Daring Do and the Quest for the Gryphon’s Goblet

Chapters

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

Chapter One

The sun beat down upon Canterlot as the ponies within strolled through, going about their business grudgingly. On a day like this, no one wanted anything more than to be inside, with their heads stuffed into the icebox as the radio blared out random rubbish behind them. Except, of course, for one particular pony.

Daring Do flexed her mustard coloured wings excitedly, her head held high as she clopped over the cobblestones of the Museum courtyard. She, like many others, had a purpose today – however, hers wasn’t so trivial as fulfilling the desperate call of the ever-intrusive grocery list. No, hers was much more than that – hers was danger and adventure incarnate!

It had been over a month since she’d gone to recover the sapphire statue, and her wing had long since healed, so only one problem remained, and she intended to fix it: over the course of the past seventy-two odd days, she had been so incredibly bored. At this point, she’d completed three separate thousand-piece puzzles, read two novels cover to cover, and constructed a wonky sphinx out of sugar cubes. She had been so desperate for adventure and excitement that she would have taken anything that had come at her without so much as a second thought, whether it be ‘recover the lost tomb of the boy king, Coltkanhamun’, or ‘get my kitty out of that tree’. So when a note had arrived at her door, she had been all too ecstatic to jump at it.

It had turned up last night, without so much as a warning. It had slipped through her letterbox, resting on top of yesterday’s Canterlot Inquirer (and the day before’s… and the day before that’s) in a glaringly obvious red envelope. She had picked it up, and looked it over – blank. There wasn’t a word on it, not her name or address, nor a return address or the hint of a sender. Nothing but a stamp of sealing wax, glittering gold under the wane lamplight that flickered on and off in her entrance hall (she really did have to fix that): a prancing griffon, it’s scaled claws clutching at the air.

A lesser pony may have been unnerved by the letter and worried about it’s mysterious sender. But not Daring; she tore it open, shredding the envelope, and spread the paper out beneath her hooves, right there on the foyer. The light smell of irises tugged at her nostrils as she began to read the words scrawled on the parchment in fine (though obviously rushed) cursive – Need help. Come to Canterlot Museum at two pm tomorrow. I’ll find you. C.

How could she ignore the call of a letter? I mean really! In the history of all things holy, what was more exciting than a letter signed with a letter?! Now, as she crossed the courtyard, her wings restless and doing her best to keep from dashing into the museum, her red eyes darted from one pony to the next. Who could C be, she wondered? There were all types of ponies here: that red stallion sulking in the corner could have been C; the letter had been red, after all. But maybe not. How about her?! That pretty filly at the back, with the blue mane! That had to be her! She would bet her life on – oh, it wasn’t, she realised as the filly trotted past with her friends.

She chewed desperately on her bottom lip, trying not to seem to anxious – what if C didn’t find her? What if she’d changed her mind; maybe she didn’t need help after all. Or maybe they’d walked past each other, and they’d never notice!

Daring whirled around, head craning over the crowd to try and locate anyone who seemed suspiciously C worthy. Until – she felt a light tug on her shirt, and her head snapped back, eyes wide, to see who it was. “C?!” she exclaimed excitedly; but it only lasted a moment. Her excitement wilted when she noted the spotted brown and white colt at her heels. “Um…” he replied, obviously thinking twice about having imposed upon a random-letter-screaming lunatic. “No? Do you know where the bathrooms are?” he asked desperately, hopping from hoof to hoof.

Daring frowned at the child, disappointed. “Yeah. Head inside, down the hallway, first left on the right, and straight on till morning,” she told him distractedly, her eyes returning to the masses that huddled under the shade of the courtyard’s massive trees.

The colt looked at her a moment, confused, but trotted away all the same – clearly she was out of her mind.

Daring stomped her hoof against the cobblestones, looking both put out and disappointed as the clock struck two ten. “Does the letter C mean anything to anyone?!” she called out to nopony in particular, her frustration showing plain on her face and voice. She had been so excited about it too; and now she was almost one hundred per cent sure it had all been some sick and twisted joke.

“I see you got my letter then,” a slick, demure voice called from just over her shoulder. Daring whipped around instinctively, kicking herself automatically for allowing someone to sneak up on her – until she remembered she wasn’t in the middle of the jungle fighting for her life. And then it was perfectly fine.

Quickly, her magenta eyes landed on the voice’s owner. A tall, slender mare stood behind her, her pale coat well groomed and glittering as her cream and white mane tumbled like a waterfall down her neck and over her graceful withers. Her long legs were slim and strong, and she looked every bit a lady. She was almost an antithesis to Daring herself … kind of like the Anti-Do.

Daring knit her brow at the other mare, whose elegant, swan-like neck curved gracefully as she looked down at the smaller, more athletic mare. “Are you C?” she asked, knowing the answer before it was given to her.

“Of course I am,” the other mare said, tossing her elegant head, sending tendrils of blonde and white mane licking out at the sky. “I told you it was my letter, didn’t I? Given the setting and the context, I’m hardly Nightmare Moon, thank you very much. Really, darling, do keep on the ball or I’ll find someone else to do my dirty work … or rather…. Anyway, we can’t talk here, there’s too many ponies. Come along, darling! Step lightly! Here we go – tally ho!” she announced, trotting rather anti-climactically away through the museum doors, down the corridor, and into the head curator’s office.

Daring hated her already. She seemed haughty and stuck up. And she said ‘tally ho’. Who the hell said tally ho?! What was this, a secret fox hunt?! Gosh, she hoped not. Nevertheless, she trailed after her like a shadow, lured in by the prospect of adventure and the familiar stench of danger. Daring, having worked at that same museum for ages, knew immediately where they were headed, but held her tongue as the elegant earthpony pushed open the door into the head curator’s room. She was pretty sure that at this point, they were breaking and entering. And when C started rummaging through the books on the shelf, pulling them down and tossing them on the marble floor, she was one hundred per cent sure they were going to get caught. Now, being the pony she was, being opposed to this sort of behaviour would have been downright hypocritical. And she wasn’t; she didn’t mind snooping. It was bad snooping that made her want to gouge her eyes out. This C mare may have been a stunner, but goodness knows she wasn’t any sort of spy.

