his sister.

“And for what?” She continued, taking his hoof in both of her own. “For phantoms only you can hear? Cantor, even if there are ghosts … what about you? Just let them be and, for once in your life, focus on taking care of yourself. On learning how to settle down. On being happy and healthy and at peace. Make a life for yourself … and deal with the dead on your off time.”

Still holding her hoof, Cantor answered softly, “I can’t do that sis. You know it. When you see somepony hurting or injured or in need of help, you’ve always been one of the first to trot right up and do whatever needs doing to help heal the hurts you see. For me …” Cantor paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, “… I see somepony hurting, somepony in need and I just … I have to help.”

Redheart squeezed his hoof harder, “I understand, Cantor, really I do! I … I feel the same way whenever I look at you.”

If it wasn’t for the cats, Jon Quill would have quietly ducked out to the living room. This was all feeling far too uncomfortably personal. Under other circumstances, Jon would be the first pony to gladly eavesdrop on familial gossip … but this was Cantor. This was a friend. And, for a change, Jon felt terribly out of place.

Valentina, on the other hoof, had shifted her position closer to Cantor – a subtle show of reinforcement and support for her friend.

Cantor’s gaze had dropped. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to meet Redheart’s own. It was rare for him to really look at a pony, even rarer to stare eye to eye with them. But he did so now.

“Rosa … there is an important difference between us, though. When you see a pony in pain, a pony in desperate need of help, you can always choose to walk away … to pass the buck … to alert somepony else. You don’t have to step in and handle everything personally. When you don’t intervene, the hurt pony can still get help.”

Cantor continued, and there was a terrible sense of finality in his voice, “The hurt ponies I see? If I don’t help them nopony else will. Nopony else can. Nopony else will ever even know they were there.”

“But I’ll know.” As Cantor spoke, Jon Quill and Valentina both shivered. There was a perfect term for how Cantor sounded as he spoke those words. That term was haunted. Cantor continued, “I’ll always know. Even if you stop me from helping. Even if you have me locked away. I’ll know I failed them.”

Redheart let go of Cantor's hoof and leaned back in her chair. Her expression was one of love, and deep concern, but … Cantor noted with dismay … there still wasn’t true belief there. Or, perhaps, if some part of her did believe him then that only served to deepen her fears for his own well-being. It was all quite flattering and deeply touching Cantor thought.

It was also ruinously inconvenient given the present crisis. Time to change tack.

“Rosa,” Cantor adopted a very serious tone, “It’s not just my desire to be unencumbered by a straight-jacket and to continue my travels and explorations that brings me here today. You have to rescind your request for my incarceration.”

“I’m not sure I have to do any such thing!” Redheart replied.

But Cantor continued, “You and Mom had the request put through Manehatten’s courts. Since I was en route to Lunadun at the time, the judges also had the courts in the Griffish Isles process that request. They sent it on to Bedlam, and one of Bedlam’s doctors is trying to use this as a means to detain and treat me.”

“I don’t see how …” Redheart began, but Cantor just spoke over her.

“The Doctor in question is Tarrant Fether.”

There was a moment of stunned silence while Nurse Redheart, already white as white could be, blanched. But then she sat up very straight in her seat and said, with carefully controlled wrath, “Tarrant Fether?”

Cats or no cats, Jon Quill scooted his chair back away from the table. The cats stopped purring. Valentina herself flinched and shifted her own position, sliding a fraction of an inch away from Cantor.

The last creature they had heard use that tone of voice was the Changeling assassin turned actress, Thretan. It was a tone that promised terrible, horrible, unspeakable things.

Cantor nodded. “If he gets his hooves on me it won’t be pleasant for anypony involved. And you know how Fether is, as long as the law is on his side, he’ll be unstoppable.”

“Oh, I know how Fether is.” Redheart practically growled. Her angry frown now looked a trifle less obstinately set against Cantor’s wishes.

Redheart considered the matter for a few minutes. Then she pursed her lips. “Cantor, I still think you need professional help. So I’ve a solution – why not voluntarily come with me back to Ponyville General? Get started on something that’ll help you get to a better place in life?”

Cantor shook his head, “Sis, if it was just the usual mumbo-jumbo with me and my spooks, sure. I’d seriously consider it. But things have been unusually high-weirdness lately.” He gave a faint smile, “From some of what I hear about happenings in Ponyville, you know a thing or two about ‘high weirdness,’ yes?”

Nurse Redheart rolled her eyes and nodded.

Cantor continued, “So I can’t just let this go right now. And even if I could, with the order for my detention having been processed through Bedlam already, and Tarrant on my trail …”

Cantor shook his head, “No. I’m sure he’d find some way to … uh … call ‘dibs’ on my treatment. To establish a ‘prior claim’ to the folks here in Ponyville. If I’m detained, he’ll get me eventually. You know he will. We have to take away his legal authority to hold me at all. And that means you have to get the judges to drop their detention order. We can deal with everything else later.”

Jon Quill and Valentina glanced at each other. Cantor could be exceptionally persuasive when he turned the whole of his considerable presence and attention to the task. His voice, musical and sweet, naturally seemed to inspire trust and confidence – one wanted to believe him. And all of this without his deploying the magical enchantments he had at his disposal.

But it wasn’t enough. They could see it, as could Cantor. Nurse Redheart’s resolve wavered, but it held firm.

“No, Cantor. We can keep Fether from you. But only if you’re under treatment elsewhere.” Redheart couldn’t bring herself to look at her brother. It was clear that her decision was extraordinarily difficult and painful.

What was worse was the look on Cantor’s face. Jon drew breath to say something … anything … but he couldn’t seem to choke words out around the sudden lump in his throat. Valentina moved slightly, reaching out to lay a comforting hoof on Cantor’s shoulder. She stopped herself.

Cantor winced. His eyes shut tightly and he drew a deep breath.

Nurse Redheart looked down at the remaining crème-de-menthe in her glass.

“So, it sounds like we’re at an impasse. May I … may I make a suggestion, sis?” even with the catch, Cantor’s voice showed little sign of the anguish written on his face.

Jon Quill’s own eyes grew wide. He had always been good at putting odd pieces of information together and making intuitive leaps to perfectly outrageous conclusions. Jon could tell what was coming.

Nurse Redheart said “Sure, go ahead.” Then she tossed back the rest of her drink.

Cantor’s horn began to glow sliver, as did his eyes. Such a pale light of magic. It was hard to see; hard to notice in the flickering candle light … but the light, like a shimmering aurora, drifted out of Cantor and into his sister.

As Cantor spoke, the mystic compulsion that filled his voice made his earlier, impassioned attempts to convince Redheart to withdraw her support for his institutionalization sound utterly flat and emotionless by comparison.

”I suggest you tell me exactly what I must say and do to get you to not only immediately remove the orders for my arrest and treatment but also to lend your own willing aid to the purpose of my free travels throughout Equestria as I work to solve the arcane mysteries I am currently struggling with.”

The spell was not directed at Jon. Nor was it focused on Valentina. But, just from being on the fringes of the magic, each found their own thoughts leaping to follow that line of inquiry.

Nurse Redheart looked at Cantor. Her face had settled into a thoughtful daze. And her eyes glowed with the same silvery light as Cantor’s horn.

The spell had struck her full force, burrowing into her mind, twisting her thoughts to align with this mystic compulsion.

Valentina had pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. She caught Jon Quill’s eye, raised one of her brows, and gave a slight tilt of her head toward Cantor. Jon just nodded, his face was also sporting a stunned expression. In some ways, Cantor’s facility with such mind-controlling magics were, well, spookier than his arcane connection with the realms of the dead.

Jon Quill suddenly felt profoundly grateful that Cantor was so … nice. The sort of things somepony not-so-nice could do with that kind of magic were rather distressing to consider.

“You’d …” Redheart spoke softly. But then paused. She tilted her head slightly.

A moment passed.

She continued, speaking slowly and clearly, “You’d need to promise me that once your researches were done … once this arcane crisis is over … that you’ll come back and get yourself properly treated. That you’d work with your psychiatrists and therapists to deal with your issues … whether or not seeing dead ponies is one of them. You’d need to promise to seek out stable, long term employment – work that could support you – so you don’t have to rely on the charity of friends and strangers just to keep a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food in your belly. If you are to chase ghosts, it can’t come at the cost of your own personal well-being … you must find a way to either have a life outside of your calling, one which can support you in your arcane researches, or a way to turn your calling from a ruinously expensive and personally damaging hobby to a profitable career. And I need proof … something … anything … more than just your word that all of this nonsense with the dead is really happening … that it’s worth you throwing your life away on these arcane pursuits. Even if your life isn’t that important to you, Cantor, it means a hell of a lot to me.”

Redheart blinked and shook her head. She looked a little dazed.

Cantor looked heartbroken. He swallowed heavily. Before he could speak though, Nurse Redheart gave him a sudden glare and leaned across the table to punch him in the shoulder. It wasn’t that hard of a punch, thankfully.

“You bastard!” She said, “I thought you promised Dad you wouldn’t do that again after the chocolate ice-cream incident!”

Cantor let out a surprised laugh and rubbed his shoulder.

“Yeah, I did promise, sis. But this was important.” He grinned with a measure of relief. “More important than securing an extra waffle-cone of double-fudge at least! And I did technically ask for your permission.”

“What?” Redheart looked startled.

Cantor, all innocence, explained, “I asked you if I could make a ‘suggestion.’” He used air-quotes. “You said yes.”

She crossed her forelegs and glared, raising one eyebrow. “Hmph.” Redheart stated.

She then added, “Well?”

“Yes.” Cantor said. “Yes to all of it. I’ll come back here and get treated as soon as I have put a stop to the current highly unnatural rise of the Trotting Dead and have laid those risen back to rest. I’ll settle down. Get a real job.”

Cantor’s eyes darted briefly to an apparently empty portion of the room. From his expression, Valentina and Jon Quill suspected that Magpie had just made one of her teasingly inappropriate comments.

Cantor continued, with a slightly embarrassed grin, “But you’re the one who’ll have to give mom some grandkids!”

Nurse Redheart rolled her eyes. “Don’t even start with me on that, Cantor.” Her expression began to shift towards stern again. “Also while your promises are good, they’re not enough.”

“I think we can help with that part, miss,” Valentina chimed in.

“Really?” Redheart sounded mostly skeptical.

Valentina and Jon Quill both nodded. Valentina spoke first.

“Back in Albion, while we were doing some research into the Trotting Dead, we encountered a particularly unpleasant and dangerous arcane phenomena. One of the ghosts that’s helping Cantor with his research was able to tap into its power – briefly – and manifested to help us out of the resulting pinch. I saw him, clear as I see you. Well ... almost as clearly! He was hazy and see-through.” Valentina shrugged, “Seeing is believing, as they say, and I’ve seen a ghost. Not that I had much in the way of doubts before.”

Jon Quill chimed in, “And I saw one of the Trotting Dead in Whitstable – a pegasus skeleton trapped in some terrible vortex of evil power. I watched as Cantor charmed the poor fellow’s spirit out of his bones and got him to quiet down … which set him free from whatever that wicked magic was. So even if somehow Cantor’s not able to do the whole ‘speaking with the dead’ thing in quite the way he seems to, there are still strange and disturbing things actually ahoof that his magic can definitely fix.”

Jon Quill added, “Also: that one vortex in Whitstable? There are others out there. We definitely know where one more is and are hoping to learn something from freeing the spirit trapped in there. It’s kind of our next stop, if we can get Cantor free from this legal business. So we also definitely need his help to get this all sorted.”

Valentina nodded, “Quite right! You can check with Chief Inspector Jack in Shetland Yard on the Whitstable matter. Also, Cantor’s whole ‘speaking with ghosts’ thing was something they actively tested out – and a cadre of their wizards found it a reliable and useful source of information. Not only reliable and useful, but as best as those experts could determine, Cantor is a bona fide spiritualist and a medium. In fact,” Valentina grinned, “speaking of Cantor turning his talents as a ghost-whisperer into a paying profession, it was subsequently suggested that Shetland Yard would be quite willing to take him on as a ‘consultant.’ Regardless of exactly how his natural magic gets him information, it does get him accurate information which he can then use to help out various investigations.”

“Really,” Jon Quill continued with a winning smile, “In light of all that, I think Cantor’s having some natural ability to speak with the dead seems a far likelier explanation that anything else I’ve heard! And I’ve talked to some ponies who’ve had some pretty strong opinions to the contrary.”

Nurse Redheart looked thoughtful, perhaps even hopeful. She was taking it all in.

Cantor, meanwhile was staring off and frowning in surprise. He was clearly listening to one of his three ghostly companions. It also looked like he was pleased with what he heard.

“Uhm,” Cantor began, his attention returning to his sister, “In addition, on the employment front, it’s also theoretically possible that I could make use of my ability to speak with ghosts to become a ‘ghost writer.’ In a surprisingly literal use of that phrase. Morari here tells me that he had a number of unfinished, and unpublished, ideas for works which he would be more than happy to dictate to me, which I could then transcribe and publish on his behalf, and with the royalties from any sales going to me.”

Cantor blinked in surprise and delight, once again addressing what seemed to be empty air. “Thank you Morari! That’s a generous offer. … No, you’re the one who’s being too kind.”

Cantor shook his head and returned his attention to the living ponies here, particularly his sister. He grinned, “So?” That one word held a great many unspoken questions.

Nurse Redheart sighed in resigned defeat. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. I’ll talk to the judge here in the morning, but it will probably take a week or two before we can get anything pushed through to Manehatten. And I have no clue how long they'll take to put a stay on those orders.”

She grimaced. “Mom won’t be happy about this.”

Cantor nodded, “Sorry Sis! And thanks.”

“You will be spending the night here,” Nurse Redheart addressed all three of her visitors, and it wasn’t a question. There were nods all around.

“Good,” Redheart continued. She paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Say, Cantor, you wouldn’t happen to be passing through Canterlot soon, would you?”

Cantor looked surprised. “Actually, Canterlot was going to be our next stop. Our plan was to head that way tomorrow or the day after. Why? What’s up?”

Redheart sighed, “Aunt Providence had to let her old housekeeper go. The new one seems fine, her references all check out, but one of us needs to explain our arrangement with her.”

Cantor nodded solemnly. “Will do. I’ll handle Aunt P. You handle mom.” He grinned. “That’s how we’ve always split up familial obligations before, after all!”

“Hmph! Family obligations.” Nurse Redheart muttered. But then she stood up, came around the table, and gave Cantor a very tight hug as she quietly added, “Love you, big brother. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”

Cantor hugged her back, “Love you too, little sister. And I’ll try.”

6. Guests.

Jon Quill found himself staring worriedly at the back of Cantor’s head once again. This afternoon wasn’t going well, and Cantor was getting cranky. Oh, he tried to rein himself in, but there was an edge to his tone – and his distracted state made it look like he was trying to figure out a solution to some sort of particularly annoying problem.

What was worse, Jon had a growing suspicion that one of the problems vexing Cantor might be Jon Quill himself.

They were in Canterlot, in one of the older residential sections. It was all very nice. Admittedly, these were not the palatial residences of the nobility or the upper crust. But the homes here had an air of gravitas, of elegance, of propriety. The lots were narrow but deep – backing onto one of the cliff-walls on one side of the street, or backing onto a cliff-side drop on the other. Homes were surrounded by high walls, with narrow gates looking into carefully tended front gardens. The iron street-lamps were ornamented with brass fittings.

There were carved stone benches set every few houses. At the moment Cantor was sitting on one, catching his breath, and staring distractedly at the sky. Or perhaps one of Canterlot’s distant spires. Or maybe a ghost. Jon couldn’t really tell.

Valentina was at least as grumbly as Cantor. Her afternoon hadn’t been going well either.

Oh, the train ride from Ponyville had been fine. And by spending an extra two days with Nurse Redheart, the trio had managed to lay a bit of a false trail. First they had Cantor purchase tickets for Seaddle, with a layover in Dodge Junction. Then they’d made a bit of a show of boarding that train before immediately hopping (or, in Cantor’s case, falling) off one of the rear cars and sneaking back into town. For their actual ride to the capitol Valentina had purchased the tickets (with Hive Naught’s credit) and Cantor had been disguised when boarding the train. With luck Fether (or anypony else trying to track Cantor) would take the bait and head west.

No, the problems started after they got to Canterlot. Valentina was attempting to do the work involved in maintaining her cover-story – the whole “being a personal assistant to a famous actor” thing which had her checking out hotels, restaurants, and other travel accommodations throughout the realm. The original plan was that she’d get rooms for everypony and then Cantor could duck out to handle whatever family business was up with his aunt.

Jon Quill had the distinct impression that Cantor preferred to keep those family dealings private. Which, of course, only made Jon more curious about them.

But there were no rooms to be had in Canterlot. Of any sort. At any price.

Obvious, in hindsight. The Grand Galloping Gala was coming up within a little over a week. It was the premier social event of the season. Not just for the capitol city, but for the nation as a whole. Everypony who was anypony was coming to town. Even the ponies who couldn’t get into the palace grounds proper were still trying to be nearby for the festivities. There would be parades, fireworks, music, an air-show … as a result the city was already packed. Every possible room for rent had been booked months in advance.

Which had left Valentina, Cantor, and Jon Quill spending all afternoon chasing leads on possible room-openings at various bed-and-breakfasts or other such accommodations in the more outlying neighborhoods.

All with no luck.

Couple that with Cantor’s limping pace, and the frustration of slowly wandering hither, thither, and yon about the (admittedly lovely, festive, and scenic) streets of Canterlot while accomplishing nothing of use had even gotten Valentina into a sour mood. She looked rather like she wanted to punch somepony. Maybe Cantor. To hurry him up.

Further, Cantor wasn’t just tired. It had become obvious that he was intentionally dragging his hooves. Most recently he had insisted on stopping at a couple of stores and acquiring some odds and ends. Jon Quill had been stuck carrying the bags, and Cantor hadn’t said why he needed caramel apples, nor flowers, nor a children’s book of stories.

Cantor also wasn’t discussing his obvious reservations about taking his new friends to his aunt’s home. Even if that was now looking like their best option for securing a place to spend the night in the city.

Honestly, right now the only alternative looked to be ’take a night train back to Ponyville and stay there until the Gala!’

Valentina sighed. She managed to keep most of the annoyance out of her voice as she pointedly asked Cantor, “Are you ready to carry on, yet?”

Cantor winced. His mouth scrunched up. He sounded troubled as he replied, “Not quite yet, Valentina.”

Cantor looked directly at Jon Quill.

That was always a bit of a shock, Jon noted. Usually Cantor didn’t really focus on a pony. He kind of looked in their general direction … he looked around them, not at them. Jon still hadn’t figured out how Cantor’s gaze could manage to be both so very soft and so very intense at the same time.

“Jon,” Cantor’s obvious reluctance dripped like molasses over his words, “I need to ask you a personal favor …”

As Cantor began to speak, the pieces all came together in Jon Quill’s mind. Jon Quill felt his heart drop a bit. He had been right. The problem was Jon Quill himself.

Or rather, his profession.

But then Jon felt a rising surge of relief as he realized he knew just what to say. Finally! It was good to be able to solve a friend’s problem.

So Jon interrupted Cantor, “Yes, of course. I promise I won’t discuss or write up anything about whatever it is that’s going on at your aunt’s place, Cantor.”

Cantor blinked in surprise. He was also obviously relieved. Jon had been right. It was as if Jon’s words had shifted a great weight from his back. Valentina also looked surprised, her gaze flitted from one stallion to the other.

“Thank you, Jon.” Cantor’s gratitude was sincere. It made Jon feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Which also meant that he had to remember to actually keep this promise. His track record in such matters wasn’t the best.

“Well, boys,” Valentina chimed in, “Now that that’s finally sorted, is it much further to Dame Providence’s manor?”

Cantor grinned sheepishly as he rose to his hooves. “Not far at all. Third house up the street, on the right.”

So, up the street it was. The gate into the front garden was unlocked. The walk was graveled, with low boxwood-hedges on either side. The inner facing of the walls were set with some sort of metallic trellis on which old wisteria vines were growing. Their colorful blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent. Ahead, the path circled a small pool, filled with water lilies. A marble statue of a rearing unicorn rose from the middle of the waters. Just past that, a series of steps led up to the large front door – a massive affair of polished wood, carved with military scenes, and over which a half-circle of stained glass showed the rising sun flanked by unicorns and pegasi in antique armor.

Cantor limped up to the door and pulled on a bell cord that dangled just off to one side. A distant chime sounded somewhere deep inside the home.

A moment later an elderly earth pony in an old-fashioned suit-coat opened the door. If he wasn’t a butler, Jon Quill thought to himself, Jon would eat his hat – press-pass and all.

Normally such serving ponies are supposed to be all stone-faced and impassive. This fellow’s sudden smile was thus doubly surprising. It caused a flurry of happy wrinkles to appear around his eyes.

“Young Master Mortalis, as I live and breathe! Do come in. Dame Providence will be most pleased to learn of your arrival.” The butler glanced at Jon Quill and Valentina, treating the latter with a slight nod of his head. “And you’ve brought two friends I see. Young master Clearwater was not entirely mistaken.”

Cantor raised an eyebrow. He also held the door for Jon Quill, Valentina, and the butler to enter the richly paneled hallways beyond. “Cousin Arty was expecting us?” Cantor sounded more interested than surprised.

The butler let out a slight sigh, “He’s been in a state all day.” Noting Cantor’s sudden distress he added, “A happy state to be sure! But still quite worked up. He kept saying that six were coming for dinner. And that we needed to set three more places than usual. Master Clearwater has simply refused to come down and eat until, as he said, ‘they all got here.’ Now, here you are. I’ll let cook know we will begin serving at once … unless you need to refresh yourselves?”

“Perhaps a moment to wash some of the dust of travel from our faces,” Cantor replied. Valentina was nodding approvingly.

“Of course, sir.” Turning to address Valentina and Jon he added, “This way ma’am. Let me take your things and I will show you to one of the guest suites.”

Jon Quill caught Cantor’s mostly-under-his-breath mutter of, “Later, Morari. And I really don’t know.”

Jon frowned suddenly. This welcoming exchange had prompted at least a dozen questions. He had promised not to publicize any information he might glean here, but that shouldn’t stop him from inquiring, right? Inquiring minds wanted to know, as they say – and few minds were more inquiring than Jon Quill’s!

“So, Cantor … you didn’t mention having a cousin, his name’s Art? What does he do? What’s he like?” Jon stopped his questions there.

From the expression on Cantor’s face, it was immediately clear this was exactly what Cantor hadn’t wanted to bring up at all.

