Lux Perpetua

by Vilwind

Rating: everyone
Tags: Random, Comedy, Adventure
Length: 13624

Shining Armor went shoping. It couldn't have ended without an adventure could it?

When Cadance send her husband to buy a new jacket she couldn't know she is sending him for an adventure. What adventure can you have in Canterlot? That’s the problem with stallions like Shining Armor you send them shopping they end up: chasing a changeling through a city, leading a theoretical theological dispute with fanatical organization, destabilize international trade market or brawl in the open public place. Yes, Shining Armor has his days especially if he have friends like famous DJ Pon-3 and Filthy Rich from Ponyville to accompany him.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-09-11 20:34:04 UTC

Chapter 1

“Scum! Worthless vagabond! Crook!”

Shining Armor, his curiosity piqued, changed his direction to see what all the fuss was about. The yelling lead him to the corner of a alley. Before he had the time to locate the origin of the screams, he heard a crash of glass join the chorus of cries.

A jar of Zap-apple jam, he thought. That is the sound of a jar of Zap-apple jam thrown by somepony from a great height or with great force. He perfectly remembered Cadance, throwing in anger jars like that. Jars of Zap-apple jam that they received from Applejack. It was their first quarrel after the wedding. That night they lost five jars of Zap-apple jam. The quarrel was stupid and ended with angry sex. Over all not bad night … if you don’t count unforgettable lost of Zap-apple jam.

A fairly large group of onlookers had amassed around the corner of the alley, at the foot of a narrow pink-painted house. A young gray earthpony mare with dark gray mane was standing in her nightgown on a flowered balcony suspended just below the overhanging edge of the rooftop. She seized a flower pot with the intention of throwing it.

The thin white unicorn mare, barely had time to leap back, like a goat, to avoid the impact of the pot that exploded on the ground just in front of her and scattered into a thousand pieces.

“I beg you, Octavia!” she cried. “Don't believe them! I am faithful to you! May I die on the spot if it isn't true!”

“Scoundrel! Vagabond!” the mare yelled back before retreating into the depths of the house to search, no doubt, for new ammunition.

“Hey, Vinyl Scratch!” called the Captain of the Canterlot Royal Guard, trotting carefully onto the battlefield. “How are you? What's going on?”

“Hi, Shining! What are you doing here? Everything's fine,” replied the mare, flashing her teeth in a smile. “The usual. By Luna, look out!”

A pewter cup whistled through the air and rebounded with a crash  on the paving stones. Vinyl Scratch recovered it from the ground to examine its condition and then tossed it into the gutter.

“Don't forget to take your clothes,” shouted Octavia from up high and thrown a pair of multicolor pants. “Get out of my sight! Don't set a hoof here again, you good-for-nothing …. disc jockey!”

“That's not mine,” DJ Pon-3 said in surprise, retrieving the multicolored pants from the ground. “I have, in all my life, never worn a pair of pants like these.”

“Go away! I don't want to see you anymore! You... You... You want to know what you're worth in bed? Nothing! Nothing, you hear? You hear, everypony?” yelled Octavia.

Another flower pot burst forth: the dried stalk of the plant hummed through the air. Vinyl Scratch had just enough time to dive. A copper pot of at least two and a half gallons followed the same course, whirling. The crowd of bystanders, standing out of the path of the projectiles, burst into laughter. Most of these ponies applauded, outrageously encouraging the gray mare to continue.

“Does she have a crossbow in the house?” Shining Armor asked uneasily.

“It's possible,” replied the DJ, craning her neck toward the balcony. “What bric-a-brac she has in there! Did you see these pants?”

“It would be prudent not to stay here. You can come back when she calms down.” proposed Shining Armor.

“By all the devils,” Vinyl Scratch grimaced, “I do not return to a house where I've had slander and copper pots thrown in my face. Our brief liaison is finished. Wait a little longer for her to throw me... Oh, by Luna! No! Octavia! Not my glasses!”

DJ mare lunged, holding out her front legs, tripped and fell, grabbing the glasses at the last moment just above the ground.

“Phew!” she murmured, rising. “I have it. All is well, Shining, we can go. I left with her, it's true, a coat with a marten-fur collar, but never mind, that will be the price I pay. Because I know she'll never throw the coat.”

“Liar! Cheat!” Octavia bawled from the balcony. “Vagabond! Damned crook!”

“Why is she so upset? Have you done something stupid… again, Vinyl?”

“The usual,” DJ Pon-3 replied with a shrug. “She requires that I be monogamous, but she herself doesn't hesitate to display another pony's pants to the whole world. You heard her name-calling? By Luna, I personally have bedded better mares, but I refrain from shouting as much in the middle of the street. Let's go.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“Where do you think? Let's go to The Pink Grotto. I need to settle my nerves.”

Without protest, Shining Armor trotted behind Vinyl Scratch. He had nothing better to do now. Why not have some fun in the company of the biggest party pony in Canterlot?

Vinyl Scratch who was already walking with a purposeful stride through the narrow alley asked.“What brings you to Lower part of Canterlot, Shining Armor?”

“Supplies: equipment and this new jacket.” Shining Armor stroked the fresh, brand new leather of his jacket. “What do you think, Vinyl Scratch?”

“You are certainly no fashion plate,” said Vinyl, grimacing and stroking her mane. “I'm happy to see you outside the Royal Palace walls. Ahhh… Canterlot. I love this city, the capital, the center and the cultural heart of Equestria. An enlightened pony can breathe deeply here!”

“Then let's breathe on the next street over,” suggested Shining Armor, seeing a bad looking, untidy donkey squatting, his eyes wide, in the act of defecating in an adjacent alley.

“Your incessant sarcasm grows tiresome,” Vinyl Scratch said, grimacing again. “In Lower Canterlot, Shining Armor, there are houses made of brick, paved city streets, a airport, warehouses, four watermills, slaughterhouses, sawmills, a large manufactory of shoes, and all desirable guilds and artisans, a mint, eight banks and nineteen pawnbrokers. Upper Canterlot has only…”

“A breathtaking castle and Guard Tower,” interrupted Shining Armor.

“…and here you have thirty-five pubs, a theater, a opera, a zoo..."

"... did you know they supposedly have a human in the zoo but Cadance said it’s just a dressed up gorilla."

"... a bazaar and twelve brothels...” continued Vinyl Scratch.” Lots of fun, in any case. There is a party going on at some place here. And all these mares, Shining Armor! Proper ones, combed and perfumed... The satins, the velours, the silks, the ribbons…. By the way, I forgot, how is it going with Cadance?”

“Good.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't understand a thing. Well then, where is this pub? Is it far from here?”

“Just around the corner. There it is, we've arrived. You see the sign?”

***

“I greet you warmly!” Vinyl Scratch called, smiling broadly at the young mare sweeping the stairs. “My word, has anypony ever told you, dear,  how lovely you are?”

The mare blushed, tightening her grip on her broom. Shining Armor thought for a moment that she wanted to strike Vinyl Scratch. He was mistaken. The mare gave her a smile, batting her eyelashes. Vinyl Scratch, as she usually did, ignored her reaction.

“I salute you and wish you good health! Good day!” Vinyl Scratch boomed, entering the pub. “Mistress Vinyl Scratch, the most celebrated DJ in  the land, pays a visit to your unworthy establishment, manager! She was struck by the desire for a beer! Do you appreciate the magnitude of the honor that I grant you, old miser?”

“I do,” the manager replied despondently, emerging from behind the counter. “I am delighted to see you again, DJ Pon-3. I rejoice to see that you have kept your word. You had indeed promised to return this morning to pay your debts from last night. And I thought it was only hot air, as usual. I am ashamed of my mistake.”

“Don't torment yourself without reason, my little pony,” DJ replied cheerfully, “because I don't have any money. We'll discuss it later.”

“No,” the manager responded coldly. “We will discuss it now. Your credit is dead, musician. You will not extort from me twice in a row.”

Vinyl Scratch sat down at the counter and started to play with her glasses. She looked at Shining Armor. “Do you have any money, Shining?” she asked, with a trace of hope in her voice.

“I don't. I spent everything I had by me on my jacket.”

“That's not good, that's not good,” Vinyl Scratch sighed. “By the plague, there isn't a soul to treat us. Manager, why is your establishment so empty today?”

“It's too early for the regular customers. The workers repairing the road have already left and gone on to the site.”

“No-pony else?”

“No-pony else, apart from business-pony Filthy Rich, who takes his breakfast in the alcove.”

“Filthy is here,” Vinyl said, pleased. “You should have said so earlier. Come with me to the alcove, Shining. You know Filthy Rich, merchant from Ponyville?”

“No.”

“That's all right. You'll get to know him. Oh, oh!” called the musician mare, making her way to the side of the room. “I can already pick up the smell and the fragrance of onion soup, so sweet in my nostrils. Yoo-hoo! It's us! Surprise!”

At the base of the alcove's central post, which was decorated with garlands of garlic and bundles of dried herbs, there sat a grayish stallion with dark gray mane. His Cute Mark represented three sacks of money.