“What the heck are you doing?” Daring asked, frowning as a five-hundred page volume on ancient artefacts of the east flew past her head.

“Searching. Now hush up and pay attention – aha!” she exclaimed, yanking down hard on a very conspicuous, title-less book with bright orange binding. Daring ducked in anticipation on the old volume’s pages flapping at her head, but it never did. Instead, it hung, suspended seemingly in mid air as it hung off the bookshelf. “What the heck?” she asked again, frowning at the book. She had half expected the book case to pop open, and to her surprise, it didn’t. “What is that?” she asked, baffled as the book hung upside down.

“Nothing you need bother with, really,” C told her pulling aside a portrait and revealing a wide, door-shaped hole. “Switches off the security system. There’s no sense in both of us dying here today! Not that anyone’s going to die today of course. Except maybe whoever has to clean up this monstrosity of a room. Dear lord, it’s atrocious. Anyway! Moving on, my darling Daring doll! Moving on!”

“It’s Daring Do,” she corrected her as the tall pony disappeared through the tunnel. Daring let out an irritated snort and followed, jumping a little as the painting snapped shut behind her and the brick wall slid back into place.

She looked around the dimly lit tunnel – it was archaic, the only lighting coming from flame-lit braziers hanging from the ceiling. It was amazing though; she’d been working here maybe five years, and she’d never even heard of this tunnel, much less known it was hidden in the bosses’ office. She wondered briefly if anypony else knew of it’s existence; she doubted it though. Judging by the moss growing on the damp stonewalls, and the fact that theirs were the only set of prints on the loosely packed dirt floor, she doubted anyone really came down here.

“I suppose it goes without saying, delightful Daring darling, but you mustn’t breathe a word about this to anyone else,” C said as she led the way down the cold corridor, the delicate clip-clopping of her hooves resonating off the dark walls. “It’s rather a family secret, and hardly anyone comes down here anyway; which is why we have no idea how long it’s been gone.

Daring dragged her eyes away from the fourteenth century braziers, which were an art form in themselves, each one similar and yet no two exactly alike – they were absolutely amazing and had she had the time, she would have loved nothing more than to stop and examine each one in turn. “Family secret?” she asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows at the mare walking ahead of her. “Who exactly are you?”

“Casablanca Lily, of the Canterlot Lilys,” she told her, not looking back as they turned a she spoke.

Daring’s bright eyes widened. The Canterlot Lilys! How had she not known?! She knew of them of course; everybody knew of them. They were the closest things you could get to royalty without the actual crown and title! But… why in Equestria would a Canterlot Lily want to see her?! And what were they doing crawling through a tunnel that was at least five hundred years old?!
Before she had the chance to open her mouth and voice the many questions streaking across her curious mind, Casablanca spoke up again. “My family’s owned this museum for centuries,” she explained briefly. Duh, Daring thought, resisting the urge to spit it out at her. Everypony knew that. “But for ages, we’d lost this tunnel. We only found it again by accident. My sister Calla Lily and I were playing hide and seek here when we were fillies. It was my turn to seek. I have no idea how she did it, but she found a way to open the wall, and that’s where she hid. I couldn’t find her for hours, and when she finally came out, I made her take me to her ‘cave’ as she called it. This is it,” she recited as the corridor came to an end.

Daring’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, her jaw dropping down as low as was ponyly possible. She’d never seen so many treasures in one place, and she’d seen her fair amount of treasure. The walls glittered with gold and silver; blue and white pottery vases soared far above them, and rich, hand-painted bolts of hundred-year-old silk glittered under the lamplight, as bright and beautiful as though they had been stored away yesterday. There were statues of jade and gold, and sculpted horses of ebony with giant rubies for eyes, wearing ivory gowns. In the centre of the room towered an intricately wrote pedestal – more like a pillar really – made of pure gold. Mares and stallions danced around it, trees and vines ensnared it and wound together, their leaves and branches carrying it up and up as gold birds roosted and flapped among them. And on top – on top! On top was… nothing. It was very anticlimactic.

Daring wanted to ask about three million questions: how long have these been down here? When did they date from? Was that Pangare pottery?! Did she know how old that was?! Did she know how valuable – could she TOUCH it?! She’d never seen a real Pangare! There were only three remaining in existence! That they had known of anyway, but down here, there were at least five more! And she was one of the very first to ever set eye on them! The excitement was almost unreal, and she wanted to touch everything at once, and explode into a thousand pieces at the same time! Of course, the only question that came out was a very blunt: “What’s that?”

Casablanca followed her eyes to the pedestal, standing erect in the middle of the room. “Ah, that,” she said mysteriously – have we ever mentioned how much Daring loved mysterious-ness? “That, my Dare-darling-Do-delight, is the reason you’re down here.”

Daring’s heart skipped a beat, though she wasn’t quite sure if it was at the prospect of a new puzzle to put together or if it was from the sheer horror of being called a Dare-darling-Dwhat ever.

Casablanca crossed the room and pulled an ancient scroll from one of the honeycomb shelves that had been carved into the wall. She brought it over and rolled it out onto the dusty floor, letting it unravel itself until it was nearly three meters long.

“What the heck…” Daring whispered to herself, studying the drawings and flowery text that covered the ancient parchment. In the centre was a large chalice, made of glittering gold with a rearing gryphon for a hangle, whose long tail curled in towards it’s back to make a handle. On the golden basin was a large ruby, guarded by four small… diamonds? Maybe. Adrenaline coursed through her body as she realized what it must have been, and she held her breath as Casablanca spoke once more.

“This, my Do-dear, is what’s called the Gryphon’s Goblet. It’s possible you’ve heard of it?” she asked, looking curiously at Daring through her bright blue eyes.

“Heard of it?!” Daring exclaimed excitedly. “Heck YES I’ve heard of it! I live and BREATH it! It’s my dream to hold that cup! I’d feed myself to Ahuitzotl’s CHILDREN for that cup!” she practically yelled, her loud voice reverberating off the walls as her wings beat frantically and her hooves pounded fiercely against the dirt. “Finding that cup has been my dream for like… EVER! Oh my god! Is it here! Please say it’s here, please say it’s here, please say it’s CAN I TOUCH IT?!” she asked, letting her excitement get the better of her.