The butler was the one who answered. “Young master Artorious Clearwater is Dame Providence’s eldest and only child. He is a fine young stallion who lives a quiet and private life of leisure. He also paints.”

Jon looked at the portraits hanging on the walls. All unicorns, all with greater or lesser degrees of familial resemblance, all in military attire – generations of service-ponies of some rank, including two generals … though, judging from their attire, those two fellows had lived perhaps a century ago. “Did Art do these?” Jon gestured at the newer portraits.

“Oh no, sir. The young master’s works are kept upstairs.”

From upstairs, as if on que, there came a rumbling clatter, rapidly approaching. Moments later, a unicorn (pale blue, with a white mane and tail, splattered with paint and carrying something in one hoof) came rushing down the hallway with an odd, lurching gait before grabbing Cantor in a tight hug. This got several smears of paint on Cantor’s white coat and his black cape. Cantor didn’t mind the mess.

Cantor hugged the newcomer back. Cantor was happy to see his cousin too. It showed in his face as well as his voice. “Hello Arty! Are you well?”

“W-well. W-well … Vewy g-good, Cuz!” Art’s voice was thick and slow, the words he forced out sounded half formed. “Told … told them yoo wuhz comin’.” He stood awkwardly, holding a doll in one hoof, with his foreleg and head both tilting at an odd angle. He couldn’t seem to really look steadily at anypony. Also, his eyes were unusual: one sapphire blue, the other emerald green. His face seemed to glow with a child-like delight, his expression and tone that of a happy foal.

But this was no small child. Artorious Clearwater looked to be only a few years younger than Cantor himself. And thus several years older than both Jon Quill and Valentina.

Jon Quill felt a confusing mix of emotions and thoughts. First among these was a sudden understanding for exactly why Cantor hadn’t wanted to bring Jon along on this errand. While Jon Quill himself wrote about exotic magical phenomena and mysterious creatures – strange and paranormal wonders – the Yellow Star had plenty of paparazzi who would be more than happy to spread gossip about the personal lives of a modestly high society Canterlot family with what looked to be a storied military history.

Especially when that gossip included the fact that the son and heir to the estate had substantial developmental disabilities, both physical and mental. Possibly magical as well. Had Cantor feared that Jon might betray the trust involved in bringing him into his aunt’s home? Jon winced, recalling his visit to Doctor Fether’s office in Bedlam. Well … maybe Cantor had been right to fear that Jon’s fundamental need to acquire (and share) stories, gossip, and information might get the better of him. Jon Quill vowed to himself that this was all something he’d keep in strictest confidence. He’d tell no pony. He just had to remember not to talk about it.

And that might be hard to do. Very hard.

Meanwhile, Art turned to the butler, his tone and face reflected exasperation and triumph both, “Told yuh. Told yuh! Six moah fuh dinneh. Thwee platez.”

Which, Jon realized, was shocking all on its own.

It was Valentia who asked the question, “Uh, Cantor, dove. Does Arty know about …” her glance and the jerk of her head indicated the three ghosts.

Cantor just sighed. He looked resigned to the mystery involved and no more the wiser than either of his companions. He answered, “I honestly don’t know. Arty here sees the world … differently. Sometimes what he says doesn’t make very much sense or is clearly wrong. Other times it seems shockingly, impossibly accurate.” Cantor shrugged. “He might be some kind of a seer. We’re not entirely certain.”

Cantor smiled suddenly and gave his cousin another hug, “Well, we are certain that Art is a good egg!”

“G-good egg! G-good egg!” Art was delighted and patted Cantor on the back. Then Art handed Cantor the doll he had been carrying. “Yoo go now. Wazh hoovez. Dinneh time! Gotta wazh up.” Art grinned broader, “G-good egg. Yoo good egg too. Yoo h-hatch p-plans!”

Cantor let out a surprised laugh at Art’s joke.

But Art suddenly stopped smiling. “Y-yoo talk to papa? Papa tell m-me? Tell m-me?”

There was a flicker of old pain that crossed Cantor’s face. “Only what papa said the last time. He loves you Arty. You’re a good boy. You need to take care of mama now that he’s gone.”

Well, Jon thought, that was one more question answered.

Art frowned and poked at Cantor, “’n … ‘n … cuzinz too! I’m Tha Clearwatah now. C-clearwatahs have duty.” His tone, with that last pronouncement, was solemn. Firm. Stubborn.

He continued in much the same tone, “Now g-go! Wazh hoovez. It dinneh time.”

“Not another word, Cantor! Not one more word! You and your friends will stay with us here and that is final. I shall be quite cross with you should you seek out anywhere else in our fair city for your stay.” Dame Providence was a grand, matronly unicorn of advancing years. She was rounder even than Cantor, and dressed both elegantly and conservatively. Her gown would have been the height of fashion two decades ago. It suited her well. She also wore a pair of glasses clipped to her muzzle – a pince-nez. Dame Providence somehow managed to be both pompous and welcoming, genteel and gossipy, and … more than anything … prim and proper. But with an underlying feeling of unyielding strength that Jon Quill usually associated with galleons or other warships of the line.

Cantor gave up the fight with a grin and a shake of his head, “If you insist, Aunt P.”

“You’re too kind, Dame Providence.” Valentina chimed in.

“Not at all, young filly! Not at all! We look out for family here. And my dear, departed brother’s children will always be welcome under my roof. We will see to it that you are properly cared for and that you arrive at the Gala in style.”

“Thank you, Dame Providence,” Jon added.

“Of course, good sir.” Dame Providence’s gaze narrowed a bit as she considered Jon Quill. “You said you write for the … what was it? The Yellow Star?”

“Yes. I look forward to writing about the events of the upcoming Gala!” Jon chimed in.

“Yes, yes. I don’t recall hearing the Star mentioned …” Dame Providence’s tone indicated she was graciously offering advice. Good advice. Unsolicited advice. “So, young fellow, perhaps you should submit the piece to the society pages of the Herald or the Gazette instead? I could have a word with some of the board members I know. There’s a ladies luncheon I shall be hosting the Wednesday after the Gala. If you’ve something prepared by then, I would be willing to pass it along. If you are to do such writing work, sir, then it is important to publish in a paper with the proper reputation.”

Jon Quill tried very hard not to burst into laughter at the thought of the sort of reputation the Yellow Star had. Dame Providence was clearly the kind of pony who, if she knew of it at all, wouldn’t have even used that sensationalist rag as fuel to start a fire!

Indeed, when Dame Providence continued, her observations only reinforced Jon’s assessment. “And the Yellow Star has no reputation that I have ever heard of.” Further, Dame Providence’s underlying message was loud and clear: if she hadn’t heard of it, then it wasn’t worth hearing about.

Cantor looked a trifle embarrassed, or perhaps exasperated, by his Aunt. Cousin Arty was busy eating a caramel apple which Cantor had smuggled into the dining room for him. Valentina was using all of her dealing-with-high-society training to act the part of a fine young lady … and Providence seemed convinced that Valentina herself was from “good stock.”

As for Jon, he looked past the overbearing attitude and condescending tone to note the substance of Dame Providence’s conversation: she thought well enough of Jon Quill, based solely on their initial meeting and his friendship with Cantor, to offer him favors – to get him an introduction and put in a good word on his behalf with the type of news outlets that were vastly more credible and respectable than the sort of tabloid trash Jon actually wrote for.

Her heart, clearly, was in the right place. Thus Jon found himself more amused than annoyed. He even felt rather grateful to her. Especially since she was obviously the sort of pony to have a measure of pull in the circles of high society. Her good word could doubtless open quite a few doors. And while tempting, that, Jon felt, would be a true imposition on friends and their family.

So Jon replied, “Oh, Dame Providence, that won’t be necessary! We’re already imposing on you so much by dropping in unannounced and staying through the Gala.”

“Stuff and nonsense. If anypony is to host dear Cantor and help him and his friends make an entrance into society, it shall be I. For Cantor, a proper entrance into society is long overdue.”

Cantor managed not to roll his eyes. Once again he said, “Thank you Aunt P.”

Providence’s eyes narrowed again. After a slight hesitation, she changed the subject. “Cantor, are there any … other arrangements … that we will need to make for your … traveling companions? Artorious mentioned that six were coming to dinner and I only see three here.”

Cantor shook his head, “No, Aunt P. The others shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

“Others?” Providence raised an eyebrow.

Cantor sighed. “As Arty guessed, I’ve three of my … other friends … accompanying us.”

She blinked in surprise, “Three? Not one? That’s unusual, yes?”

Cantor nodded, “They are quite unusual haunts. It’s all very complicated, but I’m trying to help them. And they’re being a great help to me.”

She snorted and adjusted her pince-nez. “If they are well behaved ghosts then they are welcome in my home.” Her tone altered; Providence spoke as if making a mystical pronouncement, “Let all such spirits as Cantor would call friend enjoy the freedom of both house and grounds. May they come and go as they wish, finding safety and sanctuary in this place, for so long as they harbor no ill intent for those who live here.”

Jon Quill felt a brief tingle. A chill that made the back of his mane stand up. It occurred to him that the old districts of Canterlot were … well … old. This house, and its gardens, had been the property of unicorns for who knew how many centuries. Further many of those unicorns had been guards. Some had been royal guards, others had been officers in the military. It was entirely possible that there were warding spells and arcane protections known to those of a war-like disposition, old and ancient magics, that could secure a house like this from unwanted visitors … even, or perhaps especially, unwanted visitors of a supernatural nature. If the matron of the house were not to offer a welcome to the ghosts then, Jon suddenly suspected, the spooks might have a hard time of it here. Should Dame Providence retract her welcome and demand a haunt leave, well, they might suddenly find themselves banished to the street outside!

Canterlot was a city layered with enchantments on enchantments after all. Who knew how many old spells from centuries past might still ward against things like the Trotting Dead?

“Thank you,” Cantor said. He cocked his head to one side, listening. He pursed his lips and paused for a moment before adding. “Admiral Fairweather wishes me to convey his deep appreciation for your warm welcome. He says your house is a delight and that he is sorry he cannot convey his gratitude to you in person.”

Dame Providence’s eyebrows both shot up. “Admiral Fairweather? The Admiral Fairweather? Cantor, boy, you should have warned me! We’d have made proper arrangements. The house is hardly in a fit state to entertain such an honored guest.” She frowned, suddenly puzzled. “What sort of arrangements does one make for the visit of a ghostly Admiral? Should we prepare a room? A ... crypt? Is there to be a séance?”

Art chimed in, “H-he can h-have gran-pa-pa’s gwave!” His hooves and muzzle were quite sticky from the caramel. He also kept sneaking roasted Brussels sprouts from his plate onto Cantor’s own.

“Hush, dear,” Providence scolded. “Your grand-papa was only a commodore. His crypt simply wouldn’t do for an Admiral! Besides, your grand-papa is occupying it already. It would be most improper to share.”

Cantor glanced at Valentina and Jon, as if in apology for his family’s oddities. Oddities which might include Cantor himself. After a slight pause, he spoke up saying, “That won’t be necessary, Aunt P. If you wish to be extra hospitable, then I could select several volumes from the library and, should some pony on the staff be a loose ends, perhaps they could turn the pages once every few minutes?”

“Of course, Cantor dear. It will be done.” Dame Providence seemed happy at the thought that an Admiral would be enjoying her library.

“I am pleased to see that you are so accepting of Cantor’s gifts,” Valentina added. She smiled, a touch impishly or so Jon thought. Then again, Valentina had drunk several glasses of champagne with her dinner and that made her chatty. In addition, Jon had pegged Valentina for the sort of mare who got tired of being well behaved all the time. It was one of the many things he liked about her!

“But of course, dear!” Providence answered. “What else would they be but rare mystical gifts?” Her tone hardened, “We don’t have ‘mad ponies’ on our side of the family. It simply isn’t done. Only that mare,” and there was more than a hint of anger there, “and her ilk would be so uncouth as to suggest any other explanation.”

Providence leaned over to pat Cantor sympathetically on the shoulder. “Honestly, dear boy, I don’t know what my brother was thinking marrying her. If he wanted to spite our father there were far better ways! But I do know that I’m glad to have such a fine nephew as you as a result of his unfortunate infatuations.”

Cantor pointedly raised an eyebrow. Providence flushed, then continued, a touch hastily, “Your sister Rosa is always welcome here too, of course. She is a fine girl. That should go without saying.” She sounded a tad flustered. Then she frowned, “When you see your sister next, tell her that she simply must come and visit more often. Ponyville is not that far away. And Arty does so love it when we have family in.”

Cantor nodded, “I’ll pass the message along, Aunt P.”

“In the meantime, we shall have to see to it that you are properly prepared for the Gala. Have you picked out your attire yet?” Providence seemed quite pleased at the thought of getting her nephew Cantor properly spiffied up for a party.

Valentina chimed in, “I spoke with somepony in Ponyville – there’s a boutique not too far from here, ‘Canterlot Carousel’ I believe it’s called. I was hoping to get in a fitting for a dress there, and – while most of their fashion is for mares rather than stallions, I do hear that the couturier there will occasionally do haute couture for colts as well.”

“Quite right, young filly! The Carousel is one of the premiere fashion boutiques in Canterlot. Even if it hasn’t had the chance to age into proper respectability, the styles that have come from there are all the rage among a certain set of pony.” Providence’s tone indicated she generally approved, in her matronly way, of the particular set of ponies who would wear such modern fashions.

Jon Quill felt Providence’s attention settle on him. She was frowning. “Hmm. We’ll have to find something that will go with black for you. And you won’t be able to wear that ridiculous hat.”

Jon Quill blinked. “Uhm, what?”

Providence tsked. “I only wear black to formal events. You will naturally be attending the Gala with me. Cantor said he only has two tickets. Obviously he and Valentina will be going as a couple.”

Jon felt a bit indignant. Obviously? That shouldn’t be obvious at all! What if Cantor wanted to go with Jon to the ball?

Valentina looked rather amused. Cantor blinked in surprise. Then he flushed. Valentina raised an eyebrow at him, but Cantor was busy glaring at an empty spot elsewhere in the room.

Jon Quill was certain he saw Cantor quietly mouth “Shut up.” Probably to Magpie.

“Dame Providence,” Jon said, “I was planning on relying on my press credentials to gain access to …”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Providence interrupted. “You think they allow press at the Gala? Ridiculous! Unheard of! If you are to attend, it will only be as a guest. I have two tickets. Our family has always been invited to the Gala. Ever since my great-great-grandmother …”

Cantor cleared his throat.

Dame Providence took the hint, “Which is to say, while I but rarely attend since my late husband’s passing, I am still the recipient of two tickets as a matter of course.” She frowned, and there was a stormy insistence that seemed to gather in her tone as she continued, “There will be no funny business about getting into the palace, young colt. You will be going as my ‘plus one’ and that is final. Once there you will behave yourself.”

Jon Quill nodded. “Yes ma’am! I promise.”

Now this was a promise he could keep. After all, as he had once heard, very technically all activities a pony might undertake are some form of ‘behavior’ – so no matter what he did, he’d be ‘behaving himself.’

Even if that ultimately meant behaving himself badly!

7. Hunters.

“Shift it a little to your left.” The Pony of Shadows’ voice was as whispery and unnatural as always, although her focus was on the work rather than Caballeron and, as a result, she was using her businesslike tone.

Caballeron grumbled quietly to himself, but he put his shoulder against the small boulder and gave it another solid push. He winced at the pain which came from his back legs – the bite wounds there still hadn’t fully healed. The rock shifted slightly and he eased off. Somehow, that new positioning felt right to him. Better than it had been.

“Good. Just so. Leave it there.” She directed.

Caballeron took a step back and mopped his dripping brow with an equally soaked pocket hoofkerchief. He eyed his associate suspiciously.

She, in turn, trotted out of the shade of the canyon wall to inspect the rock Caballeron had spent the afternoon moving into position. It had been a grueling job: setting up rollers and the fine sand, followed by a lot of shoving, some waspish comments from the Pony of Shadows, and then (after the boulder had lurched forward a few more meters) it was time to put in the braces (so there would be no back-sliding.) Next: reset the rollers, sweep the sand back to the front of the affair, and start the whole process all over again.

Caballeron was reasonably sure that this work was, in fact, necessary to their plans here. While he certainly wouldn’t put it past the Pony of Shadows to play cruel games with his time and labor, she didn’t like being in the Valley of Dreams, prison to Lost Tambelon, any more than … well … anything else did. Indeed, it seemed like she wanted to get this arcane working of theirs finished even more urgently than Caballeron himself. This was why they were working during the daylight hours.

In addition to her tattered cloak, the Pony of Shadows had acquired a ladies parasol – a white thing edged with frilly lace – which she now held close. In the light of day, she kept to the puddle of shadow it provided whenever she crept away the safety of the darker sides of the spires of stone.

While she inspected the boulder, Caballeron opened his canteen and took another long drink. He wasn’t particularly worried about running out of water as there were some surprisingly clear freshwater springs hidden deeper in the Valley of Dreams. Chalk that up on the “pro” side of the very mixed bag of pros and cons they had uncovered in the past few days.

The biggest pro (and the biggest relief) was that, as of yet, they had uncovered no sign of Tambelon’s return. All throughout these desolate canyons (which snaked through the hills and desert in this part of the Badlands) the Valley of Dreams was empty. Even the plants that grew here were stunted and small. And neither the birds nor the beasts that haunted the regions surrounding the valley ventured in here. In some ways, this lack of wildlife was particularly disturbing when one considered the relative abundance of water the valley boasted.

But it was also a damn good thing too Caballeron thought as he unwound the bandages on his right rear leg. There had been a nasty bit of work fighting their way through the caves and into this part of the canyons. He’d had to use more of his flash-bangs than he would have liked. And he’d broken or lost two of his knives. Even the Pony of Shadows had turned her dark magic on the swarming beasts. Getting through them had been more difficult than he would have wished. But they had managed it. And with all their equipment too. Mostly because the snarling creatures had simply refused to enter the Valley of Dreams. They had paused at the threshold and withdrawn back into the darkness of the caves. But not before they had gotten in several nasty, and probably venomous, bites.

Thankfully the swelling was finally starting to go down. Eyeing the distinctive teeth marks, Caballeron shook his head and grimaced. He muttered quietly to himself, “Chupacabras. Why did it have to be chupacabras?”

“Hmm?” The Pony of Shadows directed her attention to Caballeron.

“Nothing, mon cher. Just remembering our warm welcome to sunny Tambelon.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed at the mention of the sun. “Tambelon is a place of shadows and bells, of cages and pits, of ruins and crumbling towers. Were any of it returning to the Valley, trust me, ‘sunny’ isn’t a term you’d use to describe it. Be thankful that the ancient wards remain so thoroughly intact.” She was frowning at him. He could tell from the squint in her eyes.

“Oh, I am mon cher.” But Caballeron braced himself as he replied. That frown of hers was worrisome. Especially when it was directed at him.

Which made what came next surprising. “You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.” Even her tone offered grudging praise, and a hint of suspicion.

Caballeron blinked. “Better at moving rocks?” Now that was a back-hoofed compliment if ever he heard one.

She snorted. “No. You’re just as useless at the moving part of it as I expected. It’s the positioning bit that is surprising. You got it perfect. On the first go. Let’s hope it’s not beginners luck.”

Caballeron grinned smuggly. “Well, mon cher, I have always had a bit of a knack for working my way into places that the pony-folk of ancient times had sealed away. And a knack with acquiring the treasures hidden there. What we’re doing here is much the same, non? Navigating and manipulating both the mundane and magical barriers that keep us from an ancient, hidden place containing something valuable to us.”

That was all mostly true, even if he preferred to rely on his even greater knack for swooping in after others had done all the heavy lifting involved in an excavation and then absconding with whatever treasures other archaeologists or treasure hunters had uncovered. That was much easier! And more profitable.

Caballeron paused to brush some of the sand off his jacket before adding, “I am the best at this, you know. That is why Ahuizotal recruited me.”

From the tilt of her hood, it looked like the Pony of Shadows was considering Caballeron’s response. Her reply, while cold, sounded almost hopeful. “True. I had not considered that your natural magic … your facility for tomb robbing … (especially when yoked to the common earth-pony gifts for moving stones and dirt about) might give you something of an intuitive grasp of the ritual practice needed to manipulate the chthonic magics here to allow us access.”

Her yellow eyes narrowed. “Let’s see how well you handle the next step. Perhaps …” she trailed off.

Caballeron’s brows had lowered. “Perhaps?”

“Perhaps we won’t need to recruit a unicorn at all.” The Pony of Shadows sounded like she grudged every word of that admission.

Caballeron kept his surge of triumph from showing on his face. This had been one of their many disagreements. She had wanted to bring along a unicorn – somepony who she could coach through the magic and spells needed to shift and manipulate the old wards keeping Tambelon (and, more importantly, Grogar) banished to the Shadow Lands. Such tampering should allow enough shadow-stuff to seep through from the outer realms so as to form a pool that they could then use. A properly prepared pool of such darkness, gathered in one of the sealed caverns beneath the valley, and Trotwine’s ring could be immersed there … its power renewed … and then ….

Well Caballeron wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling the Pony of Shadows to take a long walk off a short pier, but once he had a direct means of arcane communication to Ahuizotal that didn’t require her presence, Caballeron certainly had no desire to have her around “assisting” him. No, Caballeron's attempt to break into the Silver Vault of the North so as to steal some magicked diamond for Ahuizotal would go much more smoothly without her continuing interference.

Indeed, the biggest reason Caballeron was on board with this little ring enchanting detour was so that he could be shot of the Pony of Shadows for good. Let Ahuizotal’s murderous, spectral lapdog – his incorporeal messenger of shadows and spite – run the old jungle devil’s errands elsewhere.

Admittedly, the work of moving stones would probably go faster with help. But, after Albion, it would be an understatement to say that Caballeron had ’serious doubts’ about working with the Pony of Shadows at all. He just knew that anypony they brought in would be ... expendable. And anypony in the valley who was expendable would be expended before this work was done. Worse, if they brought in somepony (for example, a unicorn who the Pony of Shadows found she could manipulate more easily than she did the rogue archeologist) then suddenly Caballeron might find himself to be the expendable one.

If Caballeron had any rock solid rules or principals that governed his life it was that he, himself, was never expendable!

This, ultimately, was why they were here alone. Anypony Caballeron might trust to bring along on this expedition was simply too useful to him, long term, to justify sacrificing them here in the desert. Anypony Caballeron might be willing to string along but leave behind … to leave their corpse behind, if Caballeron was being completely honest with himself … well, they would be an unacceptable risk to Caballeron’s own well-being.

Although, after having moved that boulder, Caballeron was beginning to have second thoughts. Wasn’t working dark magics all supposed to be scribbles with chalk, burning incense, weird chants, and blood sacrifice? When was shoving rocks around part of all that?