His right hoof held a wooden spoon, the left an earthenware bowl. Seeing Vinyl Scratch and Shining Armor, the stallion froze and opened his mouth wide. His round azure eyes dilated with terror.

“Hi, Rich,” Vinyl said cheerfully, waving.

Filthy Rich remained motionless, without closing his mouth. Shining Armor noticed that his hoof shook slightly and caused a long morsel of cooked onion hanging from his spoon to swing like a pendulum.

“H-h... Hello to you, Vinyl Scratch,” he managed to say, stammering and swallowing.

“You have the hiccups? Want me to scare you? Listen: your wife was seen arriving at the toll gate! She'll arrive any second! Ms. Rich in the flesh! Haha!”

“You sure can be stupid, DJ,” the business-pony said reproachfully.

Vinyl Scratch broke into laughter again.

“If only you could see your face, Rich: so foolish. Besides, you look at us as if we had horns and tails. It's Royal Guard who scares you... eh? The defender of Canterlot in flesh! Perhaps...”

“Stop,” Shining Armor interrupted in annoyance, approaching the table. “Pardon us, friend. Vinyl has just been through a personal tragedy that she has not yet digested. She tries to use jokes to hide her sadness, dejection, and shame.”

“Don't tell me.” Filthy Rich finally swallowed the contents of his spoon. “Let me guess: Octavia finally threw you out? Is that it, Vinyl Scratch?”

“I do not discuss delicate subjects with individuals who are drinking and stuffing themselves while their friends are forced to stand,” replied the DJ mare and sat down without waiting to be invited.

Filthy Rich swallowed a spoonful of soup and began to lick up the drips of cheese.

“Sure,” he conceded reluctantly. “Join me, then. Have a seat. They're serving onion soup today... Will you have some?”

“In principle, I never eat so early in the morning,” Vinyl Scratch replied insolently. “But so be it: I'll eat, but certainly not with a dry throat... Hey! Manager! Some beer, if you please! Quickly!”

A mare with her mane pulled back in a long braid that reached her plot brought some goblets and bowls of soup. Shining Armor considered that she could have nice lips if only she remembered to close them.

“Dryad of the forest!” Vinyl Scratch cut in, seizing her hoof and kissing the palm. “Sylph! Vision! Divine entity with pale blue eyes like a lake. Beautiful as the break of day. The form of your open lips, so exciting...”

“Give her some beer, quickly,” groaned Filthy Rich. “before she'll get us into trouble.”

“Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind,” Vinyl assured him. “Isn't that right, Shining Armor? It's difficult to find somepony more peaceful than the two of us. I, master merchant, I’m a DJ and as all pony know: music softens the mood. The Royal Guard here only poses a threat to monsters and enemies of her majesty. I present to you: Shining Armor, the protector of Canterlot, vanquisher of changelings, timberwolves and others of their breed. You have certainly heard of him, Filthy Rich!”

“I have...” The business-pony darted a suspicious eye over Shining Armor. “Well, what brings you to lower Canterlot, Captain Shining Armor? Have horrible monsters been poking their muzzles around here? Or maybe you are investigating a crime?”

“No,” Shining Armor said, smiling. “I am here only to enjoy myself.”

“Oh!” Filthy Rich responded nervously. “That's good...”

“What's good about it?” asked Vinyl Scratch, swallowing a spoonful of soup and taking a draught of her beer. “Perhaps you intend to support us, Filthy Rich? Pay for our entertainment, you mean? This couldn't have come at a better time. We intend to start by getting a little drunk here in the Pink Grotto, then hop over to Passionflower: it's an excellent and extravagant brothel. We still need a patron.”

“A what?” Filthy Rich pretended he didn’t hear.

“Somepony to pay for it.”

“That's what I thought,” mumbled Filthy Rich. “Sorry, but I have a business appointment. I don't have, moreover, the funds for such entertainment.”

“I’m married and have no problems with adapting the concept of monogamy, unlike you,” added Shining Armor.

“What are we, then? Barn owls? That's true, you're right, but this is Canterlot, the capital of the world! We can always find something fun to do.” retorted Vinyl Scratch.

“Yes...” said Filthy Rich, continuing to watch Shining Armor, his lips pinched. “I'll be going now... I have an appointment...”

The door to the alcove opened then with a bang: the room was entered by none other than... Filthy Rich!

“By Luna!” Vinyl Scratch exclaimed.

Filthy Rich standing in the doorway was in no way different from the one who was seated at the table, apart from the fact that he was clean and the new arrival was dirty, his clothing disheveled and wrinkled.

“I have you, you son of a bitch,” shouted the bedraggled newly arrived Filthy Rich. “Blasted thief!”

His immaculate twin rose abruptly, overturning his stool and scattering the cutlery. Shining Armor reacted immediately: he struck Filthy Rich neck with a spell. He didn’t concentrate enough so the spell didn’t do much damage but the merchant stallion dropped and then rolled along the ground before crawling between Vinyl Scratch legs with the intention of crawling out from the alcove.

His limbs busted into green flames changing him into a black monster with holes in his legs. At the sight, the disheveled Filthy Rich swore, shouted, and leapt back in a movement that threw him against the wooden partition with a bang. Shining Armor concentrated and is horn started to glow with rose light. He cleared a path by kicking a chair aside and then launched himself after the changeling-Filthy Rich.

The latter, no longer having anything in common with the real Filthy Rich, cleared the threshold of the room like a grasshopper and burst into the common room, barging into the mare with parted lips. Seeing his fangs, holes in legs and his indistinct shape, the mare opened her mouth wide and gave an ear-shattering scream. Making the most of the time gained from the collision with the mare, Shining Armor caught up to the creature in the middle of the room and tripped it with a deft kick to the hind legs.

“Don't try to move, little changeling,” he warned, gritting his teeth and pressing the point of his horn to the neck of the shocking apparition. “Don't try to move.”

“What's going on here?” cried the manager, rushing over wielding the handle of a shovel. “What is that? Guards! Tablecloth, run and alert the guard!”

“No!” the creature screamed, flattening itself against the ground. “Have mercy, no!”

"This is  not a matter for the guard,” agreed the disheveled Filthy Rich, exiting the alcove. “Hold the mare, Vinyl!”

Despite the swiftness of the events, the DJ managed to take hold of Tablecloth, who was screaming. Vinyl used her magic to silence the mare but did it with great care. The mare fell at DJ hooves, squealing.

“Easy there, manager,” continued disheveled Filthy Rich. ”This is a personal matter. We won't trouble the guard. I'll pay for any damage...”

“There's no damage,” the owner of the pub said simply, looking around.

“There will be soon,” Filthy Rich continued, “because I'm going to beat the shit out of him... and how! I'm going to do him in. I'll make it so painful for so long that he'll never be able to forget me: we'll break everything in here.”

Flattened against the ground like a puddle, the hole-legged caricature of a pony sniffled miserably.

“Out of the question,” the manager said coldly, blinking. “Fight in the street or in the yard, master Filthy. Not here. Otherwise I'll call the guard. You can count on it. But it's... but it's a monster, that one!”

“Manager,” Shining Armor intervened evenly, without reducing the pressure of his horn on the creature's neck, “stay calm. No-one will break anything in your place. There will be no damage. The situation is under control. I am the Captain of the Canterlot Royal Guard. As you see, the monster is neutralized. But as it is indeed a personal matter, I suggest that we clear it up calmly in the alcove. Let go of the mare, Vinyl, and come here. I have a silver chain in my saddlebags . Take it out and tightly bind the limbs of our gracious stranger. Don't move, little changeling.”

The creature keened softly.

“Well, Shining,” Vinyl said finally. “It's tied. Go into the alcove. And you, manager, what are you standing there for? I ordered beer. And when I order beer, you must continue serving it until I ask for water.”

Shining Armor shoved the bound creature into the alcove and had it sit at the base of the post. Filthy Rich sat too, eying it malevolently.

“Look at it: a horror,” said the stallion from Ponyville. “It looks like a mass of fermenting dough. Look at those fangs and weird fly like wings Vinyl Scratch. Son of a bitch. His ears are like my mother-in-law's before she was buried. Brrr!”

“Wait, wait,” DJ mare groaned. “You, you're Filthy Rich? Uh, yes, obviously. But the thing sitting against the post was also you a few moments ago. If I am not mistaken. Shining Armor! All eyes now turn to you, the Royal Guard. What's going on here, by all the devils? What is that?”

“It's a mimic.”

“Mimic, yourself,” the creature responded in a guttural voice, wrinkling its nose. “I'm not some pathetic mimic, but a proper Changeling. My name is Penstock. My friends call me Dudu.”

“I'll give you 'Dudu,' you damned son of a whore!” Filthy Rich shouted, shaking his hoof. “Where are my money, thief?”

“Gentlepony’s,” the manager prompted, entering with a jug and an armful of mugs. “You promised to stay quiet.”

“Oh, beer!” mumbled Filthy Rich. “I have such a thirst, by pestilence. And I'm famished!”

“I, too, would gladly drink something,” said Dudu.

No-pony paid attention to his request.