Casablanca blinked at her. “Ahuitzowho?” she asked blankly, then shook her head dismissively. “No! Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Anyway, in answer to your question, yes, you could touch it. However, I don’t have it.”

Daring’s face fell until it resembled something very much like a puppy who’d been slapped with a rolled up newspaper. “Oh,” she muttered, not even attempting to hide her disappointment.

“Unfortunately, we’ve never had it,” Casablanca continued; if she noticed Daring’s downward glance or the sense of shattered dreams that clung to her like fly paper, she certainly didn’t show it. “I mean, we did of course, at some point, but from the moment Caly found this place, it hasn’t been here. According to the scroll, it’s supposed to be sat atop that golden pedestal there. However, as you can plainly see… it’s not. Unless it’s invisible, which I doubt. Which only leaves one conclusion: it’s been – ”

“Stolen,” Daring interrupted her, studying the bare pillar. “Which means someone else has been here, and someone else knows this place exists.

“Yes, quite,” Casablanca added, clearly put off by the fact that she’d been cut off. “We’re not sure when it was stolen – as I told you, this place was lost to us for at least two hundred years.”

Daring nodded. “And in the wrong hands, the Gryphon’s Goblet could be – ”

“Disastrous, yes. It could end life as we know it! And I, for one, quite like life, and I’m not ready to give it up. So we need to get it back. Or rather, you need to get it back. I hear you’re exceptionally good at these things. I am not. My hobbies include shopping and not dying, so I’ll leave the life threatening, near death experiences to the experts! I trust you know the legends surrounding the cup?”

Daring nodded solemnly, all of a sudden in quite a grave mood. If the cup was in fact real, then so were its powers. Which could prove disastrous indeed. “In the hands of good, the substance poured into the cup will bring health and prosperity; what flows from it’s basin will be the most powerful healing substance Equestria has ever known, and the land will be fruitful and at peace with itself,” she recited, recalling the storybooks she had as a child. “But in the hands of evil, the water becomes as poisonous as it’s master, and grass will turn to ash beneath our hooves and the rivers shall run red with blood. Brother shall turn upon brother, and pain and suffering will engulf all of Equestria.”

Casablanca nodded, her fluffy, perfectly styled mane bouncing flamboyantly as her head did. “That’s very good; how long did it take you to memorise that?” she asked curiously; ever colt and filly knew the story of the Gryphon’s Goblet – probably because every colt and filly had a copy of the Tales of Girth.

“Not very long. I’ve heard that story since I was a filly, so it’s kinda like, embedded into my – never mind! There’s more important problems at hand! We got a goblet to find!” she said excitedly, but cringed back at the poisonous look Casablanca gave her. “…I’ve got a goblet to find?” she corrected herself.

Casablanca smiled and nodded. “Too true! You have a goblet to find indeed!” she confirmed as Daring Do hopped over the scroll and down the steps to examine the unusually large pedestal.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the goblet? Or the lack of goblet?” Daring asked, standing up on her hind hooves to examine the wrought gold; even then the thing was easily a head and a half taller than her.
Casablanca watched from her place on the steps, following Daring’s every move with her pale blue eyes. She thought for a moment as Daring searched, but moved foreward, back to the honeycomb shelves. She searched them for a moment, looking from scroll to scroll, all of which seemed identical from Daring’s point of view. When the cream mare finally pulled something out, it wasn’t a scroll. It was a piece of what looked like burned scrap paper. “Caly found this by the base of the pedestal when we came in. Whoever took it likely dropped it; I doubt they meant for us to find it. It doesn’t really matter though. I’ve looked over it nearly a thousand times and can’t make head nor tail of it. There’s no date on it, no name, just this.”

Daring glanced at the small piece of paper curiously, studying it. It was torn and singed, and yellowed and blackened either by age or smoke – she couldn’t quite tell. Maybe it was both. The word scribbled across it was just as cryptic as the small piece of paper itself, and though she hated to admit it, Daring had no idea what it could mean. “Kathiawari?” she read out loud as Casablanca rested the paper on top of one of the many statues.

The cream mare nodded. “Does it mean anything to you?” she wondered out loud, and Daring could have sworn she heard the faintest touch of desperation hidden beneath that lilting voice of hers.

She looked at it hard for a moment, trying to force some meaning into the jumble of letters. When she couldn’t, she huffed dryly. “No,” she admitted. “Not yet, anyway.”

Chapter Two

Compared to the cool, dark tunnel beneath the museum, the outside world was almost unbearable. The sun was too bright, the air too dry and the heat absolutely insufferable. As she walked out into the courtyard, Daring had to squint to keep the sun’s intrusive rays out of her eyes, despite the fact that she had her trusty dusty pith helmet. It was almost painful looking out over the other ponies, flooding through the museum and it’s grounds in a desperate search for shade, and for the first time that day she realised just how intensely hot it was. She wanted more than anything to head back down to the tunnel and burry herself in its treasures, but quite obviously, that was not an option.

“This is where I leave you I’m afraid,” Casablanca told her with a subtle flip of her flowing mane. “I’ve got a tea to prepare for. If you need any help, I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you much. However, do feel free to give me a ring, and a time and place of meeting can be arranged. Good luck, Daring Do, and please bring it back for us,” she said, the light air of desperation back in that delicate voice of hers.

Before Daring had a chance to consent, Casablanca was gone. She had thrown herself head first into the crowded museum (ponies from all over Canterlot had been drawn there by the promise of half-off ice cream cones) and vanished as quickly as she had come. Daring would have thought it impossible to loose somepony like Casablanca Lily, with her impeccable poise and that air about her which demanded awe and respect – and yet as simple as anything, she was gone.

Daring glanced around the packed courtyard and let her eyes wander up to the clock – three o’clock, she realized as the clock’s ancient face swung open and a parade of mechanical ponies marched out. She hadn’t realized they’d been down there so long. In truth, it had only seemed like a couple of minutes. However, that being said, she had an hour at most to get what she needed done.