The Pony of Shadows interrupted Caballeron’s train of thought, “Let’s see how well you do with this next bit.”

“And what is this ‘next bit?’” He glared at her suspiciously.

“You’ll be using some chalk to trace a moderately complicated mystic symbol here,” her cloak lifted and the shadowy hoof beneath it lightly touched a flat face of the boulder.

Caballeron grimaced.

“Just follow along as I point it out,” she added, shifting her position to stand beside him, far more closely than Caballeron found comfortable.

He dug out a stick of chalk and, as the tattered hem of her cloak slowly traced a swirling pattern of coils and jagged shapes, interspersed with the stylized figures of strange creatures, he followed the trailing fabric, chalk held in his mouth.

When they finished he spat out what was left of the stick. At least he had the foresight to purchase his chalks sugar coated. Even so, too much sketch work left a bitter aftertaste. After taking another swig of water he asked, “Are we done here, mon cher?”

She chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Oh no, Doctor Caballeron, we’re only just beginning.”

He sighed.

She continued, “Next we must carve that sign into the rock. Hammer and chisel work. You must strike the first blow at the moment the sun finishes setting, and you must complete the work before the sun rises tomorrow. There are rare incenses we must burn. Further, the entire time you are shaping the stone, there is a chant you must recite. I will teach it to you.”

Caballeron glared at her. “More manual labor, eh? And what will you be doing while I’m polishing my sculpting skills?”

“I’ll be pouring power into your work. Unless,” her tone was biting, “you’d rather be the pony who directly channels the energy of the great void through their being and into the stone for several hours.”

Caballeron snorted and muttered, “If you could actually hold a hammer, I’d consider it.”

She heard him. Her reply was delivered with an undertone of controlled anger that sent shivers down Caballeron’s back.

“If I could actually hold a hammer, then you’d be of no use to me at all.”

Caballeron felt his stomach knot up as her gaze drifted down to his bandaged leg. She was staring at the blood stain there. His blood.

“Well …” she continued, “… almost no use.”

As Caballeron glared back at her what ran through is mind was: well, that wasn’t ominous at all – in his most sarcastic mental tone of voice. Time for a change of subject. Caballeron cleared his throat and said, “So … about this chant? Are you sure it will work?”

She chuckled again. “Quite sure. The unicorns of old used powerful magic to seal up Tambelon. But I know magic more ancient and potent still. Now attend, and follow along carefully ....”

By the time the sun was setting, she’d drilled the chant into his head very thoroughly indeed. The words were originally in an ancient, dead language – but, as she said, it was the meaning rather than the specific sounds which were important in this case. And, for Caballeron, the chant would have more meaning in a modern tongue.

So now he stood, bronze hammer and iron chisel in hoof, surrounded by the smell of burning myrrh, in the darkness of the valley. The sun had vanished beyond the canyon’s rim hours ago. Any moment now, the last sliver of day’s light would slide beneath the horizon. Behind him the Pony of Shadows hovered in the darkness.

“Now,” she whispered.

Sunset. Nightfall. It was a very clear night. Caballeron swung the hammer. Blue and purple sparks flew from the stone as the first chip of rock broke free.

Caballeron began chanting:

The doors of heaven are opened for me.
The doors of earth are opened for me.
The bars and bolts of iron are opened for me.
The first gate has been unfastened for me by the dark below.
Behold, I was watched and prisoned, but now I am released.
Their chains will not hold me.
Their cords will not bind me.
Behold, the wards have been opened for me.
Their protections have been unfastened before me.
Their power has been given to me.
I shall come forth by night into whatsoever place I desire.

With every phrase chanted there was another swing of the hammer, further scoring and deepening the arcane glyph they had sketched in chalk upon the side of the boulder. The Pony of Shadows seemed to cast an ever deeper, colder darkness upon the newly graven rock. As this terrible power spilled from her it pooled in the carving and slowly soaked into stone. Blue and purple sparks continued to dance in the air with each hammer blow, pulsing and shimmering in rhythm with Caballeron’s chanting.

The doors of heaven are opened for me.
The doors of earth are opened for me ….

There was no light in the cavern. Light had not shown in this place for over a thousand years. It was dry, and still, and quiet.

This was as it should be.

Night fell, but with it came a faint sound. Iron striking rock. Not in here, but somewhere far distant. The echo of of that sound shivered through the chamber like a single note of music.

Now there was motion in the cavern. A unicorn’s withered flesh twitched and shifted around its empty eye sockets. It could see again. Hear again. It frowned and grimaced. The crystal collar around its throat was cool and heavy, but not so cool and heavy as to keep it fully pinned to the stone slab, locked in slumber. That meant something.

It meant that there was a disturbance in the valley above. Minor. Very minor. But, nevertheless, a disturbance.

Disturbances were not permitted. Not here. Not ever.

The unicorn’s dead gaze flicked around the cavern. Good. They were all still here. Arms. Long and grasping, with talons and claws … taken from dragons and yeti and griffons and trolls and other exotic, dreadful beasts. All these severed limbs were long withered. Their flesh, like the unicorn's own, was mummified by time and the desert air. All wore crystal bracelets and iron chains.

Like the other disturbances from centuries past, this was still only a small thing thus far. As a result, the unicorn had only the faintest traces of power … of awareness … to work with. It focused that power, that awareness, on one of the arms.

“Go.” It said. “Hunt.” It commanded.

There was a sound like a crystal bell being crushed beneath an iron wheel. The bracelet and chains binding one of the arms (that of a young yeti) crumbled to sand. The withered limb fell to the floor.

The arm began to twitch. It flexed and twisted until it lay palm down, clawed fingers digging into the sand. A moment passed before, spider-like, the long dead limb began to crawl towards one of the cavern exits.

Oniate. Dry-fingers. Its touch brought death.

Awareness began to fade from the unicorn’s flesh. This disturbance would be ended. Just like the others had. If one Oniate wasn’t enough to deal with it, there were always more. And the dry fingers were only the first and least of the defenses here.

Disturbances were not permitted.

Horst slowed his pace. He held a wadded up napkin to his nose. Already the blood had dripped from it onto his blue Rein Spooner Aloha shirt, droplets splattering against its pattern of large white flowers. Horst rather liked the shirt. It made him feel a bit like he was on vacation.

A few houses down the road Horst could see that Doctor Fether was speaking with a mare. The good doctor was sitting at a table at a café’s, in the open air beneath a tree; she was standing nearby, shifting from hoof to hoof. No sign of Burl, nor his near identical Aloha shirt (the same pattern as Horst’s but with a red background and blue flowers.) Horst frowned slightly at that. Hopefully his brother’s investigations up at the Palace were going better than Horst’s own had.

Horst lingered on the edges of this little plaza here in Ponyville. It was hardly more than an extra large bit of yard around which a half-dozen shops were gathered. It was late. Night had fallen. It was a very clear night. In the far distance, Horst could see fireworks illuminating the spires of Canterlot. Must be a hell of a party going on there right now.

Horst waited for the good doctor to finish his conversation. It took a few more minutes, during which Fether scribbled a couple of additional notes and handed them to the pale blue filly. Her hoof trembled slightly as she took it. She bounced off, full of energy and happiness. Horst frowned. She seemed a bit too full of energy, really. Fether returned to his review of the information they had collected since their arrival at Manehatten a few days prior.

At least Horst’s nose-bleed seemed to have slowed down.

Horst approached Doctor Fether’s table. Horst could move surprisingly quietly when he wanted to. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that Fether looked up from his notebooks. The remains of soup and salad had been pushed to one side of the table to make room for papers and ink.

“Ah, Mr. Knott,” Doctor Fether’s voice held a hint of satisfaction. Something must have gone right.

“Doctor Fether,” Horst replied. He pursed his lips unhappily. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to report.”

“You spoke with Rosa Cuer ... or rather, nurse Redheart?” Feather inquired.

“Briefly.” Horst winced. “Very briefly. I hadn’t even finished my ‘good evening’ before she slammed the door on my muzzle and told me to clear off before she called the authorities to have me removed from her property.”

Doctor Fether nodded. “Good. That confirms it. Cantor has been here. He’s spoken with his sister, and she’s been warned to expect us.”

“Fiesty,” Horst commented as he took a seat at the table.

“She is at that, even if she doesn’t look it. That’s one of the reasons I sent you to question her rather than going myself.” Fether stared at Horst’s muzzle for a moment. He tsked. Then he waved one hoof in a commanding fashion.

Seconds later a waiter appeared, as if by magic. “Sir?” the uniformed stallion inquired.

“Some ice, and a fresh napkin, for my friend here.” Fether’s request was polite but firm.

“Yes sir.” The waiter trotted off.

Horst watched him go, then raised an eyebrow at Doctor Fether. “I’m sorry sir, did you say ‘confirms?’ Was it the mare?”

“I did, Mr. Knott. I did indeed. Your brother Burl still hasn’t returned from his errand, so we’ve no indication about whether or not Cantor actually ventured to the Palace Library, nor what sort of knowledge or aid he may have sought there ... but,” Fether's drew out the word, indicating this was the important bit, “it turns out that young mare you saw leaving is a real chatterbox.”

Then Tarrent Fether frowned. There was a touch of worry, perhaps even sympathy, mixed in with his usual dispassionate expression.

“Sir?” Horst’s inquiry was cut short by Fether’s raised hoof. The waiter had returned with ice and clean cloth. Fether’s magic swiftly assembled an improvised ice-pack which Horst gratefully took. The waiter retired after Fether waved him off.

Once the waiter was gone Fether continued, “That mare who was here? She and I were talking shop. While she’s receiving surprisingly good care for her condition, there are some modifications to her treatments – both medicinal and magical – that I know of which should be able to help quiet the side effects you doubtless observed. Specifically the tremors and the occasional episodes of mania. All very cutting edge. So, little wonder that the local psychiatrists haven’t heard of it yet. I gave her references to pass on to her own doctors and pharmacists. They would need to be the ones to further customize her care as there are doubtless factors specific to her case of which I remain unaware. Which reminds me …” Tarrant Fether pulled out a sheet of paper and rapidly jotted down a list of what looked like titles which he then folded up and handed to Horst. Horst stuck the paper in his pocket without really reading it over.

Fether went on, “Anyway, in addition to a frank and open discussion of her mental issues which I cannot discuss in good conscience (even if there isn’t, strictly speaking, an official doctor-patient confidentiality issue here), she spent a good deal of time warning me that there was a ‘bad doctor’ due to come through town soon and that I shouldn’t tell him anything.”

Horst blinked in surprise. “You don’t mean …”

Tarrant Fether chuckled with wry amusement, “Oh yes. Miss Loose is a friend of Cantor’s. She’d been warned to tell the bad doctor Fether nothing. It is fortunate that I never mentioned my name to her. And that she is so very … distracted.” When Fether said that last word there was, once again, a hint of concern beneath his businesslike demeanor.

“Ah,” Horst nodded.

Fether continued, “I asked her when this ‘bad doctor’ was supposed to come through town. She didn’t know. So I asked exactly when she had heard about ‘him.’ She obligingly told me. As a result we now have dates for Cantor’s arrival in Ponytown. Once Burl reports on the situation at the Palace Library we’ll be able to formulate a rough idea as to how long Cantor stayed here before heading to the Badlands. At a guess, it would be no more than a day or two spent here talking with his sister. Add on a few more days should Cantor also have done some digging in the library – Burl can let us know how many, if any, that would have been. Then with that information, we can narrow our inquiries with the station master to a reasonable window of time. I’m confident that before noon tomorrow we’ll have learned precisely when Cantor left, down to the train-car and seat assignment, and precisely where he was going.”

Feather picked up his glass and took a drink of ice-water before he concluded with, “Burl and I shall leave you directions on how to catch up with us.”

“Sir?” Horst’s spoke with some confusion.

Tarrant Fether sighed and gestured at Horst’s nose. “Cantor Mortalis has spoken with his sister, nurse Redheart. This would seem to be his primary (if not his only) reason for coming here. The ... forcefulness of her reaction to your arrival at her doorstep leads me to believe that Cantor may well have convinced her to withdraw her support for his detention. We’ll need to prevent or delay any suspension or revisiting of the court orders which permit our acquisition and treatment of Cantor that might result from Rosa’s change of heart. So, assuming you remain willing,” Fether paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, sir. You needn’t fear that. What do you need me to do?” Horst spoke with solid sincerity. He and his brother would carry this business of tracking down Cantor to the bitter end, no questions asked. The twins would be the brawn to back up Fether’s brains.

“Well then,” Fether continued, “I’ll need you to catch a train back to Manehatten. There you will secure an appointment with Judge Astrid Gavelstroke and inform her that we know Cantor Mortalis has returned to the Equestrian mainland and that he may have used enchantment magic to help convince his sister Redheart to appeal for a stay on Judge Gavelstroke’s initial orders.”

Horst started up suddenly, “Do you think Cantor did ensorcell her?”

Fether shrugged, “I have no idea if he did or not. Cantor is quite persuasive even without the use of magic. Redheart has no reason to love me. That I am the one pursuing her brother might be enough to encourage her to act without any form of arcane compulsion being invoked. When you speak with Astrid be sure to be honest on this point: we have only suspicion and conjecture.”

Fether pursed his lips and made a dismissive gesture with his forehoof, “But for our immediate purposes it really doesn’t matter whether he used magic on his sister or not. That Cantor might have done so should be enough to throw doubt on anything Redheart requests from Astrid. With Cantor’s deteriorating mental condition, the odds of his using such magics (even on close friends and family) grows greater. In short, he had the opportunity, the ability, and the motive to do so. Again, assuming Redheart attempts to rescind the detention order, then the subsequent and necessary investigation into whether or not Redheart had suffered some sort of mystical compulsion (rather than acting on her own) should be enough to draw the affair out for several extra weeks, if not months.”

Fether shrugged, “Best case for us? Redheart wasn't convinced by her brother to drop her request for his committal and there is no need for worry. But we cannot afford to count on that. So, a little effort spent now should help mitigate a worst case scenario, to wit: Rosa has agreed to help Cantor remain at large in the world. Let us assume the worst, and notify Judge Astrid accordingly. That way, if Cantor did use some form of enchantment on his sister (and if that comes to light in the inquiry) then the restraining orders may well stay in place regardless of Redheart’s objections. Even if they don’t, even if the orders are ultimately rescinded, then it’s still more time to find our quarry. But you understand that we need to move on this, now, to insure that no hasty decisions are made behind our backs.”

Horst nodded. “I understand sir. Speak with the Judge, then rejoin you and Burl.”

Fether nodded, “Yes. And there is another errand as well.” He passed a small, but heavy purse full of bits over to Horst. Horst took it and stowed it away. Fether said, “That paper I handed you earlier? It is a list of medical books and two journals. You are to contact the appropriate publishing houses in Manehatten and secure a copy of each book and a year-long subscription to both journals for Ponyville General Hospital. A gift from an anonymous donor.”

Horst stared at Fether in surprise. “Why sir?”

Fether frowned slightly, he seemed a touch surprised (or perhaps annoyed) by Horst’s confusion. His tone indicated that the answer to the Horst’s question should be obvious. “Because those materials have information that will help Miss Loose’s doctors treat her mental illness better.”

“But … sir … she’s … not your friend.” Horst struggled to wrap his mind around Fether’s unexpected of generosity.

Fether (on the other hoof) cocked his head to one side, his frown deepening. After a moment Fether sighed and said, in a patient tone, “Horst, I’m a doctor. I heal hurt ponies. It’s more than what I do, it’s who I am. My chosen field of endeavor is the mind. I don’t do what I do for the praise or for the sense of power. Celestia knows I don’t do it for the money, even if the money is good. No, I do it because it is the right thing to do. I honestly don’t care what those I treat think of me on a personal level, provided I can help them. Whether I am seen as a savior or a monster, it doesn’t matter. What matters, what always matters, is that she gets the help she needs.”

Fether’s tone hardened, the steel of his resolve showing in his voice, “Whether my worst enemy or my best friend – I will help where I can. And that’s why we are here. That’s why I’m spending my sabbatical chasing Cantor.”

Beyond steel, beyond resolve; an echo of inevitability ... of total certainty ... could now be heard in Doctor Tarrant Fether’s voice, “Cantor Mortalis is broken. His mind is damaged. He needs to be fixed ... to be healed. And I fix broken ponies.”

Inevitability, Horst suddenly discovered, could sound an awful lot like obsession.

Fether concluded, unconsciously grinding his forehoof far too hard against the table, “I will fix Cantor. I will show him there are no such things as ghosts.”

8. Parties.

In his dream, Cantor was strapping on armor: thick, heavy plates of fire-blackened steel. While pitted and battered, he could still polish it up so it shone. In the distance the roar of cannon grew gradually louder and relentlessly closer. There was a soft wind, a steady creaking sound, and a methodical clatter – steel shod hooves marching on stone.

In spite of his training, Cantor was only rarely a lucid dreamer. Most of the time, he had no conscious control over what he experienced while sleeping. Likewise his dreams usually faded and were forgotten moments after waking – and the fragments he recalled rarely made any real sense.

Now, though, as he tied on his helmet, he frowned. Something was wrong about all of this. Oh, not the whole girding-himself-for-battle thing. That imagery was far too appropriate given the task at hoof. No, the problem was ….

The problem was …

... he wasn’t supposed to be asleep at all!

Cantor paused, looking around himself at the dreamscape – knowing it for what it was. He shouldn’t be here. He should be awake. Preparing himself. He had to wake up.

The dream was already fraying around the edges, so he closed his eyes and focused as hard as he could. In the dream, he spoke aloud.

“I will wake up now.”

The cannons roared.

No, not cannons; fireworks. Cantor’s eyes snapped open. They darted around the cramped interior of a finely appointed carriage. There was still a faint smell of moth-balls clinging to the aged leather upholstery. That part wasn’t surprising – the carriage was his Aunt’s. The pony hitched to the front would be Chester, Providence’s part-time groundskeeper and general odd-body. The slow rattle and creak of wheels and the clatter of marching hooves along the cobbled streets as the carriage (one of who-knew-how-many-hundreds) rolled up to the castle gates mixed with the sound of distant music and singing.

Not a war, but a party. A dance. A gala for the noble, the wealthy, the important. So, perhaps not much different from entering a battle-field, at least from Cantor’s perspective!

Valentina sat opposite Cantor. She was craning her neck and peering out the window at the bursting patterns of light and fire decorating the sky above the royal palace. There was a delighted expression on her face. She wore a little black cocktail dress, one ornamented with layers of honey-golden fringe the same color as her eyes. Between that and the golden-and-black peacock-looking feathers rising from the complicated, decorative knot in her sequins’ covered headband, Valentina looked the spitting image of a flapper from about a century ago.

It was a good look for her. Then again, Valentina had a sort of vivacious presence that could pull off nearly any look well.

Cantor sat up in his seat, stretched, and began using a touch of magic to iron out the wrinkles that had accumulated in his own formal costume during his unplanned nap.

Valentina glanced back at him.

“Sorry, dove …” she began.

“I needed the sleep. I know.” Cantor cut her off. His tone was wryly amused. This was becoming a thing.

Cantor didn’t feel upset or out of sorts. He felt rested, focused … and, he suspected, this was exactly what his cousin Arty had planned. A moment of concentration later, to check on how his reserves of mystic power felt, and Cantor let out a sigh which only carried the lightest of worried notes.

Valentina raised an eyebrow at him. So did Morari, who was scrunched up beside Cantor. Given the close confines of the carriage and Cantors girth, the old ghost was also slightly overlapping the wall.

Cantor’s mouth pursed in a wry expression. “I think this was all Arty’s idea. I hope the precautions he tried to have me make are just him being … well worried. Especially since they didn’t work.”

Valentina blinked in surprise. “What precautions did Arty have you make? Other than having you get dressed early and then having you take a nap in the carriage?”

Cantor hitched up one shoulder and tugged at the cuff of his left coat-sleeve. “Arty was quite insistent that I invoke a kind of fortification spell upon myself. It makes me … well … tougher. Substantially tougher. If I were to have tripped and fallen, or otherwise gotten battered or bruised while it was active, the spell (which had sort of infused itself into my being) would have absorbed the damage rather than my body. The more damage it absorbs, the less of the spell is left. So unlike certain other more traditional, and longer lasting, armoring spells, that one doesn’t always remain until the magic naturally fades. No, it’s a spell that can quite literally be ‘beaten out of a pony.’”

Cantor’s grin was slightly pained, “Which isn’t a pleasant experience, I can assure you.”

Valentina gave Cantor a reassuring pat on the knee as she said, “I can imagine! Sounds like it could be handy, though. Is it one of those ritual magics you can do anywhere, given sufficient time, or is it more like your corpse speaking enchantment – an actual spell you must cast?”

Cantor clarified, “It’s a bona fide wizardly spell, not a ritual. Which means I can maybe pull it off twice before I need a good, long nap. And I can only do it on myself.” Cantor chuckled and shook his head, “Ah, cousin Arty! The problem is, that was about six hours ago, assuming I’m judging the time of night properly. And the spell only lasts for an hour at most. So, like I said: futile. Wasted.”

“Perhaps not,” Morari added.

Cantor frowned and turned to the haunt, “Pardon?”

“Hmm?” Valentina chimed in. Cantor held up a hoof.

Morari explained, “After first keeping you up all night, keeping you busy all day, and then helping you get into your evening wear, Arty was quite insistent that you invoke that spell. He then got you into the carriage and put you to sleep.”

Cantor blinked, “He what?”

“He cast a sleep spell. Given your exhausted state, I doubt you noticed it. You just dropped off on the bench there and started snoring. What Arty did afterwards was more interesting. He cast an armoring spell on you. Pretty standard fair for unicorn guards. Good as a light suit of mail and much less cumbersome. And then Arty did … something.” Morari rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Something?” Cantor asked.

“Something. It wasn’t a magic familiar to me at all. I don’t know if it would be familiar to anypony. From what little I could make out I strongly suspect that he somehow linked your earlier fortification spell with that armoring spell. Not being able to work magic myself at the moment, I couldn’t check to see.” Morari wore the resignedly annoyed expression he usually sported when his inability to cast spells, due to his spectral state, cropped up.

Morari’s expression grew more serious, “However, I would encourage you to remember, Artorius Clearwater may be ... simple-minded, even child-like, but Arty’s not stupid. He did all that because he thought it was necessary and because he thought it would work. If he hadn’t done something strange, I would probably just chalk it up to good intentions and a fundamental lack of understanding as to the limitations of the magic involved. But I know enough about enchantment to say with some authority that he then intentionally manipulated the spells active on your person. He changed something about them. And he seemed satisfied with his changes. If I had to guess, I’d say it was likely Arty somehow tied the one spell to the other: so long as the armor lasts, that magical augmentation to your sturdiness should remain, and vice versa.”