“What is that thing?” asked the manager, looking at the creature who, at the sight of the beer being served, dragged a long tongue between his drooping lips. “What is that, sirs?”

“A mimic,” repeated Shining Armor, ignoring the monster's grimace. “It goes by a number of names: shifter, double, imitator, pavrat, doppler or even Changeling, as they call themself.”

“A Changeling!” exclaimed the manager. “I heard they attacked the palace and surrounded areas but the invasion was dealt with so quick that we didn’t even had time to see them properly. A Changeling! Here, in lower Canterlot? In my establishment? Quickly, the Sun Priests must be alerted without delay! My word...”

“Easy, easy,” Filthy Rich growled, and looked hungrily at Vinyl Scratch eating soup, which had miraculously not spilled from its bowl. “We'll have plenty of time to turn it over  to the authorities. But later. This scoundrel has stolen from me. This is not a matter to entrust to the authorities before I have recovered my due. I know you well, you Canterlot ponies and your judges: I won't recover a dime, and even that would take luck...”

“Have mercy,” the Changeling moaned desperately. “Don't turn me over to the Sun Priests! Don't you know what they do to the ones like me?”

“Of course we know,” interrupted the manager, nodding his head. “The Solar Priests exorcise captured changeling: they tie them securely to a wooden stake and trap them in a ball of clay and slag before baking them until the clay hardens and becomes a brick. At least that's what we did once, when monsters like you were more common.”

“A barbaric custom, typical of Canterlot unicorns,” Filthy Rich said with a grimace, pushing the empty  bowl away. “But it might be the proper punishment for the banditry and theft. Come on and talk, scoundrel, where are my goods? Answer quickly, or I will rip off your wings with my hooves and shove it up your ass! I ask you, where are goods you stole?”

“I... I sold them,” said Dudu. His drooping lips contracted suddenly, taking the shape of a miniature head of cauliflower.

“He sold them? Did you hear that?” the business-pony frothed. “He sold my goods!”

“Of course,” Vinyl commented. “He had plenty of time. I've seen him here for three days... That means that... By pestilence, Filthy Rich, this means that...”

“It's obvious what that means!” the merchant cried, stamping his hooves on the table. “He robbed me on the way, and came here pretending to be me, you understand? And he sold my goods I have been personally delivering! I'll kill him! I'll snuff him out with my own hooves!”

“Tell us what happened, Filthy Rich,” said Shining Armor.

“Shining Armor, I presume? The Defender of Canterlot?”

Shining Armor acknowledged this with a nod.

“What luck,” Filthy Rich went on. “I'm Filthy Rich from Ponyville. Owner of Rich's Barnyard Bargains, farmer, rancher, but mostly merchant. A business-pony in one word. Call me Rich, Shining.”

“Tell us what happened, Rich.”

“Well, it was like this: we, my employees and myself, were transporting a large amount of goods from Ponyville warehouse to Manehatten where those goods were to be sold on an auction. A day's walk from the city, we set up camp. We fell asleep after drinking a keg of Applecider. I awake in the night, my bladder fit to burst. So I get out of the cart and while I'm up, I decide to check around the camp. A damned fog envelops me. I look: somepony's coming toward me. 'Who goes there?' I ask. The other doesn't say anything. I come closer, and... I see myself, like a mirror. I think that I shouldn't have had so much to drink, damn that Applecider. Then this one... because it was him, he hits me in the face! I saw stars and passed out. I wake up in the morning with a blood-covered lump the size of a cucumber on my head. Not a soul to be found. Not a trace of our camp. I wandered for a whole day to find the path. Then I continued my walk, subsisting on little roots and raw mushrooms. He, meanwhile, that revolting Changeling, whatever his name is, went to Canterlot wearing my appearance to get rid of my goods! I'm going to... As for my employees, the blind fools, I'll give them a hundred blows with a cane on their bare asses for not recognizing their own boss and for getting conned like this! Cretins, dunderheads, piss-drunk louts...”

“Don't blame them, Rich,” Shining Armor interrupted. “They never had a chance to see through it: a Changeling makes a copy so perfect that it's impossible to distinguish from the original, in this case the victim. You've never heard of Changelings?”

“I've heard of them, sure, but I thought they were imaginary.”

“They are by no means imaginary. A Changeling only needs to know or examine the victim to adapt his own shape immediately and perfectly to the structure of the original. I would point out that this is no illusion, but an extremely fine metamorphosis that imitates even the smallest details. How do Changelings manage this? That, we don't know. Unicorn magic Professors presume that we are dealing with a process similar to that of lycanthropy, but I think that this is an entirely different mechanism, or something like lycanthropy but with an underlying force a thousand times greater. A werewolf can only take two or perhaps three forms at most, while the Changeling can transform infinitely so long as what he copies corresponds more or less to his body mass.”

“Body mass?”

“Yes. He can't transform into a colossus. Nor a mouse. Normal Changeling can imitate a pony but only their Queen can impersonate a alicorn like in case of my wife.”

“I see. And what's the chain you tied him with for?”

“The silver is lethal to a werewolf, but only neutralizes, as you can see, a Changeling. He sits quietly without changing form thanks to the power of this chain.”

The Changeling pursed his drooping lips, giving Shining Armor a sullen look.” You sure did your home work your… highness, after Chrysalis stunt.”

“You know what they say. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me.”

“You son of a bitch,” Filthy Rich growled. “When I think ‘it’ even came down to the Grotto where I myself usually stay. And ‘it’ persuaded everypony that ‘it’ was really me!”

Vinyl Scratch nodded.

“Rich,” said the DJ, “it was really you. I've been coming here for three days. It was your appearance and your wording. He thought like you. When the bill came, he was as miserly as you. Maybe even more so.”

“On the latter point I don't care in the least,” said Filthy Rich, “because in that case maybe I can recover some part of my money. I don't dare touch that thing. Get my purse back from him, Vinyl, and see what it contains. There should be a lot of money if the thief sold my goods.”

“How much were the goods worth, Filthy?”

“A thousand bits even more if you know what and where to sell. It all depends on current price on the world market."

“It doesn’t look good Rich,” the musician mare continued, inspecting the contents of the purse, “ there is eighty, eight-five bits in here.”

The business-pony was silent. He looked as though he would burst into tears. The Changeling lowered his head, making a feeble gurgle.

“In other words,” Filthy Rich sighed at last, “a creature whose existence I had dismissed as a pony-tale has robbed and ruined me. That's what I call bad luck.”

“I won't argue with that,” Shining Armor remarked, casting a glance at the Changeling that was curling in on itself more and more. “I was also convinced that changeling belonged to a bygone era. Apparently there were once many of them in the forests and on the surrounding plateaus of Equestria. But their ability to take other forms alarmed the first settlers, who began to hunt them efficiently. Almost all of them were exterminated.”

“And it's a good thing,” the manager interrupted, spitting: “I swear on the Eternal Sun Princess that I'd prefer dragons or timberwolfs, because a dragon is a dragon and a timberwolf a timberwolf. You know what you're dealing with. Werewolves, their metamorphoses and their variations, are all simply horrifying. Changeling is a demonic monster, a fraud, a traitor. Ponies have everything to lose from such trickery! I tell you: alert the priests and put the monster to the flame!”

“Shining Armor,” Vinyl Scratch said, intrigued by the subject, “I'd be happy to hear the voice of a specialist. You delt with them one didn’t you? These changeling really are menacing and aggressive?”

“They generally use their ability to copy,” the Royal Guard replied, “for defense rather than attack. They become rather aggressive recently but for centuries were rather peaceful…”

“By the plague,” Filthy Rich interrupted, bringing his hoof down on the table. “If knocking somepony out and robbing them isn't aggressive, then I don't know what is. The matter is simple: I was attacked and robbed of not only the fruits of honest labor, but also of my own self. I demand compensation! I will not accept...”

“We must alert the Sun priests!,” repeated the manager. “And burn the monster!”

“Stop, manager!” Filthy Rich cut in, looking up. “You begin to annoy us with your priests. I note that this Changeling has only caused harm to myself. Not to you, until shown otherwise.”

“Come now, master Rich...” the manager replied, with an embarrassed smile. “But I'm surprised, by the way, master Shining Armor the Captain of the Canterlot Royal Guard, that you stay seated like this without reacting. What is your purpose, one might ask? Isn't it true that you kill monsters? Bring them to justice!”

“Monsters, indeed,” Shining Armor responded coldly, “but not members of intelligent races.”

“Here, master,” said the manager “you exaggerate somewhat.”

“That's right, Shining,” Vinyl interrupted, “you're pushing it, calling this an 'intelligent race.' Just look at it.”

Dudu indeed did not give the impression of belonging to a sentient race. Fixing Shining Armor with his troubled blue eyes, he more closely resembled a puppet made of black rubber. The sniffles produced by his nose, lying flat on the table, did not make a convincing case for such membership.

“Enough of this meaningless blather!” Filthy Rich cried suddenly. “There is nothing to discuss! All that matters are my goods and my losses! You heard me, you blasted dark fungus! To whom did you sell my goods? What have you done with the money? Speak now, because I'll kick you and hit you and tear you apart!”