She weaved through the various bodies, squished together like sardines as each attempted to get their hooves on some ice cream. That wasn’t her goal – not at the moment, though she had to admit she’d kill for a cone about now. She trotted past the ice cream stand and out onto the street, her hooves clipping and clopping against the pavement satisfyingly. She loved that sound.

Unsurprisingly, the roads were all but empty. Also unsurprisingly, the restaurants and shops were not. The bakeries and book shops were almost as crowded as the museum, and the dress stores were filled with fillies jostling about to get a view of themselves in the mirrors. But Daring wasn’t looking for a book or a dress. She was looking for someone else.

“Kathiawari,” she muttered to herself, rolling the word around in her mouth and letting it slide over her tongue like a fine wine. “Kathiawari….” For some reason, the word was familiar on her lips, even though her mind thought nothing of it. The more she thought about it though, the more it ate at her. Why did she know that word?!

It had started to get to her on the way back through the tunnel. Casablanca had been talking about… something, she wasn’t entirely sure, but it had seemed rather unimportant. The moment the word ‘ball gown’ had floated into her keen ears, her brain had shut down and gone to it’s happy place. Kathiawari.

She stopped in front of a crowded old antique shop, a mess of old... rubbish stacked precariously in the window. The well preserved, ancient dress dummy suggested that it may have been a display once, but the clutter all around it – the stacks of books, the dusty tea cups and glass cases filled with retro horse shoes – hid the ‘display’ part of it so well that it looked like nothing more than a hodgepodge of silly knickknacks.

Daring pushed open the door gingerly and took a careful step forward, doing her best to avoid the minefield of priceless objects that obstructed her path. The cowbells above her head jingled as she tiptoed over an ancient porcelain doll, laying forgotten on the floor, and she scanned the piles of junk for something – or, rather, for someone. “Hello?” she called out, trying not to be too loud for fear of an antique avalanche. “Anypony home?”

From somewhere in the back corner of the room, she heard a voice exclaim, “Over here! Don’t step on the Pony Potters, they’re originals!”

She frowned at the spot she figured the voice had come from. “Easier said than done,” she called back to the other pony, trying to find him over the stacks of books and vases. “Where are you?!”

A white head popped up over the books, framed by two precariously perched ceramic statues. “Over here!” he called, waving a hoof at her and lunging for one of the ceramics as it went hurtling to the floor. He caught it between his hooves, just in time to bash his head into a towering pile of out-dated encyclopaedias. He yelped as the books came tumbling down and hurled the vase at Daring, who spread her wings and threw herself into the air, catching it just in time to see the white stallion be buried under three dozen ancient, hardcover volumes of doom.

She landed carefully on the floor, paying special attention to where her wings flapped. “Parquetry, this place is a death trap,” she told him matter-of-factly as he wormed his way out from under his precious books. “I mean, seriously! And I’ve seen my fair share of death traps! But this place! This takes the cake LAMP!” she exclaimed as he stumbled backwards into a small end table, sending a beautiful wrought iron lamp tumbling off the edge. He gasped and shot at it with his horn, engulfing it in green and floating it back to it’s ‘safe spot’ on the table. “Spring cleaning!” he announced very loudly, not minding the fact that it was the dead of summer.

“What do you mean, spring cleaning?!” Daring asked, putting the ceramic vase down as carefully as she could. “It always looks like this! In fact, I think it’s gotten worse. How do you sell anything?” she wondered, looking around at all the stuff on ‘display’. He really did have some great pieces… it was just that no one could find them.

“Well, soon it’ll look different!” he announced plainly, creeping carefully over a stack of old paintings. “By the time I’m done with it, I fully intend to see the floor!”

Daring raised her eyebrows at him incredulously – Parquetry was a very intelligent pony, but his life was defined by mess. “What brought that on?” she asked, stepping cautiously onto an ancient, hand woven rug.

He looked down at all the papers that covered the floor – copies of newspapers from twenty years ago, old Equestria Geographics and a whole host of other things she couldn’t discern. “Well, I was wondering about the floor several days ago, and I realized I couldn’t remember what it looked like. I don’t think I’ve seen it in at least ten years,” he mused, trying to push aside a couple dozen layers of paper. “I figured that meant it’s clean up time.”

“Good move,” Daring agreed with him as she realized for the very first time that she had never seen the floor of Parquetry’s Antiques and Bobbles. And she’d been coming here almost since the day it opened.

“Anywho, what can I do you for this bright and shiny magnificently torturous and torrid afternoon?” Parquetry asked, carefully shoving aside an old enamelled jewellery box in his attempt to get closer to his guest. “Looking for more maps?”

She gazed longingly at the cabinet full of ancient maps he had pushed to the back of the room. She loved maps. But she didn’t have time for them, not today. The thought was almost blasphemous, but it was true. “No, I’m looking for something else. I need some information, and I figured if anyone in Canterlot had it, it would be you.”

Parquetry nearly leapt at the ceiling in his excitement. “Information?! I love information! What do you need it on? Anything in particular, or just something random? I got in a very interesting volume about banana slugs the other day, if you want to read it! Or I could summerize! Banana Slugs are herbivores; they’re the second largest slug in the world and come in a rather unattractive yellow colour – no offense Daring Do – and can grow up to twenty five centimetres in l –”

“No slugs!” Daring exclaimed, cutting him off. “Slugs are disgusting, I don’t wanna talk about slugs. I need information about a name. Or a word maybe, I’m not sure. All I’ve got is one word,” she told him, fishing the paper out of one of her shirt pockets. She’d long since memorised the word of course, but Parquetry was an expert at… well, everything. It was very possible he could tell her more about the paper than she could ever guess.

… no. Not everything, she thought, cringing a little as she remembered last year’s trip to Ponyville for the Running of the Leaves. He’d nearly killed them all.

Parquetry looked at her for a moment, waiting for her word as fished into her pockets for something or other. Did she want him to just stand still or should he start talking? He wasn’t very good at standing still… “Tom, short for Thomas or a stand alone name. Pet name variation: Tommy. Meaning ‘twin’. Tallulah, a girl’s name of Native American Indian origin, meaning ‘leaping water’. Stems from the Choctaw word ‘oka’ meaning ‘water’. Common nicknames include: Tilly, Tally, Lulu – ”

“Parquetry what are you doing?!” Daring asked with exasperation. He was a good lad, he really was, but sometimes she just wanted to smash him over the head with one of his ceramic teddy bears.