Morari sighed, “I just wish I knew what he meant about the whole ‘mad’ thing. It seemed to trouble him greatly.”

Cantor looked perplexed. He turned to Valentina and said, “O.k., so apparently after spending most of last night and this morning badgering me with errands, story-book reading, playing dress-up, and otherwise keeping me from getting a good night’s sleep, Arty got me ready for the Gala, lured me out to the carriage, had me do that fortification spell, and then used his own magic to put me to sleep.”

Valentina’s eyebrows both raised. “Really?”

“Really,” Cantor nodded. “But wait, there’s more. He then put a standard armoring spell on me.”

“Standard?” Valentina chimed in, “So, what, you’re now basically wearing an invisible and weightless suit of light chain-mail for the next eight hours?”

Cantor was impressed. “I see you know it!”

Valentina’s expression implied that it was silly (and perhaps a bit insulting) for Cantor to be surprised by this. What she said was, “Of course I do! My mother and sister are both military, you know. While we’re not unicorns, we do know a bit about battle-magic as a result.”

“Quite right,” Cantor was embarrassed. He had forgotten that tidbit. “Anyway, after armoring me Morari says Arty did something strange to the spells on my person. Morari strongly suspects Arty may have somehow linked the two enchantments together.”

Valentina frowned slightly. Her tone was worried, “Do you think you’ll need the arcane protection? And how much longer do you think it will last?”

Cantor shrugged. “In order? I hope not. And maybe two more hours.” He grinned. “A bit of good news: Arty timed his interferences and arcane workings quite well. That nap I had was enough that I feel quite refreshed and restored. While I don’t have that much spell-casting ability at the best of times, at least I’m not heading into the Gala at something like half-strength.”

Then Cantor’s face fell. He addressed both Valentina and Morari much more seriously. “But Arty was clearly deeply troubled about something. Something he had seen, or dreamed, or suspected, or imagined. Something he couldn’t find the right words to make us understand. You saw the state he was in yesterday. All he could say was that ‘she is mad.’ Which, coming from him, could mean any number of things. Angry, sad, frightened, insane … Arty isn’t always good with strong emotional displays or strong emotions in general, particularly negative emotions. It’s all ‘bad’ in his mind, and that defaults to ‘mad.’ Arty was really scared. I just don’t know if what frightened him was some real danger or not.”

There was a particularly loud and ongoing series of explosions during Cantor’s pause. The fireworks were heating up again. From overhead, atop the carriage roof, Cantor distinctly heard Magpie’s enthusiastic “Woo-hoo!” followed by Fairweather’s slightly cross, “Do sit down, young filly!”

Valentina was looking out the window again. Her smile had returned, and she was back to her usual bubbly, ready-for-anything attitude. “Well, la, if there is a scrap, at least this time you’re going in properly prepared for it!”

Cantor laughed. “True! Now if only such protections could save me from the mental and emotional discomfort of dealing with large crowds of ponies!”

The carriage was rattling over the bridge and through the outer gates. The sound of the party was rising. There is a very particular sort of noise made by a gathering of posh, sophisticated, and upper crust revelers. That noise was now everywhere.

Valentina began to look back at Cantor, her eyes twinkling. But before she fully opened her mouth to reply she caught sight of something in the distance. She thrust her head out the window and blinked in surprise. She raised a hoof to her eyes and squinted.

“Valentina?” Cantor’s tone was both questioning and worried.

“Hey! Up top! Anything amiss?” Morari stuck his head through the wall and yelled. Only Cantor and the other two ghosts could hear him.

“All is well.” Fairweather replied.

“Look’s like fun ‘ere! Well ‘cept fer the flock of fuddy-duddies!” was Magpie’s answering shout.

“Well, shit!” Valentina said, softly. Her tone was more surprised than anything. Cantor couldn’t hear any traces of upset, anger, or fear there.

Valentina squinted again. She then swung the carriage door open and leaned out of it for a better view.

“What’s Valentina looking at?” Morari asked, again loudly enough for the other haunts to hear.

Fairweather obligingly replied. “She appears to be looking towards the gates. I see what I assume is a usual crush of ponies entering the palace for the Gala.”

Magpie was silent for a moment longer.

“She’s starin’ at some old geezer up there. Unicorn. All in white. Top hat ‘n’ … is that a wand?”

“I see him now,” Fairweather added. “He holds a baton. The white does stand out. He shines.”

Valentina stared at the distant unicorn. Once again she said, “Shit.”

Cantor thought she sounded pleased. Even delighted. He cleared his throat and caught her attention. He raised an eyebrow. Her eyes widened as she met Cantor's gaze. Mischievous delight chased grave concern across her face. Valentina glanced outside again and rapidly took in the crowd, the fireworks, the bonfires burning in elaborate metal urns around the courtyard, the banners, the flags, the distant music, and the slow, regular pace of the approaching carriages as they dropped off one set of party goers after another.

She looked back at Cantor. Cantor couldn’t recall the last time he had seen somepony so amused and so distraught at the same time.

After a moment’s hesitation she spoke. Her tone was serious, the laughter thoroughly buried, as she said, “We’ve got to run. Now.”

She leapt from the carriage and held out a hoof. Cantor followed, and managed not to fall. Morari fell into line with him and his “We’re leaving! Come along now!” got both Fairweather and Magipe down from the carriage roof in a trice.

Valentina was sticking close to Cantor. He shot her a confused look, but saved his breath. Both of them had spent the past week studying the layout of the castle and the grounds.

“Side entrance, through the gardens. Hurry!” She kept glancing over her shoulder at the front doors.

Without saying a word, Cantor lurched into a canter. His top hat blew off. Valentina caught it with one wing and tucked it against her side.

Valentina was surprised. The fastest she had ever seen Cantor move before was a rather slow trot.

Cantor knew he couldn’t keep up the pace for long. Worse, this was just asking his bad leg to give out and send him sprawling. Ahead, the garden gates stood open. A small crowd of stately ponies lingered there. Along with two royal guards.

“Move those hooves!” Valentina called out in a sing-song tone, her shoulder nudged his to keep him on track. Cantor’s bad leg kept throwing off his gait, causing him to veer wide. Twice it had started to buckle completely, both times the leather and steel of his leg brace had been enough to keep him upright.

Cantor lowered his head and broke into a full gallop. Valentina briefly fell behind, mostly because she hadn’t thought her friend capable of achieving that pace, even for a minute. She was laughing with delight.

Cantor wasn’t strong. But he was quite round. He might look like a marshmallow of a pony but there was substantial weight there. More weight than he was personally comfortable with, truth be told. But right now that weight and speed meant that those nobles who didn’t hastily get out of Cantor's way were bowled over like pins. One of the guards was sent sprawling as well. Valentina followed a pace behind through the hole in the crowd that Cantor had made.

Once through the gate Cantor locked all four legs. He skidded into the gardens, through a small hedge, and wound up briefly tangled in a small fruit tree. Rather a lot of song-birds made their indignant and hasty retreat from his far too sudden arrival.

It was quite a lovely garden. All the flowers were in bloom, a riot of scents … and of colors that put the fireworks overhead to shame.

Valentina caught up with Cantor. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Not from the run (as a quick burst of athletic activity was a pleasant diversion for her) but from the laughter.

“I can’t …” she began, “… you really …” she added. Then she just delightedly clapped her hooves together and threw them apart as she said, “Boom!”

In the distance, near the front of the castle, there was a sudden, orchestral surge of music. A burst of happy song. Cantor felt a tingle pass through his body at the sound.

Cantor carefully untangled himself from the … was this a pear tree? He thought it was a pear tree. He began to use a touch of petty magic to smooth his coat-tails, extract the twigs and leaves, and mend a few minor tears. He was also focusing quite hard on getting his gaspy breath back under control. It took him a minute or two. If one were to be remarkably kind, one might say Cantor was built for endurance rather than speed, and regardless, running really wasn’t his forte.

Now the picture of dignity, Cantor held out his left fore-leg, offering it to Valentina.

Still the image of grace and beauty, she took it.

“Sir, madam …” it was one of the royal guards from the garden entry. The one who hadn't been bowled over. A pegasus. He looked mildly confused. Given how well trained even the most novice royal guards were, that slight waver from the usual stone-faced stoic expression said quite a lot.

But before his expression said these two party crashers were in real trouble, Cantor reached into his vest and removed a distinctive, golden ticket. Cantor’s expression was haughty. This was a mask he had practiced all week, and donning such social masks (acting a part) was another talent with which he had considerable skill. Part of that was innate, but part of it was due to long practice. As a result of all this, Cantor looked, more than ever before, like a vaguely foreign noblecolt of considerable importance. He held the ticket before the guard’s face.

A slight twist of his hoof and the second of their two Gala tickets was revealed.

Cantor fanned himself with the two slips of paper while the guard blinked in surprise.

“Good fellow, do take this to the cloak-room if you please. I’m rather late for an important engagement.” Cantor’s tone matched his expression. There was a slight accent to his speech. Cantor casually tossed his hat onto the end of the guard’s spear.

“… er …” the guard said.

“Mind you don’t muss it up,” Cantor added as he turned away and set off at a dignified pace towards the shining lights of the castle.

“Yes sir!” the guard instinctively replied, snapping to attention. He trotted off.

Admiral Fairweather’s haunt gave Cantor an appreciative slow clap.

Cantor gave the ghost a slight nod of his head and then quietly added, in his usual accent, “You three, stick near me. In my shadow – and I mean that literally right now.”

“Good idea,” Morari muttered. He was eyeing the air and the stones around them with considerable worry and suspicion. He even glared at the plants and flowers. Everything here was soaked in magic. Bathed in it. And, given how many ancient wards were at work here, Cantor’s shadow felt much more welcoming to the three spirits than the lamp-light illuminating the gardens.

As they drew closer to the side ball-room, with its massive windows fronting the edge of the gardens, Valentina shot Cantor an appreciative look. A moment later she added, "I'm a bit surprised you didn't ask why we needed to run."

Her tone was grateful, but there was also a hint of surprise there. Cantor caught that hint and frowned to himself. Her surprise, he realized, was something that needed to be explicitly addressed. And addressed now, before they got into another tight situation.

So Cantor paused there, beneath a rose-covered trellis. He turned and looked Valentina in the eyes. His expression was serious, tone firm, as he said, “I'm curious of course, but there was obviously no time for questions. Valentina, if I haven't made it clear before now then let me be frank: I trust you.”

Cantor took one of her hooves in his own as he continued, “So, if you tell me we need to run, then I trust that we need to run. You know why we’re here and what we need to do. You know the dangers we face. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, probably better than mine, so when you say something needs to happen; right then, right there, no questions asked, then I’ll follow your lead. I won’t second guess you."

Cantor realized that Fairweather and Morari had both grabbed Magpie and were forcibly holding her mouth shut. While unable to introduce one of her naughty comments, the ghostly filly did manage an eyebrow waggle that verged on the scandalous.

Valentina was blushing. Her eyes shone with gratitude. What she said in reply was, "How delightfully refreshing!" She took his foreleg and the two began walking towards the doors again. After a moment she added, "I’ll tell you once we're inside and have a few moments to ourselves."

"Good! I am dying to know why you thought my trampling those poor ponies back there was a fine course of action."

Valentina rolled her eyes, "Did you see that mare's dress? It was in terrible taste! Trampling it was doing her a favor! It's just a pity you couldn't do anything about her brooch. I tried to stomp on it in passing, but missed!"

Cantor couldn't tell if she was joking. He did smile though.

"Just a moment," Cantor continued, as Valentina's comment about jewelry sparked an idea. He glanced at the droplets of sweat that had formed on Valentina's face as a result of their little jog. Cantor had been using a touch of magic to cool himself off. Now he turned that magic on her, but refined and altered it.

Valentina blinked in surprise at the sudden touch of cold. It felt like snow had just fallen upon her head. She glanced at her reflection in a nearby window and gasped.

Cantor had shaped and frozen those droplets of sweat so that they looked like a tracery of clear gems laid upon her brow. It was beautiful. She looked back to Cantor.

"It'll last maybe a minute, and only while I concentrate on them," Cantor explained. "But I thought you might like some jewels as you made your entrance. Something more than just your smile, that is."

Valentina gave him a sharp nudge in his ribs, "You smooth stallion! Your flattery is doubtless as fake as your diamonds!"

Cantor snorted in disagreement as he adopted his haughty expression again. They had reached the doorway.

Now on the threshold of the castle itself, Cantor again drew himself up. His voice once again carried the hint of an accent as he addressed one of the two royal guards at the french doors. "Sirs, you can, I trust, grant us admittance to the gala? You have that ... how do you say ... authority?"

The more senior of the two replied, "If sir and madam have their tickets, then yes."

Cantor produced the two slips of golden paper, as he replied, "We are here. We have our tickets." He stepped forward, as did Valentina. As they did so, they drew slightly apart. Between them, in their overlapping shadows, stood Morari and Magpie, with Fairweather hovering slightly above them.

The guard took the tickets, stamped them both, and handed them back. Cantor's broad wave took in Valentina, himself, and (unbeknownst to the guards) the three haunts. From a magical and security standpoint, Cantor's next questions were the important ones, "We are free to enter the palace? We are invited? We are welcome?"

"Yes, sir. You are free to enter the palace. You are invited and welcome. Enjoy the gala." The guard glanced in the direction of the garden gate, "But perhaps with a touch less ... enthusiasm, if you please, sir."

Cantor and Valentina entered the ballroom. So to did the ghosts.

After crossing the threshold, Morari breathed a sigh of relief and commented, "Good! Nicely done." He trotted out of Cantor's shadow and paced around the ballroom itself for a moment before returning to add, "Much better. Much, hmm, freer. Being officially allowed inside by somepony with the authority to admit guests, even if he didn't realize he was including us three in his invitation, appears to have greatly dulled any magics intended keep out things like ghosts. I think we'll be able to navigate the palace as freely as the living. At least for a bit!"

Cantor nodded, "Good!" he said to Morari. And, "It worked," was his follow up to Valentina. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Cantor ensured that as the petty magic that had formed the false jewels on Valentina's brow faded, the diamonds themselves evaporated into sparks of golden light and drifted away. That earned Valentina jealous looks from half a dozen mares. And it made her own lack of jewelry seem somehow much more natural and intended.

Valentina wasn't wearing jewelry tonight, Cantor knew, in case things went as planned. When they reached the cloak-and-dagger stage of sneaking into the catacombs, then the honey-golden frills on her cocktail dress could be slipped off and tucked into her purse, leaving her clad in much more stealthy black.

His own attire had been crafted with something vaguely similar in mind. The outer coat could be discarded if needed, and the under vest and shirt were both shades of black. Admittedly, the couturier hadn't been in residence at the Canterlot Carousel when Valentina, Cantor, and Jon Quill had called there earlier in the week. But the manager, Miss Saddles, had been able to assemble a nicely customized wardrobe for each of the three out of existing patterns, cloth, and pieces which were in stock. So, while not entirely haute couture, their dress was at least bespoke tailoring!

Cantor sported a vaguely foreign, obviously important, and more-than-a-little mystical look. His cousin Arty thought he looked like a storybook magician. Each of the many silver buttons on his coat were of some different arcane symbol. Cantor rather wished that the top button on his coat-collar wasn't a skull, but Valentina had never gotten around to switching the buttons around to replace it with something less unsettling ... and perhaps less appropriate.

Cantor popped in his monocle and, with Valentina on his foreleg, they began to mingle around the edges of the ball room to their first target. It was a small closed door with, once again, one of the royal guard by it. That would be complication number one.

While Cantor hoped this would work out, if it didn't it wouldn't be a fatal end to their enterprise. For the past week they had been preparing for this night. They had identified at least a dozen possible routes from the public areas where the gala was being held to the ancient crypts beneath the castle where one of the trotting dead, a ghostly apparition still bound to it's rune-carved bones and trapped in a seething vortex of terrible, evil power, screamed and thrashed and strove to break free. It had been walled in by the royal guard, Cantor knew, so they'd need to smash through a brick wall once they found the right place.

Polite noises, restrained and appreciative nods, the careful dance of who-ought-to-get-out-of-the-way-of-whom, and a few minutes after entering the ballroom Cantor, Valentina, and the haunts were near that door.

Admiral Fairweather and Magipe ghosted through it together. Morari stayed by Cantor and Valentina, helping to keep an eye out. Still no sign of Jon Quill or Providence. Those two had ridden with one of Providence's friends, and their carriage should have arrived here half an hour or more ago.

Valentina's voice was pitched low, "I saw an old friend at the door."

"Hmm?" Cantor's tone was distracted.

Valentina gave a brief sigh. "I said, I saw an old friend at the door. That's why we ran."

Cantor was confused, but all he said was, "Oh?"

Valentina smiled slightly at the inquiring tone. She answered, "You know that I'm from a military family. Naval fliers for Albion, and quite a linage of them. Having seen your Aunt Providence's manor, I know that you know at least a thing or two about that sort of thing ... even if it sounds like your father dodged a life of service to Princess and Country to instead run off with some ghastly gypsy who (horror-of-horrors) was also a muddy earth-pony!"

"Aunt Providence is not terribly shy when it comes to her prejudices, as you've noticed," Cantor commented, with a wry expression on his face.

Valentina nudged him, "She's a dear! One must expect a bit of stubborn and occasionally wrong-minded bull-headedness from any of your relatives after all!"

Cantor blinked, "Compliments now? Why Valentina! You'll turn my head."

She grinned, "Anyway, as a child we moved around a lot. Once, when I was about knee high, we were stationed on the continent ... not here in Equestria, but yonder ... anyway, with considerable difficulty and expense my parents secured ballet lessons for my sister and I from a very old, very knowledgeable, and very magical unicorn music and dancing master. I don't know that I ever knew his name, but he's called 'The Maestro.' I'm quite pleasantly surprised to see he's still alive. He is here tonight, and I could tell that the was preparing to perform at the palace entry."

Valentina's grin grew broader, "He specializes in a very peculiar kind of magical performance art."

Cantor raised an eyebrow, "Really? And for this we had to flee?"

Valentina face grew solemn, but her eyes shown with merriment, "Why yes! Unless you wanted to be part of a spontaneous musical number."

Cantor shuddered. His voice dripped unfeigned horror, "Sweet Celestia, no! That sort of thing used to happen around Ponyville occasionally. Since I was good with both enchantments and singing, sometimes ponies thought I was somehow responsible for kicking it off. But no, while I can sing, I can't dance. Even before my leg was injured." Cantor then blinked. "Wait, he specializes in that magic? I only know the broadest outlines and most general theory about how that sort of enchantment supposedly functions. It's rare to find anypony who can understand it, much less control it!"

Valentina nodded, "Control it, invoke it, predict it, sculpt it, shape it. Music and magic, the Maestro directs it all." She grinned, "He's odd! Odd as you, even. Maybe odder. I think you'd like each other. I may have to arrange an introduction."

Fairweather and Magpie ghosted back through the door. Fairweather shook his head, but Cantor had already seen the bad news from the expressions on their faces.

Cantor offered Valentina his foreleg again. "No luck. That route's blocked. Next stop on the tour it is."

Valentina nodded and chimed in with a bubbly, "The night is young!" Together they moved off to the next door on their list.

9. Dances.

Two rooms, three halls, forty minutes, and five more failed ghostly excursions later, Cantor and Valentina finally spotted Jon Quill on the far side of the main ball-room. Actually, it was Magpie who spotted him first and pointed him out. All three haunts were sticking close to Cantor at the moment.

Jon Quill was looking dapper in a formal tux and tails. His boutonnière was, appropriately, a jonquil. He wasn’t with Dame Providence. Cantor and Valentina had seen Providence earlier, mingling with other exceedingly proper and aged ponies. Dame Providence had acquired an escort, a peach unicorn with a cream mane who, judging from his dress, was a retired colonel.

Valentina gave a small gasp of delight when she saw that Jon Quill was currently chatting, in a most friendly fashion, with the Maestro.

The Maestro, Cantor noted, had a brilliant white coat, a wispy white mane, and a short white tail. His cutie mark was a treble clef in red, the same shade as his eyes. Some ponies might attempt to cultivate such an exotic look, but the albino coloration seemed entirely natural on this ancient stallion. His clothing (a formal tailed coat, shirt, and vest – all likewise pure white, with sequins and golden buttons) seemed almost dull by comparison to his body. The cut of the coat and the vest were remarkably similar to Cantor’s own.

The Maestro glowed. And, to Cantor’s sight, that glow flickered like a candle flame. This was a phenomena Cantor had only rarely encountered before, so it took him a moment to realize what that glow meant. When Cantor did, he reflexively tightened his grip on Valentina’s foreleg and shot her a glance full of sudden sympathy.

Valentina had been surprised to learn her old dancing master was still among the living, but Cantor could tell he wouldn’t be for much longer. The Maestro’s spirit was strong. Perhaps that had something to do with his peculiar magic, or perhaps he was just a strong willed pony. Regardless, that spirit now shone from his flesh in a way that seemed to shimmer visibly, at least to Cantor’s spirit-sight. The Maestro’s spirit was, Cantor knew, almost free from the body that contained it. His ghost was beginning to leak out.

Which wasn’t to say the Maestro was actively dying. Or, at least, his body was not in the final stages of failure. Not yet. No, while very aged, the Maestro looked quite healthy and happy. Mischievous even. And, Cantor suspected, he likely would remain healthy right up until he just suddenly … stopped. Probably sometime in the next day or two. If not in the next few hours.

“Valentina,” Cantor said softly.

“Hmm?” She replied, her eyes shone with pleasure. They were working their way towards the corner table where the Maestro sat and Jon Quill stood. Jon saw them and waived.

“If there’s anything you want to say to your old friend, I suggest you do it now. Tonight. Don’t wait. Just … don’t.” Cantor’s tone was serious. Valentina blinked at him in surprise. Then her eyes widened and pleasure there dimmed. She understood.

“Oh.” That was all she said. Cantor felt a lump in his throat. But then she smiled again, and there was actual gratitude in it – which, given the sort of news he had just delivered, was a rare thing in Cantor’s experience. She squeezed his foreleg and added, “Thank you. I will.”

As Cantor and Valentina reached his table, the Maestro rose, passing his baton to Jon. The Maesto beamed with joy. Before either Valentina or Jon could say anything, he stepped forward and took Cantor’s hoof. The Maestro said, in a voice which was thin and reedy, but still quite musical, “Hello Death! It’s so good to see you!”