Opening the door, Tablecloth stuck her head into the alcove.

“Some guests just arrived at the inn, father,” she murmured the manager. “Apprentice builders and some others. I'm serving them, but stop shouting like this, because they're starting to ask what's going on in here.”

“By the Eternal Sun Princess!” the manager swore, looking at the collapsed changeling. “If somepony comes in and sees it... we're finished. If we don't alert the sun priests, well... Master Shining Armor! If this is really a changeling, tell this thing to take a more respectable and discreet form. For the moment, at least.”

“Well said,” Filthy Rich agreed. “Turn him into something else, Shining.”

“Into whom?” the changeling asked then, gurgling. “I can only take the form of somepony I can see. Which one of you wants to lend me his appearance?”

“Not me,” the manager said quickly.

“Nor me,” Vinyl Scratch said indignantly. “It wouldn't be good camouflage. The whole world knows me: the sight of two DJ Pon-3 seated at the same table would cause a greater sensation than the sight of this naked changeling.”

“With me, it would be the same,” Shining Armor added, smiling. “That leaves you, Filthy Rich.”

“Fine,” he said. “So be it. Remove the chain, Shining. Come on, turn yourself into me, you… 'intelligent race.'”

Freed from the chain, the changeling stretched his limbs filed with holes, stroked his nose and then in a green flash he become Filthy Rich. The original Filthy Rich widened his eyes. The pub manager, awed, mutely opened his mouth. Vinyl Scratch gasped without interrupting her incessant moan.

The final touch was the change to the color of eyes.

Filthy Rich the Second gave a rumbling gurgle. He seized the mug belonging to Filthy Rich the First from across the table and brought it greedily to his lips.

“It's impossible, it's impossible,” Vinyl Scratch repeated in a low voice. “See here: the copy is perfect, it's impossible to differentiate. Everything is there! This time, even the mosquito bites and the stains on the tie... Truly, the tie! Shining Armor, even the Unicorn Wizards don't succeed at that! Feel it, that's real wool, not an illusion! Incredible! How does he do it?”

“Nobody knows,” Shining Armor rumbled. “I read all the books I could find in Canterlot Archives about the changelings. He himself doesn't know. I said that he possesses an ability to completely transform his own matter, but this ability is organic and instinctive...”

“But the tie... What is the tie made of? And the vest?”

“It's just his own transformed skin. I don't think that he'd readily agree to take them off. Besides, the skin would immediately lose its woolen properties...”

“Pity,” Filthy Rich said, his eyes glinting. “I was just wondering if it was possible for it to transform the matter of that bucket into gold.”

Obviously very happy to be the center of attention, the changeling who had become a faithful copy of Filthy Rich took his ease with a broad smile. He adopted a seated position identical to that of Filthy Rich, his mane feet kicking in the same way. “You know the subject of changeling well, Shining Armor,” he said before tipping back his mug, smacking his tongue and burping. “Very well, even.”

“By Luna, that's exactly the voice and the mannerisms of Filthy Rich,” said Vinyl Scratch. “Does anypony have a red ribbon? We must mark it, damn it, because it could all go wrong.”

“How is that, Vinyl?” demanded Filthy Rich the First. “There is no way you can confuse me with him! From the first...”

“... glance, there are differences,” continued Filthy Rich the Second, stifling a burp. “To confuse us, you would  really have to be a horse's ass.”

“What did I just say?” Vinyl Scratch murmured with admiration. “He thinks and talks like Filthy. It is impossible to differentiate...”

“That's a stretch!” The business-pony made a face. “A big stretch.”

“No,” Shining Armor objected, “it's no stretch. Whether you believe it or not, Rich, that creature is indeed yourself at the moment. Through means unknown, the changeling also precisely copies the psyche of its victims.”

“The psy... what?”

“The characteristics of the mind: character, feeling, thoughts. The soul, but not everything the older the memory is the harder it is for a changeling to copy it. Of course a changeling can use that to better disguise itself but doesn’t have to.  This contradicts the claims of the majority of priests: the soul is also the body. ”

“You blaspheme...” the manager broke in, breathing unevenly.

“What rubbish,” Filthy Rich added forcefully. “Don't joke around, Shining Armor. The properties of the mind, well then: copying somepony's nose or tie is one thing, but the intelligence, that's bullshit. I'll prove it right here. If your flea-bitten changeling copied my business acumen, he would not have sold my goods in Canterlot where the market is weak, but would have sent them to Manehatten where the prices are decided at auction. There, you do not lose...”

“Of course you lose!” The changeling aped the Filthy Rich’s pique, imitating his characteristic grumble. “First, the auction prices at Manehatten have been falling, because the merchants decide amongst themselves how much to bid. And a commission must be paid to the organizers.”

“You will not teach me commerce, imbecile,” Filthy Rich raged. “In Manehatten, I would have gotten 90 or even 100 apiece of Zap-apple jar. And you, how much did you get from the rogues in Canterlot?”

“130,” replied the changeling.

“You lie, damned porridge-brain!”

“I'm not lying. I took the goods directly to the airport, master Rich, where I found a Griffon trader from overseas. He bought almost everything. Griffons have a great need for luxury goods but the Canterlot prices are too high for them. Shops in Canterlot belong to those rich pony folk who resale what they buy in Manehattane with a margin. A Zap-apple jar in Canterlot can cost 150 bits. Furthermore Manehatten doesn’t have a trade airport so all the Cloudsdale and Griffon Kingdom trade goes through Canterlot. I just cut the middle pony. I was the only one to make a acceptable offer. It's as simple...”

“Don't lecture me, I told you!” Filthy Rich shouted, growing crimson. “Well then, you made some money. But where has it gone now?”

“I invested it,” Dudu replied proudly, smoothing a stubborn lock of mane just as Filthy Rich often did. “Money, master Rich, must always circulate for business to carry on.”

“Watch yourself or I'll break your face! What did you use the money for? Speak!”

“I said: I bought merchandise.”

“What merchandise, you damned lunatic?”

“I bought co... cochineal pigment,” the changeling stammered, then recited rapidly: “five hundred bushels of cochineal pigment, sixty-two fifths of mimosa bark, fifty-five barrels of rose essence, twenty-three barrels of fish oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eight hundred pounds of beeswax. Note that the fish oil was a very good price because it was slightly rancid. Ah! I almost forgot: and one hundred cubits of cotton cord.”

A very long silence fell.

“Rancid fish oil,” Filthy Rich said at last, articulating very slowly and placing emphasis on each word. “Cotton cord, rose essence. I must be dreaming. It's a nightmare. Anything can be bought in Canterlot: the most precious and the most useful items… and this cretin spends my money to acquire this shit! With my appearance! My standing and my reputation as a merchant are ruined. No, it's all too much for me. I can't take it. I go find a rope and a bridge, so I can finally be rid of him.”

The door to the alcove opened with a creek.

“Merchant Filthy Rich!” called pony who had just entered. He was so thin that the purple toga he wore seemed to be draped on a coat-hanger; on his head sat a velvet hat shaped something like an overturned chamberpot. “Is the merchant Filthy Rich here?”

“Yes,” the Filthy Rich and his impostor replied in unison.

In the instant that followed, one of the two Filthy Richs threw the contents of his mug into Shining Armor's face, deftly kicked the stool out from under Vinyl Scratch and crawled swiftly under the table in the direction of the door, knocking over the individual in the funny hat in the process.

“Fire! Help!” he yelled, falling backward into the common room. “Murder! Call the Guards!”

Having wiped the foam from his face, Shining Armor set off in pursuit of the fugitive, but the other Filthy Rich, who had also rushed to the door, got tangled in his legs after slipping on the sawdust. They fell together in the doorway. DJ Pon-3 swore horribly, trying to extricate herself from under the table.

“Stop, thief!” howled the lanky individual, still on the ground and entangled in the folds of his toga. “Thief! Bandits!”

Shining Armor trampled the Ponyvills merchant. Finally in the pub's common room, he saw the changeling barrel into the customers and run into the street. The Captain of the Royal Guard tried to use his momentum to cross this elastic barrier but was halted by the customers who blocked the way. He managed to knock down one of them, black with mud and stinking of beer, but the others, locking their strong legs, did not budge an inch. Shining Armor thrashed, enraged. He heard the sharp crack of thread and leather giving way. Under his arm, he could feel a sudden lack of resistance. Shining Armor stopped struggling and swore. His new jacket was torn.

“We caught him!” shouted the workers. “We caught the thief! What do we do, chief?”

“Guards!” bawled the pony dressed in purple, extricating himself from the alcove. “Contempt of court! Guards! You'll end up on the gallows, thief!”

“We have him!” cried the workers and pointed at the Shining Armor. “We have him, sir.”

“It's not him,” the pony in the toga howled in response. “Catch the scoundrel! Chase him!”

“Who?”

“Merchant Filthy Rich! Catch him, catch him! Lock him up in a dungeon!”

“Just a minute...” Filthy Rich interrupted, stepping out of the alcove. “What are you doing, Value Tax? Don't wipe your mouth with my name. Call off the alarm. It's not necessary.”