He blinked at her. “You wanted names. Not fond of ‘T’? Shall I try ‘R’?” he asked, clearly befuddled by her obvious frustration.

“NO! Please don’t try ‘R’,” she begged him, dropping the paper at his feet. She really did have to get a shirt with fewer pockets. They were terribly convenient, yes, but it was impossible to find anything. The paper landed letter-side up, and Parquetry lifted it up into the air, holding it at eye level as it emanated green to match his glittering horn.

“Kathiawari?” he asked curiously, knitting his eyebrows at the word. He flipped the paper backwards, then turned it upside down as he examined it. “That’s it? It’s just that? There’s nothing else?” he wondered out loud.

Daring shook her head, her grey forelock flopping into her eyes. “Nope, nothing else. Just ‘Kathiawari’. It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” she asked, dreading a negative answer, because to be perfectly honest, she didn’t really have a plan B. She supposed she could hit the library, but she figured the Lily girls would have done that by now.

“Well, it does, sort of,” he told her, floating a spyglass over the parchment. “But it doesn’t make much sense. Where did you say you found this?” he asked, turning his attention back to her, his green eyes swimming with eager curiosity.

“I didn’t,” she told him definitively, in a voice that warned him quite clearly not to push the subject. “And I can’t. It’s a secret.”

Parquetry frowned, disappointed. He knew that voice well; the topic was closed. He’d get nothing out of her. But that didn’t stop the curiosity from dancing behind his eyes. “If you say so,” he told her, turning back to examine the crumbling piece of paper.

“I do,” Daring enforced firmly, moving closer to him so she could stare down through the spyglass as well. “What you got for me?” she asked him, trying to see what he was so interested in. It was just a piece of paper, but he was going over it as though it were one of the crown jewels. Which, for all she knew, it was. To him at least; for an antiques enthusiast, Parquetry had a very odd sense of what was valuable.

He shoved her away lightly. “Stop it! You’re in my thinking bubble,” he told her, using his magic to drag her backwards by the tail. He thought for a moment longer, and then exclaimed very enthusiastically: “GERONIMO! I’ve got it!”

“Geronimo?” Daring asked blankly. “I think you mean Eureka.”

“Keep your fancy wordplay banter to yourself, Miss Do, I have solved your piece of paper!” he told her excitedly, hovering both the paper and the spyglass towards a delicately carved vanity. “All right, here’s the skinny: don’t lean on that, it’s delicate,” he chastised her, dragging her back from the vanity. “On to the skinny! The paper you see here is over fifty years old, originating in Pone, India. Not PONE. Po-neh. Anyway, around this time, Pone was the basis for an import/export company called Rawal; it was very big, importing everything from massive exotic animals to tiny little tea bags.”

“Yeah, I know,” she told him flatly, growing a bit impatient. Of course she knew of the Rawal Trading Corporation! She’d read books and studied their trade route maps and all of that – all of which she’d gotten from him.

“Yes, miss Smarty Pants, I know you know. Just humour me, will you?” he asked desperately; he did so love sounding smart.

Daring huffed at him, but made no objection. It was easier just to let it run it’s course.

“Thank you. Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted: the Rawal Trading Company transported everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything. Many times, their ships were used as a cover to transport some more unsavoury things, like illegal animal pelts and, like it or not, slaves for the houses of the wealthy.

“Now, the word Kathiawari; I’ve only ever seen it once. In one book. In one paragraph.” Books began pulling themselves out of piles and off shelves, flying before him and restacking themselves. He looked at title after title, and there must have been a hundred books whirring above her head at any given time. She had to admit, she was rather impressed. “Aha! Here we go!” he exclaimed. With that, every suspended volume crashed to the ground, and the pages of the one now resting on the vanity seemed to flip by at an ungodly pace.

It came to rest at a page that looked no different from all the others – just massive blocks of miniscule text. She studied it for a moment, squinting so she could try and read it.

“Here,” Parquetry told her, using a green quill to guide her towards a specific paragraph. “According to this, Kathiawari was a small but deadly force that loosely affiliated itself with the Rawal Trading Corporation. According to this book, RTC existed for no other reason than to aid in the goals of the Kathiawari Goodponies, as they seem to have called themselves. The Goodponies started off with good intentions, but like many things, those intentions soon soured. They forgot their cause, got to fighting, and one founding father wound up murdering the other in his bed. From that moment on, it seems that the Kathiawari Brotherhood became something else entirely, something evil and tainted. That’s when the RTC began to dabble in the black market, and eventually became the black market. It’s also noted – now, I’m not sure how much of this is true, mind you, I’m just summarising – that great things went missing when the RTC trading ships landed. No one could ever prove anything, but Bluebell’s Wand, the Fist of Ferric and the Gorgon’s Eye were a few of what they suggest are many of the items stolen and never seen again. It seems as though when the company disbanded, the phantom thieving seemed to stop. Of course, no one noticed any of this except for – ” He shut the book and flipped it around, trying to find the author’s name, “…there’s no way I can pronounce that. Ggarfffuznicket? Either way, in my opinion he seems to be a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but it’s interesting all the same. According to him though, it seems that the Kathiawari never truly got what they wanted.”

“Which was?” Daring asked eagerly, her eyes wide with excitement. It was quite possible that whatever nonsense Parquetry had been reading would solve her case here and now. Or, almost solve it at least.

He frowned at the book. “I don’t know, really,” he told her, opening it back up to the page he had been reading. “It doesn’t say. It just sort of… ends. I warned you it wasn’t much, but hopefully it’s at least a little bit helpful.”

Daring let out a slightly disappointed sigh, but smiled at the white unicorn with the mane like autumn leaves. “Very helpful. Thanks Parquetry,” she told him, shoving the paper back into her shirt pocket as she began to head out. At least she had a starting point now; she had to go to India. And once there, she had to head for Pone. She could do that. She stopped abruptly as she reached the door and looked back at him.