Cantor’s train of thought derailed hard. Cantor held the old stallion’s hoof very gently. Cantor’s expression of shocked surprise just made the Maestro grin more broadly, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.

“Beg pardon?” Cantor replied. His tone one of polite, gentle, and entirely confused inquiry.

The Maestro laughed and embraced Cantor, kissing him on both cheeks. Cantor, mystified, returned the hug and the welcoming gesture.

“Given and granted,” the Maestro said, quite cheerily. He also sighed wistfully as he added, “And of course you’d have a voice like wine and honey, ready to sing me lullabies in a sleep without end.”

“Uhm, sir? Not to be rude, but he’s not … uh … death.” Jon Quill interjected worriedly.

“He’s a friend,” Valentina added.

The Maestro’s eyes twinkled. “Oh really, young story-teller? Then why does he sound like Death? And Death,” the Maestro addressed Valentina, “is a very good friend to all.” The Maestro retrieved his baton, pointed it at Cantor, and continued, “He is tuned to the key of glory, of triumph and finality. He is D major. And he … resolves. Oh how he resolves! So resolute.”

Cantor smiled and said, “Ah. Sorry, but I don’t follow you.”

The Maesto laughed, “But you follow everypony! You tidy up their loose ends. You bring a conclusion. Peace. Rest. Finality. Ergo: Death!”

“You know,” Morari commented, “he’s not entirely wrong about that part.”

“You sure, Scribbler?” Magpie was dubious, “Sounds ta me like ‘e’s a nutter.” Her tone also indicated that, at least in this case, she might approved of nutters.

“What greater resolution, nor more final end, than helping unquiet souls find true peace?” Admiral Fairweather nodded in agreement with Morari. He then frowned, “But how, pray tell, does this Maestro know all that?”

Cantor’s eyes widened. The Maestro had tilted his head, frowning in confusion. The set of his ears, and the attention he directed, it was towards each of the three haunts in turn. It didn’t look like he could see them, nor understand what exactly they were saying; but it looked like the Maestro could hear something when they spoke.

The Maestro's gaze sharpened, he gestured for Cantor and Valentina to join him at the table. As they sat (Cantor pulling the chair back for Valentina and Jon Quill politely waiting until last to take his own seat) the Maestro gave Valentina a quick smile, but one accompanied by a hushing gesture. His attention was still on Cantor.

“I have a question for you, sirrah, before we continue” the Maestro said, with a sudden seriousness, “And I require a truthful answer. Pure honesty, clear and bright. I will know if your words do not ring true.”

“Ask away,” Cantor stated. He was still gathering his thoughts. Valentina was right, not only was this ancient unicorn odd, but Cantor also found himself rather liking him.

“Are you a villain?”

There was a simple, direct seriousness to the Maestro’s question. One that was remarkably free of judgement.

Cantor found himself answering without really even thinking about it. “My goodness, I certainly hope not!” The words just popped out. His friends heard genuine worry and concern in his tone.

The Maestro rocked back in his chair. He looked shocked. “Oh,” he said. He said it quietly.

A smile started to spread across his face. “Oh, my!” he continued. His tone one of surprised pleasure.

He began to clap his hooves together with excited delight. “Oh, my dear, beamish boy! My most lovely Death! Sweet singer of the end of all things! Do you know, that is one of the best answers I’ve ever gotten to that question? Do you have any idea how much it tells me about you?”

Cantor shook his head.

Valentina chimed in, “Maestro, I think you are confusing my dear friend.”

Cantor nodded.

The Maestro blinked and continued, “I do confuse ponies, don’t I?”

Jon added, “In part because half of what you say makes a weird kind of sense, and it really shouldn’t.”

The Maestro grinned, “Well, I can explain all that easily enough.” He took a quick drink of champagne then, in an off hoof manner, said, “I can hear the music of creation.”

Jon quill blinked. He said, “Pardon?” Valentina rolled her eyes. Her expression said that she had heard this before, but that this hardly explained anything.

Cantor, on the other hoof, frowned. Not so much in confusion, but as though he thought that he understood, but wasn’t quite sure of himself.

“I think he may be speaking literally,” Morari added. The ghostly scholar’s expression mirrored Cantor’s own.

“Eh, wot?!” Magpie shook her head. “Nutters. Tha lot of ya!”

“You … are speaking literally, sir? You … hear music, yes?” Cantor’s tone was that of a pony politely seeking clarification.

The Maestro’s face expressed profound appreciation as he nodded yes. Cantor knew that look, though he rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It was a look that expressed the same relief, gratitude, and happiness that Cantor felt when he told somepony he could see ghosts … and they just believed him.

“There’s plenty of music around to hear,” Jon Quill added. For once, he seemed rather lost and confused. However, where most ponies would find such confusion rather upsetting or off-putting, Jon looked pleased that there was a mystery of some sort here which he didn’t yet understand.

“Not that music, Jon,” Cantor gestured in the general direction of the stage. “The music of creation. Themes, variations, patterns. So … you say my own idée fixe or leitmotif is in a D major? Something that’s a final resolution of a piece? Funereal?”

Tears started up in the Maestro’s eyes. “He knows his music and his opera, too! Where were you thirty years ago, o Death? I could have taught you so many things.”

“You understand him?” Valentina chimed in, addressing Cantor. “I never could quite make heads or tails of it,” she admitted.

“You were very young at the time, my valiant little dancer!” the Maestro answered.

Cantor nodded. He addressed his explanation not only to Valentina and Jon Quill but also Fairweather and Magpie. Morari already seemed to be at least vaguely familiar with the arcane concepts involved. “You know how when you’re attending a musical, an opera, or even just a play with orchestral accompaniment there will be certain little themes that reoccur? A short ditty, maybe just a particular rhythm or a few notes; a bit of musical short-hand so the audience immediately knows what they’re seeing?”

Jon Quill blinked, “Oh! Yes, I think so.”

“Like a dramatic bum-bum-ba-dum for when the hero walks onstage, or a dum-dum-doooom for the villain?” Valentina asked.

“Yes,” Cantor said. The Maestro was nodding. Cantor continued, “Just so. Certain philosophers have contended that there is that kind of music woven into the magical land of Equestria. That our day-to-day is underpinned with bits of song. That ponies (and their activities) have certain musical themes that just echo out from them … but that the vast majority of ponies can’t hear them.”

The Maestro tapped his baton on the table as he interrupted. “Usually. So called spontaneous musical numbers are an exception to this general rule.”

Cantor shuddered slightly, but then grinned back at the Maestro, adding, “As are you! Yes?”

The Maestro gave a refined, exceedingly proper, and polite little seated bow to signal his agreement.

Cantor sighed as he concluded, “And that’s all I really know about it. I imagine it could be a handy talent to have.”

“Oh, it is!” The Maestro said, quite seriously. “Especially when you’ve lived as long as I have and heard the same sorts of incidental music and themes recurring over and over again, with so many lovely variations. It is how I know you are a writer of stories,” he pointed at Jon Quill, “You sound like a writer. Your music does, that is; not your voice. And your music sounds like a particular sort of writer. One interested in the exotic and fantastic, the mystical and magical.”

The Maestro pointed to Valentina, “This dear child has always had a martial air to her, a particularly vivacious march to be sure! But now that she has grown up and found herself, there is such a relaxing, welcoming element to it too. The sort of march played to welcome the victorious back to home and rest.”

His hoof moved to Cantor as he added, “He’s Death, as we’ve already covered, and they …” his hoof swept to include the haunts, “are the echoes of tunes that should be finished but aren’t.”

Cantor grimaced. The haunts, Jon, and Valentina stared at the Maestro in shock.

The Maestro went on, frowning, and addressing Cantor, “Have you tried resolving them? Getting them past all that tinkley almost-collapsing-on-that-final-note-only-to-go-wandering-endlessly-around-it business? It’s quite distracting. And annoying. I imagine it’s rather annoying for them too.”

Cantor’s grimace grew more pained. He spoke with considerable reluctance, “I’ve ... tried. It’s kind of what I do. It … hasn’t worked for these. We don’t really know why. And we’re none too pleased with it.”

The Maestro closed his eyes. He looked like he was concentrating … like he was listening. “Give it another try, if you would,” he said.

Cantor shrugged and turned to his spectral friends. Fairweather stepped forward, “Please, you have my permission.”

Cantor spoke, though with the skullduggery ahead he didn’t dare spend any of his limited arcane power to support his words, “My friend, you told me you wished to return to sleep, so why don’t you? Feel free to lie down, rest, relax … let this all go. It would please me to no end knowing I was able to help any of you.”

Even without the backing of magical spells, Cantor’s enchanting voice soothed and lulled. Fairweather’s eyes drifted slightly shut but the never really closed completely. Jon Quill yawned, which made Valentina yawn.

The Maestro, though, blanched and shuddered, his white coat going almost gray as his eyes popped open. Cantor noticed and stopped speaking.

“Are you alright?” Cantor asked.

“I’ve ... been better. I ... ugh ... heard something.” The Maestro’s tone, and the expression on his face, indicated he didn’t like what he heard.

“What was it?” Valentina asked.

“A scream. A mare screaming. The closer they get to … how did you put it? Sleep? The louder it rings through them.” There was a moment of silence. The Maestro raised his eyebrows in an inquiring fashion, “How can they sleep with all that screaming, eh? Even if they don’t know they hear it … they hear it.”

Cantor sighed. “We’re here trying to …”

“Trying to do something about it, yes?” The Maestro interrupted. He tsked at the resulting series of confused stares. “Have you been paying no attention? I hear the music of creation. Always. In all places, at all times. It’s my special talent. All this?” He gestured dismissively at the Gala. “Heard it before. Rather repetitive and dull if you ask me. The sound of very important ponies wanting to show off for one another at a party. I’ve only been forced to listen to the Gala's themes perhaps two dozen times in my career. I honestly can’t see how she stands it every year. And she smiles through it too! A thousand years of this insufferable twaddle? I’d go mad!”

The Maestro's disgusted expression softened, “Oh there are occasionally much more interesting and lively tunes being played out among them. Young lovers. Joyful souls for whom all this is new. You lot? You are one of those very different melodies. You three are clearly together. You’re not here for the party at all. And you’re …” the Maestro’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “clandestine!”

“Considering all that,” Jon Quill spoke up, “I’m glad you haven’t called over the guards! Thanks!”

“Why, think nothing of it, my dear tattle-tale! I’m bored. You’re interesting. If I were to stop you from doing whatever it is you are doing, then it would all just be boring again.” The Maestro’s smile was back. Mischievous. He bore the expression of an old pony who enjoyed misbehaving, and one who was long past caring about propriety and appearances.

No wonder Valentina liked him, Cantor thought. The Maestro went on to add, “It’s quite clear to me from Cantor’s answer to my first question that you’re not harboring ill intent or wicked plans. So even if wickedness comes from what you do (and I’m not saying it sounds likely that it will) then such ill results will be entirely unintentional.”

“Oy!” Magpie chimed in, “If’n the ol’ codger ain’t just mad ‘n’ he c’n hear what’s what in tha world, think ‘e could listen at tha doors ‘n’ give us a nod?”

The Maestro blinked. “That sounded important,” he muttered to himself before shooting Cantor an inquiring glance.

Cantor leaned I close, “Would you do us a favor? We’re trying to find the way to proceed, and we need to know which path to follow. Do you think you could let us know which one … uh … sounds right?”

The Maestro’s grin grew broader, but his eyes narrowed. He looked decidely impish. He also seemed to be listening for something in particular now.

“I might, but ...” the Maestro drew out the words.

“Yes?” Cantor nudged the ancient unicorn verbally.

“But … I would like a moment or two alone with my old student Valentina. Would you kindly give us a bit of privacy, Death? Perhaps you should go get a drink? The punchbowl,” the Maestro pointed with his baton, “is that way.”

Cantor nodded and rose saying, “Thanks!” He drew in a breath and looked from Valentina to the Maestro and back again.

Given the urgency of their mission Jon Quill was rather surprised to hear Cantor say, with gentle seriousness, “Take your time. Take all the time you need.”

Cantor went limping away, slowly navigating his way through packs of ponies who were dancing slowly to the music being played. Morari accompanied him. As per their plans, Fairweather was sticking by Jon Quill and Magpie by Valentina – that way if something happened while Cantor was separated from the others they could let him know.

Jon Quill rose to depart too, but the Maestro tapped him with his baton and pressed him gently back into his seat.

Jon frowned in confusion. The Maestro’s expression shifted to one of delighted, eager expectation. He was watching Cantor’s progress across the floor.

“Maestro,” Valentina spoke softly. She was blinking back tears.

That got his attention. He smiled at her as his expression changed to one of great fondness, “Yes, dear little dancer?”

“I don’t know that I ever thanked you. For the lessons. And for your kindness.” Valentina spoke softly, and there was a little catch in her voice as she continued, “I ... I don’t know if I’ll have the chance to tell you again … so … I just wanted …” she trailed off.

“Oh, dear little filly,” the Maestro answered with heartfelt compassion and gratitude, “You are such a fine young mare! It was a delight teaching your fierce spirit how to move with grace and poise. You took to it so naturally! You and your sister both. I am pleased to know that you remember an old stallion fondly. And if this is to be our goodbye, then know I have many fond memories of you too.”

She gave him a tight hug and held on. Jon Quill wiped a tear from his eye. He didn’t try to pretend it was from the candle smoke, or the various perfumes or colognes ponies were wearing.

But then Jon saw … her. She had just entered through the main door. Because of this, she was looking directly at the refreshment table.

Jon froze, staring.

The Maestro saw her too. His expression was once again that of mischievous, naughty delight, of breathless anticipation. His grin seemed to say, “oh, this is going to be good!”

Suddenly, it clicked for Jon Quill. He whispered, “You old bastard! You knew! You ... you heard this coming somehow and you sent him …” Jon Quill trailed off.

Valentina looked up in confusion. The Maestro lightly touched her chin and directed her gaze towards the main entrance to the grand ballroom. She gasped and froze. Her gaze jumped to Cantor as she squeaked, “Oh no!”

“Oh yes!” the Maestro replied. He was gleefully rubbing his hooves together.

Cantor made his way towards the punch bowl. He was going over their plans in his mind. The meeting with the Maestro had been … well … Cantor wasn’t entirely sure what it had been. Intense was a good enough word he supposed. And at least the ancient unicorn was apparently wanting to help them out.

Cantor couldn’t help shake the feeling that a large part the old musician’s helpfulness was grounded in the desire for amusement. For something fun to watch. For a good laugh. Sometimes that sort of thing could be all well and good. But, it could also wind up being quite uncomfortable for those caught up in the middle of things.

Genteel nods, half-bows, a slow and limping avoidance of ponies in the midst of their dances. The occasional quiet pleasantry. Cantor has his formal mask of an expression back on. It was already feeling tiresome.

“You seem worried,” Morari said.

“I am worried,” Cantor replied, muttering as quietly as he could. “I hope the Maestro both can and will help us. I want to trust him. Heck, he’s Valentina’s friend. It’s clear she likes him. But … with what we’re currently about …”

“It is a risk of exposure. But, a point: if the Maestro wanted to expose us, he could have done so by now. Also, consider: while Furlong doesn’t want us heading south to the Badlands, he does want us to get into the crypts and deal with whomever has risen there. That’s why he gave you those two Gala tickets. While I wouldn’t expect anything like open aid from him or the Mares of S.M.I.L.E. I’m quite sure he knows what we’re about tonight … and he will have had a door left open. We just need to find it.”

Cantor nodded. Morari, as usual, raised excellent points.

Cantor reached the punch bowl. He gave courteous nods and bits of small-talk to the ponies there. He had a bellini. The sparkling wine and peach juice were expertly mixed and deliciously chilled. The result was quite sweet and refreshing, something Cantor felt he needed. He had a second, and then a third. Which was when he realized that the drinks packed a surprising kick.

He glanced back at the others. They were staring at him.

He didn’t like their expressions. Shocked concern from Jon and Valentina, and … did the Maestro just wink at him? And give him an encouraging “you can do it” sort of gesture with one hoof?

Cantor felt suddenly warm. A strange, electric tickle seemed to settle all around him.

“Oh shit,” Morari said.

Cantor glanced at the spook.

“Nothing!” Morari lied. “Uh, let’s get back to the others. Quickly. Quietly. Trust me: head down and just move your hooves Cantor.”

“What?” Cantor felt his heart beat picking up. The drink seemed to be acting much more swiftly than usual. It must have been more potent than he had suspected. There was a pleasant warmth that seemed to be slowly filling him up, starting in his bones and working its way outward. Like the heat of the sun on a midsummer day, when one was lazing about on the beach.

“Later,” Morari sounded nervous. “Pick up the pace, my friend. Hurry. But, casually. Don’t make it look like you’re hurrying. Try not to be noticed, but don’t look like you’re trying to be stealthy.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Cantor muttered. But he picked up his pace a bit, and murmured his excuse me’s to the dancers he was wading through.

Morari groaned briefly then said, “Uh, that’s not … er … Cantor slow down. No, slower.”

Cantor obliged. That sense of intoxicating warmth grew ever stronger. He really should have eaten something before having those drinks.

“Cantor,” Morari adopted a firm tone. No nonsense. All business. Resigned but also somehow very encouraging. “Don't panic. You can do this. You’re a good pony. We’re here trying to do good things. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then why does it sound like I should be worried?” Cantor hissed at him. The crowd was suddenly opening around him a bit, giving him space. With this clearing, he might be able to reach his friends in a minute or two if he were to hoof it.

Morari sounded almost grim. “Three-quarter turn right, then bow.”

Cantor paused.

“Do it,” Morari said. “Do it now.”

Cantor turned. The pivot was oddly graceful. His bow, on the other hoof, wasn’t.

If the light of the Maestro’s still living ghost shone from his body like a candle, her light was blinding. Not because she was near death, far from it. The power that filled her flesh, the magic there was so ancient and great that were she made of solid iron the radiance within would still shine through to Cantor’s spirit-sight. Mere flesh? Little more use than glass. Stained glass.

And behind it? The sun.

She had stopped walking.

Cantor’s eyes were already tearing up. He could see things in that light, glimpses and hints and whispers of he knew not what.

This was no mere unicorn noble confronting him, this was royalty. This was an Alicorn – a majestic pony, bearing the signature traits of all three pony kindreds: a unicorn horn, pegasi wings, and the strength and resilience of an earth pony. They were as close to immortals as it was possible to be. Only four such Alicorns existed in all of the known world, their magic flowing from and tied to fundamental forces of creation: day and night, love and friendship. Although, Cantor suddenly recalled, technically there were five Alicorns now, what with the recent birth in the Crystal Empire of an Alicorn daughter for the Princess of Love. Two Alicorns were attending the Gala tonight. A third was elsewhere in the palace, but night had fallen so she had other duties.

This Alicorn? She was the eldest and most powerful of them all. She and her sister had been born Alicorns in the prehistoric times before the founding of Equestria (unlike the Princesses of Love and Friendship, each of whom had ascended, transformed, and undergone apotheosis ... one within the past few decades, the other within the past few years ... to achieve their exalted forms and royal status.)

Her cutiemark was a golden sun and every day her magic caused the sun to rise ... to move through the heavens ... and to set. For the thousand years of her younger sister's corruption and banishment she had been the singular ruler of Equestria, governing both day and night. She could have borne the title of Queen ... of Empress, and none would have gainsaid her, but she preferred to be the ’first among equals’ ... to rule with her restored sister at her side. Thus, the elder sister only permitted herself to be called a Princess. The Princess of the Day.

And here was Princess Celestia (Soli Reginae! Dea Solis!), standing far too close to Cantor for comfort.

Cantor dipped his head a bit lower. “Your majesty,” he said.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking. This situation was one for which he honestly hadn’t prepared. One he would have chosen to avoid if at all possible. His mind was racing in far too many directions at once. He hoped he wouldn’t faint. He also hoped she couldn’t see through to his thoughts, because he was screaming internally. The part of his mind that was still trying to find a rational way out of this brilliant mess really wished the rest of his mind would just shut up and let him think.

He had to get out of here.

Cantor took a step back.

Princess Celestia took a step forward.

Another step back for him, another step forward from her.

Cantor tried a step to one side, Celestia followed. Gracious. Liquid. It was as if he were a particularly unwieldy stone sunken in a pool, but no matter how the rock pulled away, to the right or left, forward or backwards, the water always was there. Right there. Flowing into the space the rock had vacated.

Cantor tried to step the other way, to move away from her again. No use.

Celestia was amused. Not the polite, masked amusement … the pleasant, perfect face … she kindly showed to all her subjects. No, Cantor could feel her pleasure. She was genuinely enjoying this. She seemed to glow brighter. Warmth and encouragement flowed from her.

Cantor found himself concentrating on her white coat, the peach and rose dress and the simple, elegant golden accent of a pin holding it shut. Celestia wasn't wearing her usual pectoral, but she was wearing her golden horse shoes. Her light seemed to dim as Cantor's eyes reflexively shifted in an effort to escape that radiance ... but Cantor still couldn't turn away from her. Cantor realized (but only after the fact) that there was so little dark about Celestia’s spirit that in changing his own perception, in striving to see by darkness, her body finally snapped into focus.

That … wasn’t much better. He was staring straight ahead. While ordinarily this would have Cantor gazing slightly over the head of many mares, as he was just a bit on the tall side, in her case this meant he was staring squarely at Celestia’s chest. She towered over him. Her massive, white wings were tucked at her sides. She was distractingly beautiful. Her presence was just as overwhelming as before.

Cantor tried to step forward, around her. She slid back. At no time since he had addressed her had Celestia permitted any more or any less than a single hoof-width’s of space to exist between them.

She smelled nice. Some sort of exotic, spicy scent. Of course she did.

Cantor was still screaming internally. The more rational portion of his mind was getting rather annoyed by this. Especially because it kept him from really hearing whatever it was Morari was saying. The ghostly scholar's tone sounded encouraging, at least.

Time to try something risky.

Cantor gave a slightly deeper bow, including a brief, awkward flourish from one fore hoof. He also tried stepping back at an angle away from the princess. He hoped that the gesture, the withdrawal, and the unusual direction would at last let him break free from her orbit to flee into the crowd.

It went all wrong.

There are moments when time seems to slow down. This was one of them, Cantor noted. His weight had shifted to his bad leg and it just buckled. Worse, the knee brace locked in tight – and the lock was designed in such a way so as to help steady and propel his gait forward, not backward. His other rear leg tangled with the useless, rigid, stumbling block of his bad leg.

When falling down was all there was, then how one fell mattered. Cantor’s initial impossible stance and tangle of hooves left him with effectively two options, a gentle slip forward or a mad, thrashing flip over onto his left side.