Value Tax grew quiet, watching Filthy Rich warily. Vinyl Scratch appeared in the doorway of the alcove, wearing her glasses askew. The workers released Shining Armor at last after having exchanged some words in low voices. Despite his anger, Royal Guard constrained himself to spitting profusely on the floor.

***

“Merchant Filthy Rich owner of Rich's Barnyard Bargains!” Value Tax yelped, blinking his myopic eyes. “What is the meaning of this? Attacking a municipal functionary could cost you dearly... Who was that earthpony who disappeared?”

“A cousin,” Filthy Rich replied promptly. “A distant cousin...”

“Yes, yes...” Vinyl Scratch confirmed quickly, feeling that she was in her element at last. “A distant cousin of Filthy Rich called Nothat Rich, the black sheep of the family. As a child, he fell down a well. Happily, the well was dry, but unfortunately, the bucket fell on his head. He's usually harmless. Only the sight of the color purple drives him into a rage. But there is nothing to worry about, because the sight of red hair on a mare's pubis has the power to calm him. That's why he fled to Passionflower, I tell you, master Value Tax...”

“Enough, Vinyl,” Shining Armor interrupted abruptly. “Shut up, damn it.”

Value Tax draped himself in his toga, brushed off the sawdust that clung to it and stuck out his chest, adopting an expression of appropriate severity.

“Yes...” he said. “Look after your loved ones more carefully, Filthy Rich, because you should know that you are responsible for their actions. If I file a complaint... But I do not have the time. Filthy Rich, the errand that brings me here: in the name of the municipal authorities, I order you to pay the taxes that you owe.”

“What?”

“The taxes,” the functionary repeated, pinching his lips together in the manner of his superiors. “What's gotten into you? Has your cousin made you lose your head? When one makes a profit, one must pay his taxes or expect to find himself thrown into the deepest dungeon.”

“Me?” Filthy Rich bawled. “Me, profit? But I have nothing but losses, for buck's sake! Me...”

“Careful, Rich,” Shining Armor murmured.

Vinyl Scratch dealt a furtive kick to his back ankle. Filthy Rich coughed.

“Of course,” he said, trying to plaster a smile across his face. “Of course, master Value Tax. If one does business, one must pay taxes. Good business generates big taxes. And the reverse, I imagine.”

“It is not for me to judge the quality of your transactions, master merchant.” The official sat at the table and made a wry face; from the folds of his toga, he produced an abacus and a scroll that he unrolled on the table, smoothing it with his sleeve. “My role is to count and collect. Yes... Let's draw up the bill... That will be... hum... Take off two, carry the one... Yes... 1,553 gold bits and 20 coppers.”

A hoarse sound burst from Filthy Rich's throat. The workers murmured in amazement. Vinyl Scratch sighed.

“Well, goodbye, friends,” the merchant from Ponyville said at last. “If anypony asks, tell them I'm rotting in the dungeon.”

To be continued....

Chapter 2

“Until noon tomorrow,” Filthy Rich whimpered. “Value Tax, that son of a bitch, exaggerates. The clerk could have given me an extension. More than 1,000 bits! Where will I find that kind of money by tomorrow? I am finished, ruined, doomed to end my life in prison! Let's not sit here, by the plague. I tell you this: that scoundrel changeling must be caught. We must catch him!”

The three of them were seated on the edge of the marble basin of a dry fountain, situated in the center of a small square surrounded by the homes of bourgeoisie with great wealth but extremely questionable taste. The water in the basin was green and horribly filthy, teeming with small fish that swam amid the refuse. Mouths gaping, they tried to gulp air from the surface, laboriously opening and closing their gills. Vinyl Scratch and Filthy Rich were chewing on beignets that the musician mare had stolen from a street vendor.

“If I were you,” said DJ mare, “I would give up the pursuit and start looking for somepony who could loan me the money. What will catching the changeling accomplish? You think that Value Tax will accept it as the financial equivalent?”

“You're an idiot, Vinyl. By finding the changeling, I'll get my money back.”

“What money? Everything your purse contained was used to pay for the damage and grease Value Tax's palm. There was no more.”

“Vinyl,” the merchant said, grimacing. “You might know something about music, but as for business, forgive me for saying so, you have an empty skull. You heard the amount of tax that Value Tax calculated? Taxes, they are paid on the basis of what? Eh? Of what?”

“Of everything,” replied the DJ. “Myself, I am taxed for playing music. And the fact that I perform to satisfy an internal need makes little difference.”

“You really are an idiot, as I said. In business, taxes are paid on profit. On profit, Vinyl! You understand? That scoundrel changeling stole my identity and organized a particularly lucrative scam! He made a profit! And me, I must pay the tax and also the debts surely racked up by this vagabond! If I don't pay, I'll end up behind bars; they'll publicly clap me in irons and send me to the mines. By the plague!”

“Ah!” Vinyl Scratch said cheerfully. “Then you have no other choice, Rich. You must leave the city on the sly. You know what? I have an idea. We'll hide you under a sheepskin and when you walk through the gate, you'll only have to repeat: 'Baa, baa, I am a sheep.' No-pony will recognize you.”

“Vinyl!” Filthy Rich replied hotly.“Shut up or I will put you through hell. Shining Armor?”

“Yes, Rich.”

“Will you help me catch the changeling?”

“Listen,” responded the Capitan of the Royal Guard, trying vainly to repair the torn sleeve of his jacket. “First of all I’m not on duty now. Secondly we are in Lower Canterlot, a city of thirty thousand inhabitants and perhaps twice as many passing through: earthponies, pegasi, unicorns. How can you find anypony in that mob? Furthermore Lower Canterlot is out of my jurisdiction. Royal Guard is a military service not a law enforcement. You have my help as a friend but not as Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Filthy Rich swallowed his beignet and then licked his hooves.

“And magic, Shining Armor? What about your Royal spells, which are the subject of so many stories? You did repel the last invasion!”

“The changeling is only magically detectable when he takes his own appearance. Unfortunately, he doesn't walk down the street in that form. And even then, magic wouldn't be any help, because the area is saturated with weak magical signals. Half the houses have magical locks; three quarters of the city ponies wear an amulet for some purpose or another: to protect against thieves, lice, indigestion... The number is infinite.”

In the silence that followed Vinyl Scratch threw the rest of her beignet to the fish and spat into the basin.

“Look,” she said, “golden carp. They say these fish grant wishes.”

“Those are red,” Filthy Rich remarked.

“What's the difference? There are three of us, and they grant three wishes. One per person. What do you think, Filthy Rich? Wouldn't you like a fish to pay your taxes?”

“Of course. I would also like for a meteor to fall from the sky and bash in that changeling's head. And then...”

“Stop, stop. We have wishes to make, too. Me, I'd like the fish to whisper me how to get Octavia back. And you, Shining Armor?”

“Leave me be, Vinyl.”

“Don't spoil the mood, Royal Guard. Simply say what you'd like.”

Shining Armor stood.

“I'd like,” he murmured, “for the fact that we are being followed to turn out to be a misunderstanding.”

Four ponies dressed in black and wearing leather caps were emerging from an alley and heading straight for the fountain. Filthy Rich swore quietly, seeing them approach.

Four others appeared behind them, from the same alley. These didn't approach. Arranged in a line, they were content to block the exit. They held curious hoops resembling coiled lengths of rope. Shining Armor examined the area. Vinyl Scratch gave a moan.

A gray unicorn of short stature, dressed in a white doublet and a short gray coat, appeared behind the ponies dressed in black. The gold chain he wore around his neck flashed, in time with his hoof-steps, with the golden hue of the sun.

“Chapel,” Dandelion groaned. “It's Chapel...”

The ponies dressed in black were slowly moving behind them in the direction of the fountain. Shining Armor horn glowed with light as he started to concentrate on both defensive and offensive spells.

“No, Shining Armor,” Vinyl Scratch murmured, pressing close to him. “By Luna, don't cast any spells. This is the temple guard. If we resist, we'll never get out of lower Canterlot alive.”

The gray unicorn in the white doublet approached them with a purposeful stride. The ponies dressed in black dispersed behind him to surround the basin and fully occupy the terrain. Shining Armor watched attentively, hunching slightly.

The pony in the white doublet approached.

“Shining,” the musician mare murmured, “by all the Princesses, stay calm...”

“I will not allow them to touch me,” he growled. “I will not let anypony touch me. Whatsoever. Be careful, Vinyl... When I begin, run for your life. I'll stop them... for a while...”

Vinyl didn't answer. She bowed deeply before the pony in the white doublet, which was richly embroidered with gold and silver thread in a mosaic of tiny patterns.

“Venerable Chapel...”

The pony called Chapel stopped and looked them over. Shining Armor had noticed that his horribly chilly eyes reflected the color of metal. His abnormally sweaty brow had a sickly pallor; blotches of crimson stood out on his cheeks.

“Master Filthy Rich, merchant,” he announced. “The talented DJ Pon-3, and Shining Armor, representing the ever noble brotherhood of Royal Guards direct servants of her holiness Princess of the Sun. Is this a reunion between old friends? In Lower Canterlot?”