“Are you one hundred per cent sure it’s Pone?” she asked, just to make sure. The last thing she wanted was for it to turn out meaning ‘Ponyville.’

He nodded vigorously, the russet and brown tones in his mane leaping up and down like hyperactive toddlers. “Absolutely, one hundred and seventy nine plus infinity per cent sure,” he told her with the utmost confidence.

She nodded, convinced for a moment as she pushed open the door. And then stopped as suspicion and curiosity welled up within her. “Why?” she asked carefully, looking back at him over her shoulder.

His horn glowed bright green again and the paper flew out of her pocket, holding itself just in front of the light. For the first time, she could vaguely make out a bunch of swirls and lines – some sort of pattern she assumed.

“It says so right there. In Hindi. ‘Product of Pone’,” he told her shoving it up to her eyes before sliding it back into her pocket.

“Oh,” she added bluntly. Maybe she would have gotten that if she spoke Hindi. As to why he spoke Hindi, she didn’t dare ask. “Okay thanks Parq!”

“You’re very welcome! DON’T SLAM THE DOOR!”

As the door cashed into the doorframe, the window display came crashing down. The sewing dummy smashed into a pile of books behind it, which knocked down a floorlamp, which crashed into a stack of paintings, which continued the horrifying domino effect inside the cluttered store as things came crashing down around it’s owner’s head. Daring winced, staring in painfully through the window as everything finally came to a halt. “Sorry!” she called out to Parquetry, buried neck-deep in antiques. “But hey! The window looks great!”

He glared at her, and slowly she began to slink off towards the main road. “Sorry…” she muttered again, and then took off at a canter before he had the chance to free himself of the books that drowned him.

Chapter Three

At eight thirty in the evening, the sun was finally beginning to slip down below the horizon. The sky was awash with colour: purples, reds, oranges, yellows and pinks. It was absolutely beautiful, as sunsets are so often prone to being. Daring would have loved to go out with her camera and take a picture; except for two things. First off, she didn’t really own a camera, which definitely soiled her plans. Second, she was currently busy banging her head against her desk.

She sat up straight and looked down at the small stack of books on the table top, all of them about the Rawal Trading Corporation. At this point, she’d already booked a cabin on a ship heading for India, and there was nothing left to do but wait until morning. Which was proving to be more difficult than she’d ever anticipated. She’d thought maybe a little research would slacken her taut nerves, but all it did was make her even more anxious. She’d looked over every book she owned that had anything to do with the RTC (or just India in general) and had found out absolutely nothing new or even close to being helpful. Naturally, that irritated her to no end because, as helpful as Parquetry and his information was, she still hadn’t the slightest clue where she’d heard the word ‘Kathiawari’ before.

Grudgingly, she wandered back over to her shelves and scanned them for anything else that might be remotely interesting. Nothing. She’d flipped through everything she could think of, and for what? Absolutely nothing. Not even a minor consolation prize.

She groaned and banged her head against the bookshelf, frustrated and exhausted – and yet, there was no way she was going to sleep, not now, and probably not tonight. Her eyes flashed over the shelves one more time, hunting for something, anything that might refresh her memory. Maybe she had imagined it? Maybe she had been so excited by the prospect of a new adventure that she had talked herself into believing the word was one she knew… it made sense, she supposed, considering she couldn’t find not even one word about it, and Parquetry, with his massive collection of antique everythings, had had nothing more than one paragraph in one book.

But then again, maybe someone had said something to her. Maybe. It was possible someone could have spoken the word at some point. Yes, yes that had to be it! She wasn’t insane and delirious after all! But wait… who?! The only one she could think of who would know something like this was… well, to be perfectly frank, Parquetry. And possibly the curator, but he spent most of his time sleeping in the storage room as he pretended to ‘take inventory’. Over the course of the past five years, Daring had seen the ancient pony perhaps a dozen times, and spoken to him maybe twice. No, it couldn’t be him. She was pretty sure he was just a crazy old man, in any case.

She groaned and flopped dramatically onto her desk, so that she was staring at the ceiling as her back hooves dangled in mid-air. She watched the ceiling for a while, staring at the rafters almost expectantly, as though any moment they might open up and drop the answer down onto her unsuspecting head. When nothing happened, she let out a defeated sigh. “Oooooof course not,” she muttered irately as she rolled over and slid off the desk. “Because that would be way too easy.”

She wandered into her kitchen, grumbling curses under her breath as she pulled out a large piece of chocolate cake from her fridge and started munching. “Okay, what do I know?” she muttered to herself, taking in the chocolate deliciousness in the hopes that it would help her memory; chocolate was supposed to do that, wasn’t it? “Kathiawari, RTC, India, Pone, stolen goblet. Evil intentions. End of the world as we know it. Oh dear god, kill me now!” she growled in frustration as a loud knocking almost busted down her front door. “I’m coming!” she called out, trotting back through her study and into her neat, pristine foyer. She pulled open the front door and stopped. “Who ‘er you?” she wondered, her manners forgotten for the moment.

Standing before her was a stallion with black sunglasses (she hated morons who wore sunglasses at night) and a very impressive moustache. She was one hundred per cent sure she had never seen him before. And yet here he was, on her doorstep. His moustache perfectly waxed and his blue bowtie hanging messily about his neck. “I’ve been sent here by my employer,” he told her. His voice was deep and weirdly mysterious – normally, a combination of these few aspects on any one pony would be enough to give anyone the shivers. However, on this particular pony… it was just ridiculous. Daring half wanted to boot him back where he came from so she could get on with the far more important tasks at hand – like pacing. And talking to herself.

“Your wha?” she asked, not taking her eyes off his tinted sunglasses. She was far more occupied by the fact that she couldn’t see his eyes than by what he seemed to be saying.

“My employer has a message for you,” he added, apparently ignoring Daring’s scrutinizing magenta eyes.

“Does he now?” she asked distractedly. That was a ridiculous bowtie. Wait, were those rubber ducks?