It was at this moment that Cantor finally realized he had been dancing. They had been dancing together.

A gentle slip forward would mean falling onto Celestia. Celestia was already stepping gracefully forward, her presence pushing at him as he pulled away.

So with the only bit of control he had left, Cantor tumbled gracelessly over himself to smash into the ball-room floor with a resounding thud.

It didn’t hurt. A fall like that? It should have hurt. A lot. So, confirmation that at least his fortification spell was still somehow active. Though now it was doubtless a bit less potent than before.

All around the room there were gasps. The music stuttered to a stop. Morari held a hoof to his mouth in horror and concern.

Cantor, though, felt a surge of profound relief. He hadn’t fallen into her. Celestia, and her gown, were unscathed by his terrible missteps.

Cantor struggled to get his hooves back under him. He glanced up at her. It was the first time he actually looked at Celestia’s face. Beautiful. Her face was as white as her body, her unicorn horn rising like a spear from her brow, and her golden crown was holding back a mane of pastel blues, greens, and purples that sparkled and visibly undulated from the power that filled her. A tail of the same hues shimmered and waved behind her.

This was also the first time Cantor actually met Celestia's gaze. Cantor felt an electric shock run through him. Even seeing almost entirely by darkness, his own eyes now nothing but pools of empty night, the light of her spirit glimmered in her purple eyes like a star. Her eyes widened in surprise at what they saw.

She was reaching down to help him, and her expression was shifting from delight to sudden concern. Now mixed with a touch of curiosity.

Cantor reluctantly took her hoof and let her help him stand again. That felt like a defeat of some sort. He was heavy, but she was strong. Stronger than even she realized, Cantor suspected.

“Excuse me …” Cantor and Celestia spoke in unison, and both stopped as one.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Why should you apologize for my knocking you over like that?”

“Because,” Cantor found himself answering, “I was taught it is the role of a stallion on the dance floor to make their partner look good. To make her own grace shine more clearly.” That was true. As was what followed, “Even if I could dance, I could never serve as anything but a clumsy counterpoint to your majesty.”

“Ah,” she said. In that word, Cantor heard a hint of her boredom with such courtly pleasantries and compliments, but it was mixed with a touch of appreciation for the genuine and heartfelt sentiment behind Cantor's words. Celestia went on to say, “You are, perhaps, overly kind.” Her eyes seemed to bore into his own and, after a moment, she added, softly, “You have been injured.”

Cantor winced, “An old wound. I wasn’t much of a dancer even before my leg … well …” He trailed off.

Celestia’s expression gentled. Her voice was still quiet. “I wasn’t speaking of your leg.”

Cantor felt his heart lurch. He finally managed to tear his gaze away. He lowered his head, once again bowing as formally as he could manage. He had to give his leg brace a quick smack with one of his hooves to get it to unlock. He then said, “If your majesty will excuse me …”

“And what if I won’t?” Her tone was teasing. Laughter hid somewhere under there. She sounded, for all the world, like Valentina or Magpie in one of their naughtier, feistier moods.

Cantor blinked. He glanced back up at her, his distress written clear on his face as he replied, “Well then, I shall be honored. And delighted. And overwhelmed. And probably faint sometime in the next few minutes. But most of all I shall be forced to be boring and dull.”

Both Celestia’s eyebrows shot up. “Dull?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you’re only the third interesting thing I’ve come across here this entire night! Dullness simply won’t do.”

“Then grant me permission to withdraw, and the liberty of the palace, and I shall strive to make the result interesting. Or, at least, good.”

Celestia laughed. “You’re an odd one! No introduction, no name, only one dance, and already you want to flee the Gala? Am I so poor a hostess as that?”

Cantor’s expression was appalled, it him took a second to see that she was teasing him again. Before he quite realized what he was doing he had pursed his lips, rolled his eyes, and given her a look that seemed to say “Really?” in an almost disgusted fashion.

She grinned. Then her formal mask was back on. So well-worn and seamless one would hardly know it to be a mask.

“Very well. Done and done. We wish you a good night.”

“My thanks, your majesty.” Cantor scooted away two steps then turned and made his way towards the Maestro’s table. His friends there were stunned. Heck, Cantor was stunned. The Maestro was waving his baton happily, almost as if directing the proceedings. Magic trailed from it like a flag.

At the moment, Cantor couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss the ancient unicorn or wring his scrawny neck. Cantor felt elated. He felt like he was light as a feather and walking on clouds. He also felt exhausted, embarrassed, and drained, so (luckily for the Maestro) Cantor hadn’t the energy for either kissing or strangulation at the moment.

Celestia stared after the pale, nameless unicorn. He was embarrassed. He was chubby. He was clever. He was clumsy. It was somehow surprisingly adorable. He was muttering to himself, which wasn’t usually a good sign. His mane was shot with gray, but it seemed that his spirit was still gentle and kind; no, age hadn’t hardened that stallion.

This pleased Celestia. It took a real and rare strength to stay soft, to stay gentle, when hard things happened. The pale unicorn had the look of a stallion who had been dealing with hard things for much of his life. She fancied that the painful shadow of too many of those hard things lurked somewhere in the depths of his dark eyes.

He was a child, of course. They were all children compared to her.

He looked vaguely familiar. She knew she had never met him specifically; she was certain she would have remembered him if she had. But over the centuries she had seen others like him. Possibly his relatives. Possibly just those of a similar nature or build. With all those millions of ponies she had known … those tens of millions … those hundreds of millions … everypony looked vaguely familiar to her.

She stopped that line of thought easily enough. It was unproductive. Nostalgia was a vice she couldn't afford. Especially since she had duties in the here and now.

Celestia's smile brightened. That was one of her duties too: to try to find all this as enjoyable as possible. To show her pleasure so that others would be at ease. Even if her apparent delight was merely a facade.

The odd thing was, the facade often mirrored the underlying reality. Celestia showed her court and her citizens a pleasant, smiling face – a soothing expression of gentle encouragement and regal, caring regard. Most of the time that was almost exactly how she really felt, which made it a bit less exhausting. At least in the mornings. Once evening rolled around ... or when her royal duties kept her up into the night ....

Really, one of the few genuinely good things about the continuing awfulness of the Grand Galloping Gala, from Celestia's point of view, was it afforded her an opportunity to relax that tiresome mask a bit ... she could watch the fireworks, figurative rather than literal ... even subtly instigate a few entertaining flare ups of her own. She could look for some real amusement.

In thinking of amusement, Celestia's mind strayed back to the pale unicorn. After a thousand years of court functions, of dances and fêtes and galas, it was obvious to Celestia that whoever he was he was not here for the party. No, that stallion was up to something! Having spoken with him, it seemed equally obvious to Celestia that whatever it was he was up to, he (at least) meant well. Oh, she had been wrong about such things before, but she didn’t think she was wrong this time.

Celestia’s gaze had trailed back to him. She blinked in surprise. What was this? He was chatting with the Maestro?

When had the Maestro gotten so old? That realization sent a bittersweet pang through Celestia. But this was another unproductive line of thought. She stopped it and returned her attention to the clumsy dancer. Perhaps he was a spy? He didn’t look like a spy. But the good ones never did. It was a mystery.

“Yes, he will be trouble,” Celestia spoke quietly to herself. “Still, those eyes were quite unusual. I can’t think of the last time I’ve seen their like. At least, not on a pony.”

A familiar purple Alicorn finished working her way through the chattering crowd and finally reached Celestia’s side.

“Celestia? Are you o.k.? What was that about?” Twilight, the Princess of Friendship, was concerned. Still far too concerned about such things, or so Celestia believed. Twilight was such a dear, but she really ought to lighten up. Cut loose. Do something unexpected and entertaining. With that thought, Celestia's gaze tracked back to her most recent dance partner. He and several other ponies were leaving the ball room now.

“I wonder what sort of trouble they’re getting into?” Celestia murmured to herself. She was a bit wistful. Whatever it was, it was almost certainly more interesting than the next few hours of smiling her way around the ball seemed likely to be.

“What was that?” Twilight asked.

Celestia said “Hmm?” her attention returning to her friend and protégé. Well, there were some other potential amusements around. Celestia’s eyes sparkled merrily as she added, “I was just thinking, where has Discord gone off to?”

“Uh …” Twilight scanned the crowd worriedly. There was no immediate sign of the draconeques. Given that Discord (Celestia's ancient enemy, and now mostly reformed ... though still erratic, ally) was a long, lean, chimerical creature and easily four times the size of a pony, he should stand out in a crowd. Even without tonight's garish outfit. Well, usually he would stand out, unless he didn't want to. Discord was also capable of astounding feats of shape-shifting and reality warping. If Celesta was arguably a demigoddess of the Sun, Discord was assuredly the demigod of Chaos, and one of the few creatures as old and powerful as she. Older and more powerful, actually ... in ancient times Celestia had only beaten him by using a magic more powerful than either of them, the magic of the elements of Harmony. Having him around again could be quite amusing ... and occasionally dangerous. Especially when you couldn't see what he was up to!

Twilight looked annoyed and distressed, but she didn't look like she was panicking, so: progress. Twilight-the-unicorn of a few years ago, Celestia's star student, would have been panicking right about now.

Celestia continued in a bright and cheerful tone, “We wouldn’t want to miss his latest shenanigans. He is one of only three interesting things going on here tonight after all!”

Twilight shot Celestia another worried look. Twenty minutes ago Celestia had made an off hoof comment about there only being two interesting things at the Gala. Twilight trotted along as Celestia strode majestically towards the rear hall.

10. Songs.

“Cantor, love, are you …” Valentina began.

Cantor held up a hoof to cut her off. He was glaring at the Maestro. The Maestro grinned unapologetically back at him then he raised an eyebrow in an inquiring manner.

Cantor took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. He looked considerably less upset than he did a moment ago. Cantor then addressed the Maestro and said, “Forgiven.” Cantor made a sour face as he added, “Mostly because I haven’t the time or energy right now to stay upset. Things to do. Places to go. Ghosts to rescue. So, now that you’ve had your fun, Maestro, will you help us? Or did you just want to see me doubly cursed before sending me on my way?”

Valentina and Jon Quill both frowned in surprise. The Maestro, on the other hoof, chuckled appreciatively as he said, “You are a kind one, o Death! And a clever one too. Clever enough to turn these great curses into blessings!” His tone shifted towards the serious as he added, “Of course I’ll help. As much as you’ll let me.” The Maestro’s grin returned, “Perhaps a bit more!”

“Uh, Cantor,” Jon Quill interrupted, “what’s that about a curse? Did … did the Princess … er … I mean, she looked pleased more than anything …” he trailed off worriedly.

“Oy!” Magpie chimed in, disgustedly, “’e don’t know ’bout the great curse? Even I know that one!”

“Master Quill has been drinking. And he is nervous. I doubt he is entirely up to snuff at the moment,” Fairweather added.

Cantor raised an eyebrow at Jon, “Surely you’ve noticed that we are, as the old curse goes, ‘living in interesting times.’”

The Maestro raised his glass in an enthusiastic toast, “One curse for everypony! To keep life from getting dull.”

Valentina frowned in confusion, “There’s a second?”

Cantor nodded, “Yep.” He glared at the Maestro again, as he continued, “It goes, ‘May you come to the attention of those in authority.’”

Valentina tilted her head as she considered the statement. “But that’s not …” then she started thinking more deeply about it, “… well, I mean it could be …” she grimaced as that train of thought continued, “… I … think I see what you mean.” She turned her glare on her old friend the Maestro.

He beamed at her in turn and commented, “So fierce! Good. You’ll need that.”

The Maestro then turned to Jon Quill and said, “You’re skilled with word-play, what would you call somepony who is as much Valkyrie as Ballerina?” The Maestro gestured towards Valentina as he spoke.

Jon Quill didn’t need to think for even a moment, “A Valkyrina!” He blurted out. Valentina’s eyebrows both raised, her face an image of affronted dignity.

The Maestro looked impressed. “Nice. Better than a Ballkyrie.” His nose wrinkled up in distaste as he muttered to Cantor, “Too ‘sporty,’ you know?”

“May I assume,” Cantor continued, in a surprisingly patient tone, as he looked from Valentina to the Maestro, “from all this banter, that you two have had sufficient time to chat?”

Valentina’s expression darkened slightly. She nodded. The Maestro gave her a friendly pat on the knee as he nodded too.

“Good,” Cantor said. He wore an oddly rueful expression as he continued, “Princess Celestia herself has graciously given me the liberty of the palace and permission to depart the Gala proper."

Jon Quill whistled appreciatively and said, “And I take it we're going to abuse those permissions?”

“Oh, maliciously,” Cantor confirmed. He didn't sound at all pleased about it though.

The Maestro grinned, but then donned unusually solemn expression as he tapped his baton to his goblet. “But first, a toast before we begin.”

At Cantor’s hesitation, the Maestro said, quite seriously, “It will help. Trust me on that.”

Glasses were refilled. Cantor made sure his and Jon Quill's were only filled with water. As they clinked their goblets together the Maestro’s horn began to glow. Magic gathered around him. He spoke, “Let us raise our glasses on high …”

Morari removed his spectacles and held them up as well. Magpie let out a shrill bark of laughter at the sight, then gave the ghostly scholar a friendly punch in the shoulder. Fairweather frowned in confusion. He clearly did not get the joke.

“… and drink to the success of your enterprise!”

The Maestro touched his glass to Jon Quills own as he said, “Be brave!” Some of the magic seemed to spill from the Maestro into Jon’s water, which now glowed slightly.

Next the Maestro touched his glass to Cantor’s and said, “Be bold!” Again, Cantor’s water began to shine.

Lastly the Maestro touched his glass to Valentina’s and added, “Be resolute!” Her champagne now shimmered.

They drank, and they felt themselves fortified, strengthened to overcome whatever hardships lay in their path, to endure the trials ahead and emerge victorious.

Morari looked on approvingly.

“You seen summat like that before?” Magpie inquired.

Morari and Fairweather both nodded. Morari added, “If he just did what I think he did, then the lot of them should be considerably more resilient for the next several hours.”

Fairweather added, “A little like Cantor’s fortification spell, only longer lasting and it also increases the underlying endurance of the pony in question. Simply beating the arcane protection off of them will not actually end the spell, the damage done to it can be healed.” He chuckled. “I know I was quite grateful for its like on the battlefield a time or two!”

The Maestro stood. Valentina offered him her fore-leg for support. He took it and said, “Let’s be off to check on some doors, yes? Find out which one sounds like the best route forward for all of you.”

“Let’s,” said Cantor. He still looked worried.

Jon Quill fell into place beside Cantor, ready to help catch him should he stumble. They began to make their way around the grand ball-room. Two possible doors remained to check here, then there were side corridors, a balcony, two more halls, and another foyer.

Jon also had questions, not that this surprised anypony. “So, Maestro … what all will you be doing? Singing a doorfinding song? Doing a dance to find the path? Can you use your mastery of music and magic to conjure up some sort of musical number to get everypony out of our way?”

The Maestro chuckled. “Mostly I’ll be listening. You are following dear, sweet Death here, so I’m listening for where his tune should go.”

Cantor sighed. “Maestro, please. I’m not death. Even if I sound like it.” Cantor muttered, “And feel like a warmed over version of it on occasion.”

The Maestro glanced at Cantor, “Then what, pray tell, are you? Do you even know?”

Cantor’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced sidelong at the Maestro before answering, “Actually I do. I’m a spiritualist. A medium-in-training. Kind of like how you can just hear the music, I can just see dead ponies. Ghosts, haunts, spirits. I help them tidy up the loose ends which keep them from being at peace and I help them return to their eternal rest. I act on their behalf. A sort of speaker for the dead.”

The Maestro looked delighted. “So, then, o Death – you are a kind of herald for the great beyond, an emissary for those who have passed beyond the veil?”

Cantor nodded. “Exactly,” he said.

The Maestro paused, listening at a nearby door. After a moment, he shook his head, raised his baton, and lightly tapped Cantor on the chest, saying, “Attend.” He had stopped walking.

The Maestro’s tone was authoritative. Cantor found himself perking up at it. The Maestro carried on, “When those with power and authority, such as Celestia, dispatch a servant to undertake a duty, to bear their words and their messages, then that servant – that herald – is, in many very important respects, a proxy for their lady and mistress. Celestia’s words are in their mouth, her thoughts in their mind, and so though the herald speaks, it is her voice which is given utterance.”

He tapped Cantor thrice with his baton, saying, “She. Is. There.”

They resumed walking through the gala. Somehow the Maestro’s wandering path always seemed to find a clear spot among the crowds.

The Maestro continued his speech, “When Celestia sends a herald, then that herald represents the Princess herself. In a very real way that herald becomes her. But only in so much as the herald is doing her will, carrying out the duties assigned to them.”

The Maestro’s voice remained solemn as he went on, “Your own master, o Death, would – I contend – be death itself. What my life has taught me is that death desires only good for those who have gone on. An eternity of rest. That you are here leads me to believe that when they have it not, then death sends a herald … a messenger … a speaker to act on its behalf. To carry its authority into the lands of the living, to those dark places where the dead are disturbed and distressed. So you, in carrying out your duties … in fulfilling your calling, are, in a very real sense, exactly what I have named you.”

The Maestro smiled and said, quite fondly, “You are Death. A dear friend, come to visit, and to bring us peace.”

His tone then became quite serious, “Those who would stop Celestia’s appointed messengers from doing their work stand in opposition to Celestia … to the sun itself. And woe betide any who would seek her wrath! Those who would stand in your way? As you go about your solemn duty? Well … keep to your principals, spiritualist – strive to serve the dead, and your adversaries will learn (sooner or later) that none can best death forever.”

Cantor chuckled. “Well, that all sounds a bit too dramatic, Maestro. Honestly, I’ve had my work compared unfavorably to the postal service before. I deliver messages that really need to be sent, from a very rare and exclusive clientele, but those messages – and their messenger – often aren’t exactly welcome.”

The Maestro let out short, musical wheeze of laughter. After which he turned to Jon Quill and said, “As for your other questions – the forces I serve may well open the way, if properly invoked. I’ve magic and music I could turn to your aid, even more than I have done. But only once we’ve found the path and I’ve sounded it out.”

“What are these forces you serve?” Jon inquired. Exotic magics were one of his passions.

The Maestro tsked. “I am a master of music, and dance, and certain rare magics. But the music I hear, the music of creation, is part of a larger force. Something fundamental to Equestria, like rain, or sun, or love, or magic. Indeed, in serving the song I have spent my life serving what I firmly believe is the single most powerful force in our land.”

“Which is?” Valentina prompted him.

“Harmony.” The Maestro spoke reverently.

“Harmony?” Jon Quill sounded confused.

“Yes, Harmony,” the Maestro scowled at Jon. “For a writer, you do need things explained to you rather a lot.” The Maestro sighed. “Harmony fills our lives, our interpersonal interactions. It fills the land and sea and sky. Harmony’s elements, wielded by those in tune with them, have defeated such ancient powers as Discord. They have overcome bitterness and envy by shattering Nightmare Moon and freeing Princess Luna. The raw power of Harmony itself, infused into appropriate ponies, overcame the great destroyer and banished him back to Tartarus.”

The Maestro smiled slightly, “It's true that ponies did these things. These impossible things. And they succeeded. Why? Because Harmony empowered them.”

The Maestro waved his baton around, “Harmony is a force that surrounds us and penetrates us, that binds all of Equestria together. Song is its voice, dance is one of its movements. So, by tapping into the cosmic essence of that harmony, by invoking and striving to channel its power, ponies can do amazing … impossible things.”

He grinned mischievously, “Which is incidentally how you get spontaneous musical numbers! Harmony magic, you see?” After glancing at Jon Quill’s expression, the Maestro’s face fell. “No, clearly you don’t see.” The Maestro sighed.

Jon Quill's expression said he'd very much like to see! Cantor and Morari were also both quite interested. They had passed another door, the Maestro just shook his head after glancing at it briefly. Their slow procession moved out into the hallways now.

“It’s like this,” the Maestro continued, “Fire is a fundamental force of nature, yes? Heat? The sun? That sort of thing?”

Jon Quill nodded.

The Maestro went on, “Ponies can light fires. They can do so with matches, with flints, with spells, yes?”

Jon Quill nodded again.

The Maestro tapped Jon on the shoulder, “Now, it’s hard to light a fire in a place where heat and dryness are absent, you see? Say, in the midst of a snowstorm. But with enough effort, a pony could do that.”

“It wouldn’t be easy, but yes, I see.” Jon said, and his slight frown showed that he was taking all this in.

The Maestro smiled, “Very good. Now, what about in a dry summer day? During a heat wave. When the pegasi have all gone on strike so there’s been no rain for weeks. When all the grass everywhere is dry as tinder. Not difficult to start a fire there, no?”

Jon nodded, “Not hard at all!”

The Maestro nodded, “Indeed, the difficulty there lies in not accidentally starting a fire! A casual misstep, a single spark from a horseshoe striking a stone and whoosh! Suddenly fire everywhere!”

Gesturing behind them at the Gala proper, the Maestro said, “Those musical numbers I invoke fall somewhere between lighting a fire in a blizzard and striking a match in a dry summer field. Where the forces of Harmony are weak, putting on a musical number involves much of what you’d expect. You get together a theatrical troupe: singers and dancers and musicians. You meet regularly, you practice, you run rehearsals, you drill and prepare and work until everypony has their parts down pat. Then, and only then, with time, effort, preparation, and the intent to perform do you actually have a musical number take place. It can be a magical experience. I would argue that it is a magical experience! But this requires a sort of focus and intention and effort similar to deciding you want to light a fire in a blizzard. It's only going to happen if everypony involved really works at making it happen!”

Another door passed, another shake of the Maestro's head. They headed down a cross corridor now, one with half-pillars set into the walls, stained glass windows lining one side, tapestries the other. Stone benches, covered with velvet cushions, were spaced along the way. It was also remarkably free of any other ponies. Their hoofsteps echoed in the empty space.

The Maestro continued, “Ah, but where the forces of Harmony build and grow strong in our land, then ponies may find that without work, without focus, without rehearsal, without even intending to ... they spontaneously break into song! They leap into seemingly expertly choreographed dance routines. They draw others, bystanders, into the music as well. That’s Harmony at work. Its magic. And its magic can do amazing things. Often, but not always, after such a musical number, things have changed. Either obviously in the world around us; or subtly, within a pony’s understanding of things.”

Jon Quill blinked, “Oh!” he said, with a surprised air of understanding, “So that’s why some places and some ponies are more prone to outbursts of music? They’re naturally more ... uh ... harmonious? So all that energy builds around them until somepony who’s focused on getting something done or figuring something out … what … accidentally hums a musical note? Or sidesteps another pony in the street in an almost dance like fashion and this ’spark’ suddenly kicks it all off?”