No-pony answered.

“To compound the misfortune,” Chapel continued, “I must divulge that somepony has already reported you.”

It seemed impossible but Vinyl Scratch paled slightly. Filthy Rich’s teeth chattered. Not to be distracted from his surveillance of the individuals in black wearing leather hats who surrounded the basin, Shining Armor ignored Chapel.

At first sight Shining Armor thought they were armed with whips but now he saw they had lamia. In most of the countries Shining Armor knew, manufacture and possession of a barbed lamia, also called a Whip of Mayhem, was strictly prohibited. Equestria was no exception. Shining Armor had seen ponies struck in the face by a lamia. It was impossible afterward to forget the sight.

“The proprietor of the pub The Pink Grotto,” Chapel continued, “had the impudence to reproach your lordships for associating with a demon, a monster known generally as a changeling.”

No-one responded. Chapel stared at them coldly.

“I felt compelled to warn you that this denunciation had been made. I also inform you that the manager in question has been imprisoned in a temple dungeon. We suspect him of inventing the story under the influence of beer or liquor. The things these ponies invent. To begin with, changelings would had been repealed by non other that present here Shining Armor.”

No-one made any comment.

“Furthermore, no changeling could approach the holy walls of Canterlot now,” Chapel continued, smiling, “without being killed on the spot. The radiance of her holiness Celestia is enough to burn a wicked monsters soul. Isn't that right?The accusation of the pub manager would be in these circumstances absolutely absurd if a certain detail did not leave some doubt.”

Chapel shook his head in the imposing silence. Shining Armor heard the slow exhalation of the air that Filthy Rich had previously sucked deep into his lungs.

“Yes, a certain detail is very important,” Chapel repeated. “We are indeed dealing with an act of heresy and sacrilegious blasphemy. It is obvious that no changeling, I say none, and no monster for that matter, would be able to approach the walls of Canterlot by reason of the presence of its nineteen Temples dedicated to our holiness ‘Lux Perpetua’, whose sacred virtue protects the city. Anypony who claims to have seen a changeling in The Pink Grotto, situated a stone's throw from the main altar of Lux Perpetua, is a sacrilegious heretic who must repudiate his words. If it happens that he refuses to repudiate them, I will be obliged to assist in the form of forces and means that remain, believe me, at my disposal in my jails. You see, there is no need to worry.”

The expressions on the faces of Vinyl Scratch and Filthy Rich proved beyond doubt that they were of a different opinion.

“There is absolutely no need to worry,” Chapel repeated. “Your lordships may leave lower Canterlot without interference. I will not keep you, but I would insist that your lordships do not spread the imaginary allegations of the pub manager and do not comment loudly on these events. We, humble servants of the Sun Church, must consider stories questioning the power of the Princess Celestia the Lux Perpetua to be heresy, with all the attending consequences. The religious convictions of your lordships, which I respect for what they are, do not enter into this. Simply be aware, and do what you will. I am tolerant so long as one respects the holiness of the Princess and does not blaspheme against it. He who dares to blaspheme, I will condemn to burn, that is all. In lower Canterlot, all are equal before the law. The law is the same for all: anypony who blasphemes against the Princess Celestia holiness perishes in the flames and sees his assets confiscated. But enough talk about all that. I say again: you can go through the gates of Lower Canterlot unimpeded. It would be best...”

Chapel smiled slightly, giving the impression of a malicious grimace: he puffed out his cheeks, looking around the small square. Witnessing the scene, the few passersby quickened their step and quickly looked away.

“... best,” Chapel finally said, “best to leave immediately, without delay. It is obvious that, in the case of Filthy Rich, the absence of delay signifies 'without delay after meeting his fiscal obligations.' I thank you, my lords, for the time that you have kindly granted me.”

Turning discreetly to the others, Filthy Rich silently mouthed a word. Shining Armor had no doubt that the unspoken word could only be 'bastard.' Vinyl Scratch bowed her head, smiling stupidly.

“Captain Shining Armor,” Chapel said suddenly. “With your permission, I would have a private word with you.”

Shining Armor approached. Chapel reached his hoof out slightly.

If he touches my elbow, I hit him, thought Shining. I hit him no matter the consequences.

Chapel didn't touch Shining Armor's elbow.

“Captain,” he said in a low voice, turning his back to the others, “I know that certain cities, in contrast to Canterlot, are deprived of the divine protection of her holiness. Suppose then that a creature like a changeling operated in one of these cities. You as an expert in dealing with those monsters could be hired to deal with that problem. Tell me, out of curiosity, how much would it cost to capture such a creature alive.”

“I do not offer my services in populated cities,” Shining Armor replied, shrugging. “A third party could suffer.”

“You are concerned, then, with the fortunes of others?”

“Well yes, because I am in general responsible for their fate. This cannot be without consequences.”

“I understand, but should the degree of deference to third parties not be inversely proportional to the expected remuneration?”

“No, it should not.” retorted coldly Shining Armor.

“I don't care for your tone, Captain. But no matter, I understand what you suggest by that tone. You suggest that you do not intend to undertake the... what I could ask you to do, regardless of the amount of your payment. And what about the type of payment?”

“I don't understand.”

“But yes, of course you do.”

“No, truly.”

“What I say is purely theoretical,” Chapel continued quietly, calmly, without anger or menace in his voice. “Would it be possible if the recompense for your service was the guarantee that your friends and yourself would leave this... theoretical city alive? What do you think?”

“This question,” Shining Armor replied, smiling unpleasantly, “is not one that it is possible to answer theoretically. The situation you describe, venerable Chapel, must be realized in practice. I am absolutely not in a hurry, but if need be... If there is no other way... I am ready to put that scenario to the test.”

“Ah! Perhaps you're right,” Chapel responded dispassionately. “We theorize too much and I see that, in terms of practice, you do not intend to cooperate. Perhaps it is better that way. I nurture the hope, in any case, that this will not be a source of conflict between us.”

“I too,” Shining Armor said, “nurture that hope.”

“That hope continues to burn within us, Shining Armor. Do you know the theology of Lux Perpetua? Ceaseless Light. A flame that never dies? The symbol of our holiness the Princess Celestia, our fortitude? Our path through the darkness? The Lux Perpetua, Shining Armor, is hope. For all, without exception. Because if something is given in part... to you, to me, to others... that thing is simply called hope. Remember this. It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

Shining Armor bowed stiffly and kept silent. Chapel looked at him for a moment, then turned and crossed the square without a glance at his escort. The ponies armed with lamia followed behind in an orderly formation.

***

“Oh, my mother,” Vinyl whimpered timidly, watching them leave. “We were lucky. As long as it's over, as long as they're finished with us for now.”

“Calm yourself,” said Shining Armor, “and stop whining. Nothing happened, as you can see.”

“Do you know who that was, Shining Armor?”

“Not exactly. I heard about the Sun Church but never gave it much attention. Princess Celestia declared long ago that she is not divine being and forbidden veneration her as such. The Sun Church proclaims that they worship the eternal spirit of the Princess. Ceaseless Light. Lux Perpetua.”

“That was Chapel, the officer of security.” Said Vinyl Scratch. ”Lower Canterlot's secret service is dependent on the Sun Church. Chapel isn't a priest, but the highest official of the hierarchy, the most powerful and dangerous pony in the lower city. Everypony, even the Council and the guilds, quake in their horseshoes before him: he's a scoundrel of the first order, Shining Armor, drunk on power like a spider on blood. Ponies whisper about his exploits: disappearances that leave no trace, false accusations, torture, masked assassins, terror, blackmail, ordinary theft, duress, scams and plots. The church’s teachings are very popular among ponies in lower Canterlot and so is the church itself, but the system is imperfect. The princess is immortal so her good governance is not corrupted by change of command. The church doesn’t always chose best leader. That’s the problem with choosing your ruler. One time you chose good, other time you get somepony like Chapel. Good that we have immortal and wise Princess and we don’t have to change ponies in charge of Equestria. Any way we are in deep hole here Filthy Rich.”

“Leave me alone, Vinyl,” Filthy Rich said. “You have nothing to fear: no-pony harms a famous DJ Pon-3. Even Chapel. For reasons that escape me, you are still untouchable.”

“An untouchable DJ,” Vinyl Scratch groaned, still pale, “may also fall under the wheels of a runaway cart, be poisoned by eating apple or accidentally drown in a ditch. Such scenarios are Chapels specialty. He agreed to talk with us, that's already an extraordinary fact. One thing is certain: he would never have done so without a good reason. He's up to something. You'll see: he'll fall upon us at the first opportunity, clap us in irons and torture us with impunity. Nothing is more normal here!”

“There is a lot of truth in what she says,” Filthy Rich said to Shining Armor. “We must be wary of the scoundrel who owns this land. They say he's sick, that his blood is spoiled. Everypony is waiting for him to kick the bucket.”

“Shut up, Rich,” Vinyl Scratch hissed timidly, looking around them. “Somepony could hear. See how everypony's watching. Break camp, I tell you. I advise you to reflect seriously on what Chapel suggested regarding the changeling. I, for example, have never seen a changeling in my life. If necessary, I am prepared to swear on the Lux Perpetua.”