“My employer implores you to cancel your trip to India. It does not exist. Neither do the Kathiawari Goodponies. Any further action upon either topic will result in lots of pain,” he told her, his monotonous, robotic voice not changing the whole while. Maybe he was a robot. After all, that moustache was… unreal.

“Your employer huh?” she asked, shaking her head lightly as his previous statement replayed in her head. “Wait, what? Your employer? What does he know about the Goodponies? And how the heck does he know I’m going to India?! …wait, what do you mean ‘India does not exist’? It’s a continent, continents don’t just poof over night, Stachie,” she told him, both angered and baffled his words. “Who are you?!” she asked more forcefully, moving forward in an attempt to get him to back out of her foyer.

“My employer would like your consent, as well as your signature agreeing to these terms. You will be handsomely rewarded,” the moustache pony told her, unrolling a long piece of parchment and laying a quill at her hooves. “Failure to comply will result in maiming and possible death.”

“Oh, will it?!” Daring asked angrily. “Well, you can just… shove it up your … Gimme that!” she snapped, pulling the parchment from his teeth and tearing it apart. “Tell that to your employer and get the heck off my porch! I don’t know how you found me, or what you do know about the Kathiawari Goodponies, but I do know this: no amount of ‘maiming’ will ever put me off. Especially now. I mean, seriously! Did you really think that this of all things was gonna put me off, and not make me like… ten times more curious? You suck at this.”

“My employer will be most distressed at this news,” Mr. Moustache told her flatly, watching as the last shred of his contract floated to the floor.

Daring huffed at him angrily. “Good,” she told him, trampling the contract shreds beneath her hooves for good measure. “Tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine. Now get off my porch you hooligan!” she told him, ducking back into her house and slamming the door on him.

Really, the nerve of some ponies, she thought furiously to herself; though she had to admit, the idea that Mr. Moustache knew about her and her goal was rather unsettling (as was the fact that he apparently didn’t believe in India); she wondered if he and his ‘employer’ knew about the Goblet too, and if they did….

She shook the thought away. No, that was ridiculous. No one else knew about that tunnel. It was just her and the Lily girls. She wasn’t even sure if their parents knew about it. But then, the thief knew about it too, didn’t he? So could it be possible that…

A loud shattering sound made her jump, and she whirled around to face the door. Or… well, it used to be a door. Now it was a pile of splinters, with an indifferent looking Mr. Moustache standing over it, as though it were the most common of courtesies to knock down other ponies’ front doors.

“You broke my door!” she exclaimed angrily, digging her hooves into the Persian carpet beneath them. “I loved that door! I brought it all the way from Venice!” she told him, adrenaline coursing through her body, every muscle taut as she stood ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

“In all fairness, Miss Do, you broke my contract,” he told her, climbing over the shredded door and into her brightly lit foyer.

“Yeah, well your contract stinks! My door was epic!” she spat at him, backing out into the middle of the room as he attempted to close in on her.

“My employer wishes me to relieve you of your charge in any way possible Miss Do,” Mr. Moustache told her, his hooves clopping emptily against her polished marble floor. “I’m afraid, since you’ve destroyed my contract and show no intention of doing the right thing, that I now am obligated to kill you. Try to escape or don’t, you will die either way. Terribly sorry, Miss Do.”

If he’s not a robot, I’ll eat my hat, she promised herself in the moments before Mr. Moustache hurled himself at her, teeth flashing as they aimed for her jugular. She leapt into the air, beating her wings and talking off towards the ceiling – thank goodness for high ceilings.

She sent a priceless bust crashing to the floor as he leapt at her, trying to ensnare her fetlock between his pointed teeth. However, try as he might, he was rather wingless, and reaching her waaaaay up here was nearly impossible. She smiled down at him cockily. “Didn’t think this all the way through, did ya?” she asked him teasingly, shaking her tail mockingly at him.

“Au contraire, mon petite cheval,” Mr Moustache replied; why was he smiling?

“Wha?” Daring asked, frowning down at him. “Stop talking fancy! If you’re gonna try and kill me, do it in Englooooooh boy,” she said to herself as a metallic glint caught her eye.

The gun cocked itself, and Mr Moustache aimed it at her head. “I’m a very good shot, Miss Do,” he warned her, “so I’ll give you a five second head start. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…”

Daring had never run away from anything in her life. Except giant boulders, but those didn’t count. Instead, her eyes locked on the whip hanging on the wall above Mr Moustache’s head, and she dove for it. She didn’t often use a whip – especially this one; it was a ceremonial whip, used by the Fallabela Tribe in Maregentina for roles in traditional dances, which told stories of peace and harmony. However, considering the situation, she figured the Fallabelas would forgive her.

She snatched the whip off the wall as Mr Moustache called out five, and whirled around. His first bullet whizzed past her head, shattering a crystal chandelier behind her and sending it crashing to the ground, the shards ricocheting off the walls like shrapnel, digging into anything they could. She yelped as one lodged itself deep into her hind leg, and let out a frustrated cry through the handle as she cracked the whip at his neck.

Mr Moustache leapt out of the way, several pieces of the world’s most expensive shrapnel lodged into his shoulder, and the whip wrapped itself around the table leg behind him. Daring yanked it free and folded her wings against her body as the second bullet zipped toward her, streaking through her mane as she dropped a foot out of the way. She snapped them out quickly and with one massive beat, carried herself to the top of the ceiling, barely managing to duck out of the way as the third bullet shot at her chest. She swooped down like a bird of prey and aimed the whip for his fetlock; she let out an triumphant, wordless exclamation as it hit home and snaked itself around his ankle, cutting so deeply that she could see beads of red blossoming at it’s touch. So he wasn’t a cyborg; she’d have to remember to try and eat her pith helmet later on.

Mr Moustache howled in pain as Daring pulled him up toward the vaulted ceiling, until he was hanging upside down ten feet above the ground. She looked down just in time to see him take aim for her underbelly, and she gasped with alarm as she flicked the whip as hard as she could, sending his head crashing into the bannister so hard that the ancient oak cracked right down the middle. Once more she heard him cry out, which meant he was neither dead nor passed out at this point, and she chanced a glance down. He was regrouping (as well one could when dangling upside down in mid air), his gun trying to aim at her once more. But his magic was shaky now; he was tired, or disoriented, it really didn’t matter which. Daring smiled at herself and flapped her wings as hard as she could speeding around the big, circular room, knocking his head into each and every object she passed in an attempt to knock him out cold.