“Exactly!” the Maestro said. “And as for the results? Well, that depends on whatever the triggering factor might be. Musical numbers, montages: they can accomplish things. Or they can accomplish nothing at all! And there’s no telling if what gets accomplished is ultimately what the ponies involved would consider a good thing or not. It all depends.”

“Fascinating,” Cantor and Morari spoke in unison. Cantor then went on, “But I don’t really see how some sort of musical number could help us sneak into the crypts. Song and dance aren’t exactly clandestine. Bursting into ’with cat-like tread’ seems designed to attract attention rather than repel it.” He sighed worriedly, “And we’ve already attracted far too much attention already.”

The Maestro had stopped. He was staring at a closed door half hidden behind a tapestry. It was unguarded. It also wasn't one of the ones that was on Cantor’s list to check. The Maestro pointed to it.

“That one.” He said.

“You’re sure?” Jon Quill asked.

“Quite sure,” the Maestro said. He glanced at Cantor. “Open it, Death.”

“My name isn’t death,” Cantor muttered. But he pushed the door open. Behind it was a short passage. One that, according to the maps they had memorized should lead past a checkpoint, the kitchens, straight through one guard-room, past several old cellars, and then down to the right section of the crypts. A direct route, true, but one that was not considered feasible for a stealthy insertion.

“His name’s Cantor Mortalis,” Jon Quill added.

But the Maestro wasn’t listing to Jon. With the opening of the door he had gone gray again. The ancient unicorn shuddered and collapsed against Valentina.

“Maestro?” Her tone was worried as she caught him. With her help he settled onto a nearby bench. He looked bad. His light had flickered and dimmed. Valentina kept her hooves around him.

“Are you all right?” Cantor was deeply concerned too. He sat on the other side of the Maestro and rested a comforting hoof on his shoulder.

“You … you’re going down there?” The Maestro looked from Cantor to Jon to Valentina in a state of shock, one laced with hints of horror.

“I must,” Cantor said.

The Maestro shook his head. Then he said, softly, “You’ll need all your power, and more, o Death, to face what lies there. She is ….” He trailed off.

“Mad?” Cantor murmured, recalling his cousin Arty’s worries.

“Mad, terrified, overwhelmed with grief and guilt and loss, angry and confused and lashing out in pain … this dreadful music ….” The Maestro looked in wonder and surprise at Cantor, “You … you will resolve it?”

“If I can get there, I’ll try.” Cantor said.

The Maestro steadied himself and pulled free from Valentina. “Oh, you’ll get there. I’ll see to that.” His tone was as grim as Cantor’s own.

“But how?” Jon asked, “I remember the maps well enough to know that there are too many ponies along this route. We couldn’t sneak past them all, then there is the checkpoint, and …”

The Maestro held up a hoof to cut Jon off. “You’ll get there. You still think in terms of stealth, of sneaking by, of being unnoticed … unobserved. But I will sing you there, a song for …”

The Maestro blinked suddenly, “Did you say your name was Cantor Mortalis? Singer for the Dead?” He sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yes?” Cantor’s expression managed to combine ’wry’ and ’embarrassed’ while his tone was that of one hesitantly asking a very uncomfortably question.

The Maestro looked like he was about to burst with joy and laughter. He gave Cantor another hug and said, “Oh, dear Death! Sweet singer! I knew it! I was right.”

Releasing Cantor he said, “Now go. And may Harmony go with you.”

“But how …?” Valentina began. She shared Jon Quill’s worries.

The Maestro grinned as he reclined there on the bench. It wasn’t a friendly grin. Magic began to build around him. A glow on his horn. A shine in his eyes. Sparkles dripping from his baton as he raised it in one hoof.

The Maestro chanted, “No pony will stop you while you travel with him. No pony will lay a hoof upon you. Those that become aware of you at all will strive not to see you. They will turn away. They will cower back from you. They will beg you to pass them by. They will flee from you as they flee from the grave. Those that seek to bar your passage will be unable to do so. Should you have cause to speak to anypony, they will offer you any aid you need … all in the hope that you will just move along and leave them be.”

The singsong tone, the eerie cadence with which the Maestro spoke had caused the living ponies and the haunts alike to shiver. Even before the Maestro concluded with, “For tonight, for now, you travel with death.”

Cantor stared at the Maestro for a moment then said, “Goodbye. It was good to meet you. I hope … I hope it all works out for you.”

“If’n it doesn’t,” Magpie muttered, “Mayhap we’ll have us a new friend, eh?”

Morari snorted. His expression said her statement was in poor taste.

Through the doorway, over the threshold.

They had gone. Valentina had slipped out of her fringe and hat. Now sleek and in all black she was almost as stealthy as Jon Quill. And Jon was a dab hoof at moving about unnoticed. Cantor still wore his coat, the silver skull button at his throat seemed to glow against the black of the cloth.

The Maestro remained behind, lying on the bench, working his magic. He closed his eyes. He could feel the music building – the chaotic pain (the wrongness, the dissonance) lurking at the end of that tangle of passages and stairs, the resolute swirl of notes around Cantor, the hints of all the tunes between here and there. Was there a way to bridge them, to tap into the underlying harmony of what was going on here and propel Cantor to where he needed to be?

There was.

The sound of Cantor’s hoof-falls: one, two, a rattling clink with three, and four. One, two, a rattling clink with three, and four. They beat the time. The Maestro could hear the bass echoes of those hoof-falls reverberating from the stones. Reverberating from creation.

He opened his mouth and began the song …

“O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

It was a plaintive song, a plea for mercy, for a reprieve. A plea which ... the Maestro now knew ... would go unheeded, at least for the Maestro himself. That would be part of the magic too, his last song.

Time and space began to distort. The Maestro could almost see the path Cantor would be taking to the crypt. Along that route guard ponies and servant ponies began to feel that something was coming. Instinctively these denizens of the Palace began to move away from that corridor, to look away from Cantor’s inexorable approach.

First there was a guard post. The checkpoint. Two guards stood at attention there, their own music said they were brave and resolute, watchful and prepared. They would brook no intrusions. But a more powerful song approached. The lights around them began to flicker and dim. The ghostly shades of Fairweather and Magpie flitted about them, half-seen. The guards looked to the floor, turning their heads away, literally unable to face what was coming. And so Cantor walked between them, pushing them out of his way as the Maestro sang …

“What is this that I can’t see
An icy touch taking hold of me?
The day is gone and the night takes hold
Who’ll have mercy on my soul?
O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

… and the guards sang those words too. Afterwards, they would not be able to say what exactly had moved between them that night. Only that it felt as if death itself had passed over them.

So Cantor passed them by. Valentina and Jon walked in his shadow. The haunts ghosted ahead.

As they approached the kitchens, a very young serving mare began to step out into their path. A tan earth-pony in a maid‘s dress, carrying a tray of wine-glasses towards the cellars. She was nervous. This job was still new to her, and this was her first time serving at the Grand Galloping Gala.

The music moved around her and she collapsed, dropping her tray, the wine-glasses shattering on the stone floor. She huddled there, cowering back from Cantor and singing as the Maestro sang …

“O-oh Death consider my age
Please don’t take me at this stage.
O-oh Death, all the ponies pray
Could you wait to call me another day?
O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Cantor stepped over her, the hem of his coat brushing her mane. She fainted. He passed her by as well. When she awoke again she would only remember something that started as a nightmare, but ended in a profound sense of peace. When she got home, much later in the night after her shift was over, she would hug her parents and tell them she loved them. She didn't know why, but it seemed the right thing to do.

With each pace, Cantor’s progress became ever more inevitable. The song grew stronger. The music moved him forward. The ghosts could now be seen by the living, and the ponies ahead at the junction of corridors cowered back from glimpsing such a spectral sight. They turned and fled.

Moments of song equated to minutes of walking, now – the hard part – to pass directly through a well warded room that was usually full of guards. It was mostly empty, as tonight every pony had duties throughout the palace. Only four of the usual compliment was here, taking a brief break in between their shifts. They rallied themselves to oppose what was sensed was coming. Magic was invoked, weapons readied. Cantor was at the doorway. He strode into the room.

And when the Mastro sang next, it was Cantor’s voice which joined his … and it carried the echo of the grave …

“I’ll fix your hooves ‘till you can’t walk
I’ll lock your jaw ‘till you can’t talk
I’ll shut your eyes so you can’t see
This very hour, come and go with me.”

One guard frozen in place, another silenced in the act of calling for help, one blinded and huddled weeping in a corner, and the last (another pegasus) gathered up a nearby maul (a great hammer) before he joined the march, falling into place between Jon and Valentina. The Maestro sang with the stricken guards ...

“O-oh Death
O-oh Death
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Down a hall, down some steps, but these had flown by in the blink of an eye ... in the single beat of music. Then as they passed by the cellars, this ensorcelled guard sang …

“The young, the old, the rich, the poor
Are all alike with you I know.
My skills are all at your command
If you won’t take me from this land
O-oh Death,
O-oh Death,
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Now they had reached the new wall. The last barrier before the end. The mortar weeks old, the bricks thick and solid. Still enchanted, the guard swung his maul in time with the music. Somewhere Jon Quill had acquired a crowbar and Valentina a pick, the hammering of their blows against this barrier began to weaken it.

The music was fast approaching its end. Its power was building to a crescendo. The Maestro started to feel exhaustion setting in, the baton felt heavy in his hoof. Time and space, distorted and bent by the harmonics of magic, began to regain their prior shape. The magic was slowly collapsing back onto Cantor, the focus shifting to him.

But there were still a few words more.

The wall was now gravely weakened. Cantor would not be stopped by this masonry blockage. Cantor reared up on his hind legs and brought his forehooves against the bricks, singing in a commanding tone …

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold
Nothing will satisfy me but the soul.
I am Death, who none can best
I open the door to peace and rest.”

Death had come. A pale horse. At his touch, the wall shattered.

The work was done, the way was open. The magic began to fade. The close of the song found Cantor blinking in the dusty rubble of the shattered wall, blocks still tumbling around him as he sang …

“My name is Death and the end is near.”

The walls of stone echoed the song, singing back ...

“His name is Death and the end is here.”

There was a final surge of power as Cantor stepped over the rubble and into the crypt beyond. Throughout the undercellars, the hidden guardrooms, the kitchens and halls, ponies sang their response one last time …

“O-oh Death,
O-oh Death,
Won’t you spare me over ‘till another year?”

Far above, in a side passage just off the main hall, the baton fell from the Maestro's hoof and clattered on the floor. He was smiling as he lay there, unmoving, on a cushioned bench. He would never move again. The answer to his song, the answer to his oft repeated question was a soft, gentle, and inescapable "no."

The music was gone. The magic spent. The events that had occurred felt like something from a dream. Had it only been a few minutes? Or half an hour?

No time for such considerations now.

Cantor stood just beyond the fresh pile of rubble, of broken bricks and mortar, in the ancient crypt.

“Halt!” cried the Pegasus guard, shaking off the lingering effects of the enchantment. He was more than confused, he was pissed! Had Cantor used a friendship charm on him to talk him into aiding in breaking open the wall? That … might have been a thing that happened. His memories of the events were a bit more musical somehow.

Regardless, he tried to leap forward and seize Cantor.

Which was when he discovered that Jon Quill had managed to tie his rear hooves together. The guard landed on the brick-pile in the doorway with a splat that knocked some of the wind out of him and sent his maul spinning from his grip.

Valentina leaped on his back and knocked most of the rest of his breath out. His resulting squeak of “Help!” wasn’t something he was proud of. He only hoped the other guards had heard it.

From the sounds of alarms ringing out further back in the hall, they may have.

Valentina and Jon wrestled the fellow, trying to keep him from getting at Cantor. Jon Quill shouted, “Cantor! Hurry! We’ve got company coming!”

This was an old chamber, dug out of the mountain‘s bedrock centuries ago. Pillars of carved stone, roots of the mountain, held up a vaulted roof. Light crystals glowed in carved stone sconces. Black and white marble tiles four feet to a side made a checkerboard pattern on the floor. There were carvings on the wall, images of ponies and landscapes – all weathered by the slow passage of years.

In the center of the floor several of the marble tiles had burst upwards and their shattered remains lay around the room. From the space beneath a vortex of evil magic rose, swirling like a tornado, and howling like the damned.

Caught in it was the skeleton of a unicorn.

Not in the center of the magic, as with Fairweather, Morari, or Magpie. No, this ghost had worked her way to the edges of the effect. She was almost free, but she kept falling back in. Her bones were carved with glowing runes.

Her spirit was visible to Cantor, and the fear and pain there … the helpless anger at the trap she was stuck in … it hurt to see.

Lightning danced around her, crawling on her bones. She intoned words of dark power and then screamed as the vortex writhed around her.

“Cantor, she looks pissed,” Magpie said. She sounded understandably worried.

“Was I … like that?” Fairweather was aghast.

“Not so bad as that. Nothing so bad as that.” Morari said … and he was speaking the truth. “She’s … how is she doing that? That shouldn’t even be possible!” Morari was horrified by what he saw.

Cantor understood the feeling, “I think she’s trying to eat the vortex’s magic and use it to power her escape.” Cantor sounded grim as he continued, “She’s using her magic on it, but its magic is inside her … so she can’t get away from it. Sisters preserve.”

The floating skeleton’s attention was drawn to Cantor. Her skull turned to face him and her spirit cried out, “Âscæc!”

Cantor knew enough of the old tongue to know she was commanding him to flee. It was a warning and a threat.

Cantor hobbled nearer to her, he raised his voice and called out, “Please! I am here to help you! I am a friend.”

Her spirit blinked in confusion, “Frêond?”

“Yes,” Cantor replied, “A friend. Let me help you! My magic can break you free.”

“Steorraymbhwyrft?”

That felt like a name. But it wasn’t one Cantor knew. He replied, “I don’t know who that is. Please, be calm. Be still.”

“Swigian!” she screamed it at him. A denial. A demand for silence. She raised her skeletal hooves and lightning crackled around them.

“How the devil is she doing that?” Morari repeated himself, but then he joined his voice to Cantor’s. “Cantor is a friend of the dead! Uh … Cantor,” he pointed, “Déaþfrêond! He helpan þu!”

Her head tilted to one side. The lightning began to subside. Cantor could tell she was trying to understand, to focus on what she was hearing. The dark power surging through her made that exceedingly difficult. She said, “H-helpan ic?”

“If you’ll let me,” Cantor said. His horn began to glow, silver light shining from it.

“I am your friend ...” he began, and the magic wove itself into his golden voice. It began to wrap around her mind, to shift her perceptions of him … to make her more pliable to the upcoming suggestion.

It failed.

She screamed “Ná!” and seemed to inhale. The magic of Cantor’s spell flew into her, adding to her power, but it did nothing to sway her thoughts. Now her ghost could be seen by all of the living, flickering slightly as it wrapped her bones.

Cantor staggered back.

She reached out a hoof, and cried out “Acwelan!” Her voice could be heard by all now too.

A blaze of lightning reached out from her bones, snatching up Cantor like the claw of some terrible dragon. It crushed him. It burned him. And then she swung the lightning bolt like a whip, smashing Cantor straight into the side of one of the room’s solid stone columns, columns which were considerably bigger around than Cantor himself.

Cantor screamed, magical protections sparkling as they failed. He broke through the column and was buried among the spray of rubble produced by his passing and the collapse of both the pillar and a portion of the ceiling.

Valentina howled, “No!”

Jon Quill cried out Cantor’s name.

The guard they were struggling with finally got a good look at the ravening spirit and he just flat out shrieked.

The haunts fell upon the bound ghost and tried to hold her still. She struck at them with magic and they fell. Fairweather took two solid blasts of lightning, each of which looked strong enough to level a small building, before he was thrown to the ground.

Tracers of that lightning storm danced as far as the door. Valentina was lightly scorched by one tendril, Jon Quill ducked and weaved with surprising grace (avoiding all but the barest touch of the energy), but the guard had a hole burned through one wing and a very bad scorch-mark left on his right rear haunch, just below the armor. He collapsed, screaming in pain.

Other guards were galloping up the corridor, heading for the sound.

Valentina abandoned the fight at the doorway and leaped forward, trying to get to the fall of stone where Cantor’s body lay buried.

But the hovering, ghost-wrapped skeleton gestured at her now and its horn glowed brighter. Gravity seemed to shift violently and suddenly Valentina was falling upwards. Her wings spread, but it was too late. She slammed into the ceiling with much more force than a simple fall of that distance should produce. The impact should have broken something. It should have broken several somethings, possibly including her neck. But thanks to the Maestro’s earlier aid, she was only badly bruised. Another gesture from the maddened ghost and chains of shadow appeared and bound Valentina there.

Meanwhile Jon Quill had darted in low, relying on stealth. He dove from column to column, sliding behind upturned slabs of marble and fallen boulders, dodging stray blasts of mystic energy.

The other guards had reached the doorway now. One look at what was going on inside and they stopped short of entering. Instead they huddled together, forming a shield wall and bracing for whatever onslaught might seek to drive past them. One of them called for a captain. The unicorns among them began frantically casting warding spells. Two of them dragged their injured compatriot back into the hallway behind them.

Jon Quill wasn’t the only pony to shriek in surprise when the rubble shifted aside and Cantor stood up again. For a moment, Jon wasn’t sure if Cantor was alive or undead. That blow should have killed him, nearly twice over.

Cantor was bleeding. Something was terribly wrong with one of his forelegs, he couldn’t seem to put much weight on it at all.

The hovering shade, so full of power that everypony could clearly see her ghostly form wrapped around her glowing bones, paused in confusion. She stared at Cantor.

“Please,” he begged. “Please let me help you. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this.” He spoke with desperate sincerity.

Cantor staggered towards her.

Though he was crouched behind an upturned marble slab less than three paces away, Jon Quill couldn’t move. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice screaming at him to be brave, to leap forward, to do something ... anything ... he had to save Cantor!

Cantor was placing his life in the maddened ghosts hooves. For the first time, Jon really understood that Cantor would die if that was what it took to fix this atrocity. And Jon Quill couldn’t do anything but watch.

The ghost saw it too. Her expression twisted to one of desperation that matched Cantor’s own. She hesitantly reached out a hoof towards him.

A second spell, the last of Cantor’s magic, and this time she didn’t fight it. She embraced it as Cantor spoke.

“The fear you feel, the darkness all around you, it is not real – it is the enemy of thought and reason. You are stronger than it. You can face it, you can let it wash over and through you, but you will not lose yourself to it. It will go, and only you will remain. You will rest … relax … and just let it all … go.”

The vortex seethed and roiled. The light of madness began to fade from her ghostly eyes. Still wrapped in her bones she let the spell work on and through her. She drifted to the floor and stood there, a unicorn skeleton, facing Cantor.

The vortex collapsed, vanishing away and leaving hardly a stray gust of wind behind. Her ghostly haunt, still visible to all, seemed to draw a breath. She looked around.

Cantor swayed before her. He tried to smile. Blood was leaking from his mouth. “Hello,” he said. “I am … Cantor Mortalis … spiritualist and ….”

“Where … is … he?” she demanded. Her accent was thick. She shone with a fell light. In that illumination those present could see all the ghosts in this chamber. Her own, still wrapping her bones. Magpie twitching on the floor. Fairweather struggling to crawl towards Cantor, his admiralty hat askew and sparks of lightning still popping off of him. And Morari, staggering punch drunk in the general direction of the dreadful skeletal wizardess while muttering fragments of half-formed thoughts.

“Who?” Cantor was struggling to speak. He also struggling to keep from coughing up blood.

“He … should be … here. This … this is … all wrong.” She sounded lost.

“I … will help ... you ...” Cantor managed to get that out. He swayed. She caught him.

“Yes,” she said. “You will.” Her voice echoed with tones that were more terrible than the merely cruel. Cruelty was a wrongness that could be opposed. No, when she spoke, all those present heard something far worse: they heard necessity.

One of her skeletal hooves moved. She tapped Cantor: horn, forehead, throat, chest, belly. Short, sharp blows – hard enough to feel, but not hard enough to hurt. With each one she chanted a word of power and a glowing sigil appeared, shining within Cantor's flesh. Jon Quill thought he recognized the sigils from a poster of pony chakras he had seen in a fortune teller's shop back in Albion.

The lingering magic in and on Cantor was drained out of him. And not just him, all through the room warding spells, light crystals, the invocations of the Maestro and the unicorn guards all crumbled, their power flowing into her.

It was too much for Cantor. Lacking the strength to scream, he only gurgled and slumped to the floor, he looked slightly withered. Jon Quill dove forward and caught him before his head could strike the stone.

Cantor was still alive. He was even still conscious. This latter fact was a small miracle, but it was not a kindness.

The ghostly unicorn was visibly pulsing with power now. Her bones rose into the air. She hovered there for a moment then she raised both her hooves, striking a pose that (for all the world) looked like Celestia raising the sun. The magic she had stolen gathered within her.

She cried out, “To Steorraymbhwyrft! Tele-“

A flash of light and her ghost was gone. When her fell radiance vanished, Cantor’s three friendly haunts were no longer visible.

Valentina fell to the floor with a thud. The magics binding her to the ceiling had vanished as well.

The rune-marked skeleton had remained behind. For a moment it floated there like a Nightmare Night prop hung by wires, the carvings in the bones no longer glowing ... but then it clattered to the ground in a messy pile.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Cantor's wet, wheezing gasps and Jon Quill's panicked sobbing. Then the royal guards swarmed in.

Author's Note

"O Death" (or "A Conversation with Death") is a traditional American folk song in the public domain, attributed to Lloyd Chandler who performed the piece in Appalachia during the 1920's.

As a folk song, variant lyrics are quite common – with the number and structure of verses changing from performance to performance.

One of the most famous recordings of "O Death" was the 2002 Grammy winning version by Ralph Stanley which appeared in the film (and soundtrack album) "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?".

The adapted version of "O Death" invoked by the Maestro in the chapter above would be closer in feel and orchestration to either the version by Jeff Grace that appeared in the credits and on the soundtrack for the game Until Dawn or the version by Jen Titus used in the show Supernatural.

1. Blades.

“I am curious, Colonel, how much of your stories are … uh … improvisation? As opposed to a more sober retelling of the delightfully gruesome facts of the matter? Is there a particular ratio of history to myth?” Jon Quill adjusted his position on a rather cramped chair in the old kitchen, pencil in hoof.