“Look!” the merchant said suddenly. “Somepony's coming now!”

“Run!” Vinyl Scratch cried.

“Calm down, calm down,” Filthy Rich said, smiling broadly and smoothing his stubborn mane. “I know him. It's Apple Strudel, a local merchant, treasurer of the Apple Family Guild. We've done business together. Look at his face! As if he'd shit his pants. Hey, Apple Strudel, are you looking for me?”

“I swear on the Ceaseless Light,” Apple Strudel said slowly, breathless, dragging off his green hat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “I was sure they would drag you to the dungeon. It's a miracle. I'm amazed...”

Filthy Rich maliciously cut Apple Strudel's words short:

“It is kind of you to be amazed... Even kinder of you to explain why.”

“Don't play the fool, Filthy,” Apple Strudel responded anxiously. “Everypony is talking about it. The hierarchy has seen it. Chapel too. The whole city knows what a deal you got on the cochineal, and with what intelligence and cunning you profited from the events in Baltimare.”

“What are you talking about, Apple Strudel?”

“By Luna, Filthy, would you stop this gloating like the bird of proverb who thinks his nest the best? Did you not buy the cochineal at half price, for 5.20 a bushel? You did. Taking advantage of low demand, you paid with a promissory note. You didn't pay a single bit in cash for the transaction. And what happened? Within the day, you turned over the merchandise for a price four times higher than what you originally paid. Will you have the gall to claim that this was nothing but coincidence or luck, and that in buying the cochineal, you knew nothing of the upheavals taking place in Baltimare?”

“What? What are you saying?”

“There has been turmoil in Baltimare!” Apple Strudel shouted. “A... there... what's the word: a ‘rellavotion’ or revolution. Duke Polaris was deposed. The Blueblood clan governs now! Polaris court, nobility, and army wore blue. The local weavers only bought indigo. But the Blueblood family color is scarlet rose. The price of indigo fell and cochineal rose! Then we learned that it was you, Filthy Rich, who had on hoof the only store of cochineal available. Ha!”

Filthy Rich kept quiet, frowning.

“Filthy Rich the cunning, that's the least we can call you,” Apple Strudel continued. “And without a word to anypony, even your friends... If you had told me, we would all be able to profit. We could even have found a common agency. But you preferred to go it alone. That's your choice. In any case, no longer count on me. By the Ceaseless Light, the Ponyvillains are nothing but egotistical scoundrels. Adler Vivaldi has never endorsed a promissory note for me, and for you? Without hesitation. Rotten, every one of you! Plague take you!”

Apple Strudel spat and turned on his hoof. Lost in thought, Filthy Rich scratched his head. His cowlick rose.

“Something begins to grow clearer, my friends,” he said finally. “I know what we should do. Let's go to the bank. If anypony can get us through all this, it's my good banker, Adler Vivaldi.”

Chapter 3

“I imagined banks differently,” Vinyl Scratch murmured, examining the room. “Where do they keep the money, Shining Armor?”

“Devil only knows,” Shining Armor responded in a low voice, trying to hide the torn sleeve of his jacket. “Maybe in the basement?”

“No, I looked: there's no basement here.”

“Must be in the attic.”

Seated at large tables, young ponies and donkeys of indeterminate age were busy aligning rows of numbers and letters on sheets of parchment. All, without exception, bowed their heads and stuck out their tongues slightly. Shining Armor thought that the task must be terribly tedious. It seemed nonetheless to absorb the workers. In one corner, an aged pony was seated on a stool, sharpening pencils. His pace remained slow.

“Please come into my office, gentleponies,” announced Adler Vivaldi.

Adler Vivaldi the Minotaur, Banker and Business Representative was written on the door of his office. Shining Armor had to admit that Adler Vivaldi didn’t look old at first site. Although his once dark mane was gray and he had long beard that respectively showed his age, the minotaur gave the impression of very strong individual. Shining Armor noticed on his, muscled arms and proudly protruded chest old wounds, which indicated that Banker Adler Vivaldi had lived interesting life.

The banker cautiously closed the door to his office. He smoothed his long beard, which was well-maintained despite ink stains here and there, then adjusted the jacket that was buttoned with difficulty.

“You know, Miss Vinyl Scratch,” he said, sitting behind an enormous mahogany table that groaned under the weight of heaped scrolls, “I imagined you very differently. I've never had pleasure to meet you in person but I heard some of your music. Arrival of the Parasprites. Personally I liked the recording of your concert in Ponyville the best.”

“Arrival of the Parasprites? I am not the author,” Vinyl Scratch responded, red with anger. “I've never created any music of that title!”

“Oh. Excuse me.”

“If we could perhaps move on to serious matters,” Filthy Rich interrupted. “Time is wasting while you discuss unnecessary subjects. I have serious problems, Adler.”

“I was afraid of that,” the Minotaur banker responded, shaking his head. “Remember that I warned you, Rich. I told you three days ago not to invest money in that rancid fish oil. What difference does it make that the price was low? The nominal price is not important. What is important is the resale profit. The same for the rose essence and the wax, and the damned cotton cord. What possessed you, Rich, to buy such shit? In cash, no less, instead of paying reasonably with a letter of credit or exchange! I told you, the cost of storage in Canterlot is expensive. In a span of two weeks it will exceed three times the value of the goods. And you...”

“Yes,” Filthy Rich moaned quietly. “Tell me, Vivaldi. I what?”

“You, you assured me that there was no risk, that you'd sell it all within twenty-four hours. Today you come back to see me with your tail between your legs to admit you're having trouble. You haven't sold any of it, have you? And the storage price went up, eh? Ah, that's no good, no good! Do I need to get you out of this now, Rich? If at least you had insured your merchandise, I would gladly send one of my scribes to discreetly burn your warehouse. No, my friend, the only thing we can do is take things philosophically and say, 'it all went to shit.' That's commerce: win one day, lose the next. In the long run, what's the importance of the money spent to buy fish oil, string, and rose essence? Not much. Let's speak instead of more serious matters. Tell me if I should sell the mimosa bark, because the offers are beginning to stabilize at five and five sixths.”

“Huh?”

“Are you deaf?” the banker asked, frowning. “The latest offer is equivalent to five and five sixths. I hope that you came back to get rid of it, because you will not get seven, Rich.”

“Came back?”

Vivaldi smoothed his beard to dislodge the breadcrumbs that were clinging to it.

“You came in an hour ago,” he replied calmly, “with the order to hold until seven. To sell at seven times the initial purchase price, this would be 2 bits and 45 coppers per pound. It's too expensive, Rich, even in such a favorable market. The tanners have already agreed amongst themselves to freeze the price. I'd bet my horns that...”

“The merchant Total Sum offers 2.15 bits!” shouted a strident voice from outside the office.

“Six and a sixth,” Vivaldi calculated swiftly. “What shall we do, Rich?”

“Sell!” Filthy Rich cried. “Six times the purchase price and you still hesitate, by the plague?”

A second creature, wearing a yellow hat and covered in an overcoat that resembled an old sack, arrived in turn in the office. After a second of staring at the creature, Shining Armor concluded that it was a goat.

“The merchant Filthy Rich recommends not to sell before seven!” goat yelled, before wiping his nose with his sleeve and immediately departing.

“Ah, ah!” the Minotaur banker said eventually, after a long delay. “A Filthy Rich orders me to sell, but another Filthy Rich, on the contrary, asks me to wait. Interesting. What shall we do, Rich? Will you settle the matter before a third Filthy Rich orders me to start exspedition in serch of Daring Do and Sapphire Stone, eh?”

“What is that?” asked Vinyl Scratch, indicating the thing dressed in a green hat that was standing motionless in the doorway. “What is it, by the plague?”

“A young goat,” Shining Armor replied.

“It must be,” Vivaldi confirmed drily. “It's not an old troll. What it is, is of no importance. Come, Rich, I'm listening.”

“Adler,” said Filthy Rich calmly, “I implore you: don't ask questions. Something terrible has happened. Know and acknowledge that I, Filthy Rich, honest merchant from Ponyville, don't have the slightest idea what is going on here. Tell me every detail: everything that's happened over the past three days. I beg you, Adler.”

“Interesting,” said the banker. “I understand that what with the commissions I collect, I must respect the wishes of my clients. Listen, then. You appeared in my bank three days ago, completely out of breath. You made a deposit of 1,000 bits and requested a promissory note of 2,520 payable to the bearer. I gave my endorsement.”

“Without collateral?”

“Without, because I like you, Rich. You are an honest trader.”

“Tell the rest, Adler.”

“The next morning, you rushed in and insisted, making a ruckus and stamping your hooves, that I open a line of credit in Fillydelphia branch of my bank for the substantial amount of 3,500 bits. The beneficiary was to be, if I recall correctly, a certain zebra named Zinzi. I opened this credit.”

“Without collateral,” Filthy Rich repeated, hope rising in his voice.

“My fondness for you, Rich,” the banker sighed, “ends at 3,000 bits. I required a written statement stipulating that in the case of insolvency, the Rich's Barnyard Bargains will belong to me.”

“I'm never going home,” Filthy Rich said mournfully, adding decisively: “I'll take out a loan to buy a ship and become a pirate.”

Adler Vivaldi scratched his ear, watching him suspiciously.

“Hey!” he said. “You recovered the letter and tore it up a while ago. You're solvent. Nothing surprising about that, with such earnings...”

“Earnings?”

“Indeed, I forgot,” grumbled the banker, “that I'm expected to be surprised by nothing. You came out far ahead with the cochineal, Rich, because you see, the upheaval that took place in Baltimare...”

“I know that already,” Filthy Rich interrupted. “Indigo fell and cochineal rose. And I got some money. Is that right, Adler?”

“That's the truth. You have an account with me for 6,346 bits and 80 coppers. Net, after subtracting my commission and the amount of tax.”

“You paid the tax for me?”

“Shouldn't I have?” Vivaldi asked, surprised. “When you came in an hour ago, you settled up neatly. One of my clerks already brought the sum to the town hall. About 1,500, because the sale of the goods from Ponyville to that Griffon merchant was of course included.”

The office door burst open with a bang to admit goat wearing an extremely dirty hat.

“2.30 crowns!” he shouted. “The merchant Money Worth!”

“Don't sell!” Filthy Rich cried. “Wait for a better price! Both of you, go back to the market at once!”

The two goats greedily seized the copper coins tossed to them by the Minotaur banker and disappeared.

“Yes... Where was I, then?” Vivaldi wondered for a moment, toying with the abnormally large amethyst crystal that served as his paperweight. “Ah yes... I was up to the cochineal bought with my promissory note. The letter of credit that I mentioned earlier, you used to buy a large quantity of mimosa bark. You bought a lot, but at a good price: 35 coppers a pound from Zebrica broker, that Zinzi. The galley docked at the port yesterday. That's where it all started.”

“I can imagine,” Filthy Rich groaned.

“What is mimosa bark good for?” Vinyl Scratch couldn't help but ask.

“Nothing,” Filthy Rich groaned sadly. “Unfortunately.”

“Mimosa bark, Miss DJ,” the Minotaur banker explained, “is a tanning substance used in the manufacture of leather and other fabric...”

“Somepony was stupid enough,” Filthy Rich interrupted, “to buy mimosa bark from overseas when one can acquire it for next to nothing from Equestrain oak.”

“That's just where the Diamond Dog is buried,” said Vivaldi, “because the Unicorns Against Nature Degradation organization threatened to set a plague of rats and parasprites over the land of Fillydelphia if the destruction of oak trees is not stopped immediately. The pegasi council from Cloudsdale support the UAND. It must be said that the pegasi council and UAND plea was represented by none other than the famous Fluttershy. It is well known fact that Princess Celestia has weakness for the bearers of Elements of Harmony. In short: a complete embargo on Equestrian oak came into effect yesterday. The price of mimosa is climbing. You had the benefit of good information, Rich.”

Outside the office door e came the sound of hoofsteps. Goat wearing a green hat burst breathlessly into the office:

“The venerable merchant Total Sum...” the goat managed to say, “orders me to repeat that the merchant Filthy Rich from Ponyville, is nothing but a savage hairy-eared swine, a speculator and a swindler, and that he, Total Sum, wishes for Filthy Rich to contract scabies. He offers 2.45 bits. This is his final offer.”

“Sell,” Filthy Rich concluded. “Go, little one, run and confirm. Calculate, Adler.”

Vivaldi grabbed a stack of parchment and produced a Minotaur abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike those used by ponies, the Minotaur abacus was shaped like a latticed pyramid. Vivaldi's abacus was crafted from golden filaments upon which small uniform prisms cut from rubies, emeralds, onyx and black agate, moved. The banker deftly manipulated the jewels at the top, bottom, and sides.

“This will be... hum... hum... Less cost and my commission... Minus tax... Yes... 15,622 bits and 25 coppers. Not bad.”

“If I've calculated correctly,” Filthy Rich said slowly, “that will make a net total of... I should have...”

“Precisely 21,969 bits and 5 coppers. Not bad,” comented Adler Vivaldi.

“Not bad?” Vinyl Scratch yelped. “Not bad? With that kind of sum, you could by a whole village or a small castle! Never in my life have I seen that kind of money!”

“Nor have I,” said Filthy Rich. “But let's not get carried away, Vinyl. No-pony here has seen that money and we may never even see the color of it.”

“How is that, Filthy Rich?” the banker said, scowling. “Where do you get such sorry thoughts? Total Sum will pay in cash or with a letter of exchange. Total Sum's money is good. What's wrong, then? You're worried about the losses from the purchase of your stinking fish oil and wax? With such profits, you can easily cover those losses...”

“It's not that.”

“Then what?”

Filthy Rich bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Adler,” he said, staring at the ground. “Chapel is sniffing around.”

The Minotaur banker clucked his tongue.

“It's not good,” he said, “but it's not surprising. You see, Rich, the commercial information that you used for your transactions also has political implications. No-pony suspected that these things would happen in Baltimare and Fillydelphia. Not even Chapel, and Chapel likes to be the first to know. Now, you can imagine that he's racking his brains to discover how you had access to this information. I think that he must already know. As do I.”

“Interesting.”

Vivaldi glanced at Vinyl Scratch and Shining Armor, wrinkling his nose.

“Interesting? What is interesting are your associates, Rich,” he said. “A musician mare, a Royal Guard and a merchant. A begining of a bad joke or a great scam. My congratulations. Miss Vinyl Scratch travels everywhere: she frequents royal courts, parties and no doubt knows how to keep her ears open. Royal Guard? A bodyguard? A scarecrow to keep away the debtors, or just informant from her majesty court?”

“Your conclusions are too hasty, master Vivaldi,” Shining Armor replied coldly. “We are not associates.”

“And I,” Vinyl Scratch continued, flushing, “do not eavesdrop. I'm a DJ, not a spy!”

“One hears things,” the banker said, grinning. “Many things, Miss Vinyl.”

“Lies!” the mare shouted. “It's not true!”

“All right, all right, I believe you. Only, I don't know if Chapel will believe you. But who knows, perhaps we are making a lot of noise over nothing. I will tell you, Rich, that Chapel has changed a great deal since his attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death crept into his heart and forced him to ask questions? This is not the same Chapel. He has become friendly, sympathetic, calm and... even honest, in a way.”

“What are you telling me?” said Filthy Rich. “Chapel... honest? Friendly? It's not possible.”

“I'm telling you the truth,” Vivaldi retorted. “What's more, the Church actually faces another problem in the Lux Perpetua project they have.”

“How is that?”

“The Lux Perpetua must burn everywhere, as they say. Altars devoted to it must be erected throughout the land. Many altars. Don't ask for details, Filthy Rich: I am not a follower of those kind of beliefs. But I know that all the priests, including Chapel, are concerned only with altars and fire. Grand preparations are in motion. Taxes will increase, for sure.”

“My word,” said Shining armor. “Small consolation, but...”

The office door opened again to reveal the goat in a green hat and rabbit fur garment that Shining Armor already knew.

“The merchant Filthy Rich,” he reported, “requests the purchase of bowls. The price is secondary.”

“Perfect,” Filthy Rich said with a smile, which more resembled the distorted face of an enraged wildcat. “Then buy lots of bowls. The will of master Filthy Rich must be obeyed. What else should we buy? Cabbage? Juniper oil? Iron stoves?”

“And,” the goat produced parchment  from his fur coat, “the merchant Filthy Rich requests 30 bits in cash to pay for a jug of wine, a meal and beer to drink. Three scoundrels have stolen his purse at The Pink Grotto.”

“Ah! Three scoundrels,” Filthy Rich repeated, emphasizing each word. “I say, this city is teeming with scoundrels. And where is the venerable merchant Filthy Rich right now, if I may ask?”

“Where could he be? At the west bazaar, of course,” the goat replied with a sniff.

“Adler,” Filthy Rich said in a dire tone. “Don't ask any questions. Find me a very heavy and solid cane from somewhere. I'm going to the west bazaar, but I can't go without that cane. There are too many scoundrels and thieves over there.”

“A cane, you say? That can be arranged. But something continues to nag at me, Filthy Rich. I will not ask any questions. I will not ask, but I will only guess, and you will confirm or deny my suppositions, all right?”

“Guess away.”

“That rancid fish oil, the rose essence, the wax and the bowls, the damned cotton cord, it's nothing but a ploy to divert the competition's attention from the cochineal pigment and the mimosa and confuse the market, isn't it, Rich?”

The office door opened to admit goat without a hat.

“Oxen reports: everything is ready!” it pealed loudly. “He asks if we can pour!”

“Pour!” bawled Filthy Rich. “Pour immediately!”

“By Star Swirl, beard,” exclaimed Adler Vivaldi, after the goat had closed the door. “I don't understand! What's going on here? Pour what? Pour it into what?”

“I have no idea,” Filthy Rich admitted, “but business must go on.”