Like his flowery namesake, this undersized earth pony was yellow and orange, with his body being the lighter of the two colors. He had already taken extensive (and occasionally comprehensible) notes, along with a few scribbled sketches. Given that his cutie mark was an ink-splotch with a pair of writing quills (looking rather like a exclamation point crossing a question mark) it didn’t come as much of surprise to find this cheerful little stallion asking a flurry of questions, some of which might not be the most tactful.

“You’d be surprised how much history repeats itself when you scratch away the covering of myth.” The elderly Colonel George Lusk sipped at a cup of tea. His white eyebrows went up again. He glanced at Valentina. “I say, you really do make a delightful cuppa.”

Valentina smiled and continue to clean out the pot. Her wings were neatly folded at her sides. Her coloration (cream body, mane and tail the color of strong tea, eyes the color of honey) somehow helped made her usurpation of the kitchen’s facilities to brew beverages seem quite natural, even without factoring in her cutie mark of a steaming cup. The Colonel had already decided that even if she was some sort of administrative assistant these days, Valentina must have a military background of some sort. Civilians never seemed to leave the pots that spic-and-span.

“You’re sure it’s alright, sir?” Cantor Mortalis was eyeing the cookie jar longingly. Anypony gazing on his plump form could guess this unicorn had a weakness for sweets and a likely aversion to exercise or hard labor. But a love for good food and a bookish disposition wouldn’t explain why his back left leg was supported by a well-worn leather and steel brace. Nor why he kept a cape draped to conceal his cutie-mark. Still, the black of the cape went fashionably with his white coat and dark mane, a mane already shot through with a few gray streaks. At least his clumsy limping wasn’t bad enough to require a cane.

The Colonel’s answering chuckle was jolly and full of understanding. He, too, was an aging marshmallow of a pony. The nod of his head and the airy wave of his hoof was all the invitation Cantor needed.

The four ponies were in a kitchen of the Bayside Historical Society in Fort Trotten. Specifically, they were in the Castle – a red brick and white stone late gothic revival building whose crenelated battlements and towers left visitors with no doubts as to how it had earned that nickname.

The Castle had once been the Fort Trotten Officer’s Club. The park-like district, which hadn’t been an Equestrian military encampment for several decades, lay some ways east of Manehatten proper across both the river and a bay. The area was a green and pleasant contrast to the towering sky-scrapers of the city itself.

They were in the kitchen because Colonel George Lusk’s office was far too crowded to have anything like a comfortable meeting. The aging, and retired, Colonel had simply led them through to the Castle’s kitchen and plopped himself down on a chair for their chat. No parties had the building reserved for the day. And technically the doors had closed at four in the afternoon, so there was no need to worry about being disturbed by more tourists.

Colonel George Lusk’s grin widened as Cantor helped himself to another hoof-full of oatmeal raisin cookies with obvious enthusiasm. The Colonel himself had grown noticeably rounder over the years snacking out of that very jar. It was clear from his markings that the Colonel had originally been some sort of blue on blue (darker mane and tail over a lighter coat) but over time it had all faded to a near white. His cutie mark, a parade crop crossed with a monocle, stood out quite noticeably against the pale background.

“And,” the Colonel continued, after another sip of tea, “I will ask you not to make me repeat myself, young colt. It’s just George. Not ‘sir,’ nor Colonel ... just George.”

“Fank oo … ,” Cantor paused to swallow, “… George.” George thought Cantor seemed oddly distracted, as if listening for something out of the ordinary. George himself didn’t hear anything untoward. Then again, his hearing wasn’t what it had used to be.

Jon Quill scribbled in his notepad before going on, “So, Col- … sorry, George. You’re saying that it’s all the unvarnished truth?”

George laughed again. “Of course not, Jon. Truth is often too raw to do well without at least one coat of varnish! But to answer your questions, yes. I did, in fact do years of research – very extensive research – into the matter of Laughing Jack or Jack of Blades and his famous knife.”

George tapped a copy of the book, “Red Blade,” which lay on the counter. Colonel George Lusk was clearly listed as the author.

“So, you’d call it …?” Valentine piped up from her position near the sink.

“Fictionalized, of course. But more factual than not.” George raised an eyebrow. “So, why are you three so interested in the bloody tale of Jack of Blades?”

Jon smiled his second most charming smile. “Why, I’m doing research for a possible newspaper piece! A retrospective on the story, the stallion, the slayer himself. Unanswered questions, paranormal oddities, all of that.” This wasn't exactly the truth, nor even all that close to it. Even if Jon Quill did wind up publishing an article on the matter there were far darker and more pressing concerns surrounding this issue than a simple exercise in tabloid sensationalism.

“So you decided to come speak with me, as an expert in the field?”

“As the expert in the field!” Jon’s flattery was surprisingly sincere.

“And here I thought you folks at the Star just made it all up as you went along.” George’s gaze had narrowed slightly, and his smile had acquired a bit of a hard edge.

Jon blinked in surprise. While this meeting had been arranged under the auspices of gathering information for a forthcoming newspaper article, Jon Quill had been careful to omit the precise tabloid he worked for. While his battered hat had a genuine press card in the brim, almost no pony took anything they read in the Yellow Star seriously. For very good reasons, as Jon Quill would be the first to admit. It would be hard (if not impossible) to find a more trashy, bizarre, and unreliable rag on the market.

“Well,” Jon grinned a bit sheepishly, “while many of my colleagues couldn’t be bothered to bestir their backsides and would rather rely on equal parts gossip, absinthe, and fever dreams, I have always prided myself on my role as an investigative journalist looking into the realms of the exotic, the miraculous, the extraordinary.”

George snorted. All things considered, this was going surprisingly well. Too often, an admission that he was from the Yellow Star would get Jon pitched out of a place faster than you could say paparazzi!

“And,” Jon continued, “While I will admit to certain … embellishments … on my own part,” Jon’s face scrunched up in displeasure as he muttered, “... not to mention further embellishments by my overly sensationalist editors ….” Jon shook his head as he returned to his original train of thought, “I do like to think that my own stories are a bit more factual than not.”

George’s eyebrows climbed higher. His expression was one of polite, but still amused, disbelief.

Jon winked as he added, “After all, I have it on excellent authority that the raw truth does better with at least one coat of varnish!”

George laughed.

Around the kitchen, Cantor, Valentina, and Jon all found themselves relaxing. Valentina shot Cantor a curious look, but Cantor just shook his head. He had a couple of friendship charms at his disposal, as Valentina and Jon both knew, but Cantor hadn’t subtly deployed any magical enchantments to help smooth the way. At least not yet.

Just as well, he might need his limited spell-power later that evening – even if everything went to plan. Not to mention that many ponies became quite irate when spells that swayed minds and hearts wore off ... assuming the spell stuck in the first place. So while Cantor had such mind altering enchantments at his disposal, over the years he had learned it was usually better not to use them at all!

“Very well, Mister Quill. I suppose a revival of Jack of Blade’s legend in the Yellow Star couldn’t hurt sales of my books, eh? Nor would it cause a drop off in our tourist business here at the Castle, eh?” But then George leaned forward with a frown. The Colonel poked at Jon’s notebook as he added, in a much more serious tone, “But you leave my name out of it, are we clear? I’m an unnamed, anonymous source.”

“It’s a deal!” Jon beamed with pleasure.

“So, what do you want to know?” George stood up and stretched one of his back legs. He winced.

“Are you o.k. sir?” Cantor was frowning at the old stallion.

“Just age, lad. Just age. Sit too long and it’s the very devil of a time getting up again. My aches and pains get aches and pains. Also …” George trailed off with a look of mild disapproval.

“Sorry, are you o.k., George?” Cantor’s concern was genuine. George Lusk felt suddenly touched, and a bit guilty as to his lingering suspicions.

“I’m fine. Now, to your friend’s questions, yes?”

“Right, so George: what can you tell us about Jack of Blade’s origins? And of his legendary knife?”

George pursed his lips. “And suddenly I feel an intuition coming on: you haven’t actually read any of my books have you?”

“Not a one!” Jon’s answer was cheerful.

“We’ve only just purchased a set to peruse,” Cantor added, sounding appropriately abashed.

“And really, we’d rather hear the tale from the horses’ mouth, so to speak!” Valentina chimed in.

George shook his head and rolled his eyes. His tone, though, remained as friendly as before. “Well then, what’s to say? Stop me if you’ve heard something before – and if you’ve specific questions, raise your hoof before interrupting.”

The Colonel looked around the kitchen, noting the nods of agreement from his three visitors.

“Very well, Jacob Fitz Tassel – the stallion who would become known as Jack of Blades – was born in Hollow Shades and grew up there, in Tarry Town. He had a reputation as a brawler, a wild colt, and a trouble-maker. He wasn’t one of the Van Tassels officially, as his father (the elder Van Tassel) wasn’t actually married to Jacob's mother. In and out of trouble with the law, Jacob moved to New Amsteerdame (which was what they were calling Manehatten at that time) and sought to bully his way up the social ladder of the underworld. Yes?”

Jon Quill had his hoof up.

“Hollow Shades – that’s west of here, right? Nestled in the Foal Mountains? I hear there are a lot of ghost stories that come out of that region.”

George nodded, “Right on all counts. It’s an …” the Colonel paused in a way that his visitors found strangely chilling, “… odd part of the world. Time … well, time seems to have passed it by somehow. I went there some years back, stayed on with the Apple family – they’ve an orchard outside Tarry – and I swear, my great-great-grandfather probably would have felt right at home.”

George shook his head and shivered. Perhaps that was just from the afternoon chill. The sky overhead was filling up with clouds as pegasi from the local Weather Guild prepared for an early evening storm. George continued to pace slowly around the kitchen as he spoke.

“I’m not one to put much stock in ghost tales (and the Shades are a place where you can’t swing a stick without hitting at least one) but when I was there … well … maybe it was just the locals’ unfriendliness towards outsiders, but I’ve never felt so … unwelcome. Like something in the land itself was wrong. If there’s someplace in Equestria that’s genuinely haunted, it’ll be in Hollow Shades – mark my words.”

“At any rate, coming from the back woods of the Shades, Jack wasn’t the sort of colt to scare easily. He made something of a name for himself among the underworld elements of the city back in the day. Brought up on trial for all sorts of offenses – up to and including murder. But no pony could ever seem to make anything stick.”

George’s expression turned a bit grimmer as he added, “Hard to make charges stick when witnesses just … disappear, eh?” The set of his mouth and the raised eyebrow implied that Jack was most likely the reason that witnesses against him never seemed to make it to trial.

“Well, after Jack had been active for a few years he got into trouble. Rival underworld families fighting over shipping and distribution rights to some illegal (and legal) merchandise. Plus the gangs in the city were meddling in politics. It wasn’t a pretty time to live in Manehatten, let me tell you! A few deals went south, a few elections were lost, a couple of prominent citizens had unfortunate accidents and the next thing you know Jack’s in a bad way. He’d backed the wrong people, the losing side. Yes, Jon?”

Jon Quill had his hoof up again. “I notice you’ve not yet mentioned his knife?”

“Correct, I haven’t. I was just coming to that.” George didn’t seem annoyed by the interruption.

“As I was saying, Jack was in trouble. So he ran back home. That would have been late spring, early summer. Fall came and went, then early in winter – just before Hearth’s Warming – he showed back up in Manehatten. There’s not a lot of reports from ponies who actually knew him that well, but he seemed … different. He had always been a hard stallion, a tough customer, and just as ready to brawl as to threaten … but now there was an edge of madness to him. Or perhaps the madness that had always been there was more pronounced. He had a wild eyed, jittery look that never seemed to go away. And one that was slowly getting worse. He acted like he heard voices nopony else could hear.”

Cantor gave a little start at that. He looked oddly uncomfortable.

“And,” George sounded grim, “he had a knife. Bright red blade made of some strange metal that was almost but not quite iron, with a gold hilt wrapped in black leather. He kept it by him always.”

“That was when the murders started.”

Cantor shivered. Nor was he the only pony to do so. George was a good story teller. And the darkening atmosphere outside the Castle was only helping set the mood.

“The police were baffled. And I can understand why. Murder … well, murder isn’t always simple. But, having grown up in a household where my father and grandfather were both policecolts, I can say that most of the time there’s a reason you can find. A pretty face is one; thievery or its aftermath is another; and fear. Fear of exposure, fear of loss, fear of secrets getting out.”

“But these …” George shook his head. After a brief pause he rummaged in a cabinet and took down a bottle of cider. He popped it open and took a drink.

“Where was I? Oh yes, the murders.” George settled himself back onto a chair.

“The police were baffled. From the timing, some ponies were afraid that Albion’s authorities had somehow messed up their efforts to catch the Whitechapel killer over in Lunadun and whoever … or whatever … that was had crossed over to the Equestrian mainland from the Griffish Isles. The attacks were brutal. No rhyme or reason to them. Two of them were a young couple from here in the Fort Trotten district. Relatives of one of the officers. That got the folks stationed at Fort Trotten involved. And it’s one of the reasons that some of Jack’s effects ultimately wound up here, at the Fort Trotten Officer’s club which, as you know, became the Bayside Historical Society after the fort was decommissioned. Yes?”

Cantor had his hoof up this time. “Just three murders? Were there others that Jack was suspected of being involved with?”

George nodded, “Quite right! Three confirmed, another two highly likely victims. And if you comb through the old newspapers from back then, which I have, there are a solid two dozen ‘missing pony’ reports that could be laid at his hooves as well.”

George sighed, “Part of the problem was that most of those missing ponies weren’t from the best of families. Petty crooks, burglars, pick-pockets, smugglers, con-colts, and working fillies … if you catch my drift. Too many didn’t have friends or family to really press for answers when one of them just … disappeared. And the police didn’t get overly involved until ‘respectable’ ponies starting turning up dead.”

George pondered, then added “Well … to their credit even the most jaded officers were willing to put in the extra hours researching disappearances among the criminal class when some of those who had ‘disappeared’ were later found gutted like fishes.”

George blinked at Valentina, “Sorry miss, just quoting from the reports.”

“Oh, la! No worries about me. My stomach is stronger than that.” Valentina smiled innocently at Jon Quill. “Do you need a bin, Jon?”

Jon Quill was looking distinctly green around the gills. “No,” he lied, “I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

George nodded. “Anyway, the papers started offering ‘missing pony’ pieces – a short paragraph, and a photograph (if one could be supplied) free of charge. That was enough for worried friends and relations to take out advertisements for information. The good news is this led to some happy reunions and several ponies getting back into a better place in life. But, as I said, there were twenty four ponies that went missing and were never found. I’ve got all the old clippings with my supplementary notes down in the basement.”

“Could we see them?” It was Cantor who interrupted. And he had forgotten to raise his hoof.

George raised an eyebrow, “I think not. I went to far too much trouble to assemble that information. If you like, I could compile a list of which papers, which dates, and some general details. But those clippings are rare and delicate. No offense, but I wouldn’t let anypony handle them other than me.”

Noting Cantor’s crestfallen expression, George added, “If you like I could take you all down there and show you two or three of the most interesting. I’ll even pop open a box or two of old correspondence and family journals I’ve acquired that are likewise in the ’hooves off’ category for anypony other than myself.”

“That would be lovely!” Valentina smiled and stood up. She offered Cantor a foreleg, and he took it to help steady himself as the ponies began to follow George out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“Anyway, turns out that enough missing ponies – and all of the dead ones – could be connected to Jack one way or another. When the police popped round to bring him in for questioning, it turned bloody. It turned bloody awfully fast. While Jack didn’t succeed in slaying any of the officers tasked with arresting him, four of them had to retire permanently from the force due to their injuries. And Jack himself died in the course of being apprehended.”

George unlocked a door and led the way down to the basement, his voice, echoing up from the darkness was extra spooky as he added, “They say his body kept fighting even after he had received multiple death-wounds. It wasn’t until an officer got that red knife out of his hoof that Jack finally lay still.”

Valentina and Cantor exchanged glances.

“I understand the knife was housed here?” Jon’s interest in this question was considerably greater than his tone would imply.

“It was. Some idiot stole the thing, years back. Not sure when.”

George flipped on the lights and sighed. “Truthfully? It worries me. I’ve been watching the papers, listening to the news, waiting for word that folks are turning up dead again. That knife … it's evil.”

George spoke with certainty. With finality.

“Evil?” Jon held his pencil at the ready.

“Evil. I touched it once. Held it in my hoof. There is some dark magic woven into that blade. I could hear a sound like a ringing bell. And voices whispering just at the edge of hearing. Some laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Some screamed. And most seemed full of panic. Of fear. It was as if the knife itself was urging me to lash out at those around me … to protect myself from them. To keep me safe.”

George shivered. “Sweet Celestia. The room I was in had been warded and I was wearing white silk gloves, didn’t hold the thing for more than a minute but I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes from the nightmares that gave me. We kept it in that safe over there for good reasons.” George gestured to a safe built into one wall.

Cantor, Valentina, and Jon all blinked at it in surprise. It looked more like something you’d find in a bank-vault than a basement!

“You think Jack got the blade when he returned to Tarry Town that one fall?” Cantor helped the old Colonel move a few boxes to a nearby table top. He managed to do so without dropping anything, which came as a bit of a surprise to Jon and Valentina.

“I do.” George eyed Cantor. “Say, what’s your interest in the knife? And why are you mixed up with this reporter?”

Cantor deployed one of his self-deprecating expressions. As usual it worked surprisingly well. “Well, George, I’ve some … friends. Friends who are interested in that blade and the sort of wicked magic it seems to have. Like you say, Jack’s Red Blade is on the loose somewhere … and somepony will eventually need to stop it. And to stop whatever it’s been doing since it’s been out of storage. Magic like that …” Cantor grimaced, “Let’s just say it’s unwise to ignore places it’s been sitting around.”

“Huh,” George was satisfied. Mostly. “Where’d you study such things? You a student of the dark arts?”

Cantor grinned, “Well, I washed out of Nighthaven Academy – so, based on the school's reputation alone, I suppose you could say ‘yes, I am!’ At the time, my own researches were focused on other matters. I didn’t learn about all of this until fairly recently.”

“Cantor’s been working with me, providing much needed arcane expertise, in this matter,” Jon chimed in.

George gave the two a look, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. Cantor couldn’t blame him. The reality was that it was Cantor’s researches into the rise of the Trotting Dead over the past few months that had provided them with such leads as ancient, evil daggers and the dark forces which were forged into them. In short, Jon was the one helping Cantor; not the other way around.

George seemed willing to let the matter slide.

“Well, somepony probably ought to. I’m too old these days. Not to mention,” the Colonel chuckled as he tapped his forehead with one hoof, “no horn! No magic to work with should I manage to find the blade.”

George was laying out pictures and pages – some clippings from newspapers, some taken from books or personal journals. Cantor, Valentina and Jon Quill were all peering over the old Colonels shoulders and devouring the tidbits they could decipher with a delighted dread.

George tapped a photograph of the dagger. “Jack’s Red Blade was magical, that much is clear. And as for where it came from I’ve got my own theories.”

“What might those be?” Jon inquired.

“Have you ever heard of the Red Reaver?” George watched the three ponies carefully. It was clear to him that they had.

“Yes,” Cantor admitted, “She was supposed to be a ghostly unicorn who raised up a small army of the Trotting Dead about four centuries ago. She forged a cult dedicated to bringing down Celestia. The skeletons and zombies who fought for her were supposedly unusually fierce – fighting with a mindless, near berserk rage. Or fear. Maybe both.”

George’s eyebrows shot up again. “Impressive. Most ponies don’t know that bit of history.”

“Well, we don’t know much more than that ourselves,” Valentina added.

George nodded. “Then here’s a few tidbits that’ll interest you. First, while the Reaver herself was put down – pinned in a barrow and warded with powerful spells of containment,” George frowned as he tried to remember a particularly obscure detail. “They used some variation on Trotwine's Spiritual Binding ... uh ...”

Cantor glanced towards an empty corner of the kitchen, pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow (there was an odd hint of amusement in that expression) before he added, “I believe you’re thinking of Morari the Maneless’ substantially improved Ghostly Shackling Ward, yes?”

George nodded, “That's the one! Well, on to the important bit. As I was saying, she fell ... but after her fall there were rumors that some of her cult survived. That ponies who were loyal to her lived through her fall and kept their beliefs alive.”

“What? Who? Where? How?” Where the others were stunned into silence, Jon instinctively reverted to babbling questions. He ended with on a note of shocked and horrified surprise that made the previous four inquiries seem calm and collected by comparison, “Why?!”

George chuckled. “Well, they were afraid of her. She was fearsome. She had been defeated, you know, but how do you truly slay the dead? If they had served her once … and then they stopped … and then she found out about it … well, that wouldn't be a good day to have once been part of her murderous cult, eh?”

George rubbed his chin as he continued, “Also, she promised her followers an end to mortality. An end to death. Everlasting life.”

After a moment of silence, George grinned. A touch of his usual jolliness shone through, “Now, everlasting life sounds all well and good when you’re a young whippersnapper … but me? I’m old. Like I said, my aches and pains have aches and pains. Death doesn’t scare me. Not in a real rush to get there, but …” the Colonel smiled warmly, “… when I do, in some ways it’ll be a true relief. A reunion with old friends, long gone. Now if she were offering eternal youth, then I might have to reconsider … though it’s too late for that for me.”

“How so?” Valentina was the one to ask the question, Jon and Cantor were too busy staring with a mixture of surprise and respect at the old earth pony.

“Well, like I said, the Reaver’s cult – while not active, nor large – is still around. After a fashion. Hard to keep tabs on a secret society, even one where membership appears to be passed down through family lines. But when I was snooping around Shady Hollow, looking into Jack and his Red Blade … let’s just say I attracted their notice.”

George pursed his lips. “Off the record? It wound up being two funerals worth of ‘attracting their notice.’ And that’s all I have to say about that. Other than to add that even if I were tempted by their promises (which I’m not) they wouldn’t take me.”

George grinned again, “Tidbit two: Jacob Fitz Tassel was a Reaver Cultist. The Van Tassels deny he got into it through their family lines, but you know how small town gossip gets. There was suspicion of that family long before Jacob was born into unfortunate circumstances.” George shrugged. “And knowing small town gossip, it’s just as likely there wasn’t anything real behind those rumors. Well, other than old family feuds and ill feeling over somepony’s great-grandparent doing somepony else’s great-grandparent wrong in some business deal or courtship or something.”

“Anyway – Jack’s Red Blade? I’d bet good money it was one of the Red Reaver’s own knives. She supposedly had two.”

“And you think Jack got it because he was part of her Cult?” Cantor was eyeing some old family journals, records of births and deaths. Jacob Fitz Tassel was mentioned there.

George snorted. “Hell, he may have dug it out of her grave.”

That got the attention of every pony in the room.

“Tidbit three? The Reaver’s buried somewhere in the fields outside Tarry Town.”