“Oh for Celestia’s sake, pass out you cyborg!” she yelled at him as he pulled the trigger. Her eyes widened and she dropped the whip as she sped sideways, leaving the bullet that was meant for her heart to do nothing but graze her barrel, leaving a shallow line of raw flesh and blood in it’s wake. Which was definitely better than being dead.

She heard Mr Moustache’s head slam down hard on the marble floor, a loud crack resonating through the room. When she looked down, he wasn’t moving. Whether he was passed out or actually dead, she wasn’t entirely sure. However, she was sure that whoever he worked for knew where she lived, and it wouldn’t take him long to send back up, if he hadn’t done already.

Without stopping to check on him, Daring swept over the banister and flew up the stairs into her bedroom, yanked her emergency pack out from under her bed, and bolted out the open window into the inky night sky. There were no stars tonight, and Canterlot looked amazingly different with nothing but the moon to light her, but nonetheless Daring knew exactly where she was going.

When she got to the familiar street, she landed lightly and immediately broke into a run, scanning each shop for the one she needed. There it was, as it had been for the past ten years.

She banged so violently on the front door that the cowbells jangled of their own accord, but still it was a few minutes before she got any sort of response. When she finally saw something – the halo of lamplight – she released the breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. A drowsy head followed the floating lamp, and then a white body clad in oddly nautical pyjamas.

Parquetry squinted out at her through sleep-addled eyes and the door unlocked itself. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asked tiredly, hardly able to keep his eyes open.

She glanced quickly at one of the many clocks on the wall as she shut the mahogany door and pulled the blinds down over his display window. “Eleven o’clock,” she whispered to him, standing perfectly still with her ear pressed against the door, listening for any sign of life in the alleyway outside.

“Right. What are you doing in my house at eleven o’clock? I closed like… seven and a half hours ago,” he told her, pausing to add up how long it had been since four o’clock. Parquetry lived in a flat above his shop, thank goodness, so she always knew where to find him. “I’m sleepy,” he told her, trying to hint that she should leave him be and come back tomorrow morning.

She didn’t move, nor breathe a word, and he dropped his head in defeat. “I’ll make the couch up for you,” he muttered, sounding less than enthusiastic as he began to drag himself back up the winding staircase. He stopped after a moment and turned back, holding the lamp up higher so it’s light washed over her. “You’re all red,” he said, giving her a puzzled frown.

“Shhhh!” she told him (a little too loudly to be dubbed as a whisper). “And shut that lamp off, if they’re out there, they’ll see us.

Quickly, Parquetry blew out the flickering candlelight (he was the only one she knew who actually used priceless antiques the way they were supposed to be used; why he couldn’t get his hooves on a torch was beyond her) and the whole of the shop was plunged into darkness.

They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, both ponies listening hard and barely daring to breathe. At one point, they heard the clatter of a bin lid and Daring almost burst through the door, figurative guns blazing, before her pursuers had a chance to take them by surprise – but the strangled ‘meow’ that followed not a moment later told them that it was just some alley cat, and she ‘relaxed’ again. Parquetry didn’t; she had seen him leap nearly a foot into the air and saw him out of the corner of her eye, standing rigid as a plank.

After another few minutes, she pulled her ear from the door and turned to look at him. “Keep the blinds down tonight, okay?” she told him, a command disguised as a question. “And put that lamp back on; I think we’re safe.”

Parquetry did as he was told, fumbling with the flint and sparking the lamp back to life. As the warm yellow glow bathed all but the farthest reaches of the big room, she could see that the mess she had left the shop in had been ‘righted’ – meaning everything was back in piles, or leaning against piles, or sitting on top of piles.

She gave Parquetry a puzzled look as her eyes landed on his terrified face. “Geez, what happened to you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something!” she announced, trotting past him daintily as though nothing had happened and she was here, as always, to pick up another map.

Parquetry’s mouth opened, then shut, and then she was almost certain that he was going to yell something at her – but he shut his mouth once more and made a frustrated growling noise. “Never mind!” he said, turning and following her up the stairs to his flat.

The flat, much like the room below it, was filled with antiques. Unlike his shop though, one could move around in here, and everything was… generally neat. Piles of books and papers covered every available table top, but other than that, everything was put away more or less nicely. One could actually breathe up here, which was shy she liked it so much better than down in his maze of… whatever. She trotted into the kitchen and pulled open a cabinet, took down a big packet of crisps and brought them into the living room, where she proceeded to sit herself down on his couch, making herself feel very much at home, and began to munch on his food in silence.

The whole while, Parquetry stood at the top of the steps, following her with his naturally inquisitive green eyes. He waited for a moment or two after she had sat down, ready for her to offer up some sort of explanation. When she didn’t, he managed to choke out his objection: “Words!” he told her loudly, frozen in place and clearly still in a panic over what had just happened. “Tell me words!”

Daring knit her brow at him for a moment, then her eyes lit up with enlightenment. “Right!” she exclaimed, dropping her bag onto the floor beside the couch. “I’m spending the night, kay? It’s just tonight, I promise. I mean, I am going to India tomorrow, so you’ll be rid of me soon enough! You got any ice cream?” she asked, as though that were a perfectly satisfactory explanation for scaring him out of his wits.

“Not good enough!” he told her angrily, apparently articulate again as he stomped one hoof defiantly against the wood floor. “Why am I terrified?!” he asked.

She chomped down a couple more of the crisps and set the bag on the coffee table, then looked at him sombrely. “So that’s a no to the ice cream then?” she asked.

Parquetry looked like he was about to explode as his face contorted, showing off a million different emotions in the span of two and a half seconds – frustration, irritation, anger, defeat, concern, and red-hot hatred were only a few.

“All right, all right! Geez Parq, have a sense of humour or something,” she told him, waving at the comfortable armchair to her left as though he were the guest in her house, instead of the other way around. “Okay, lemme bring you up to speed,” she told him as he plopped himself down into the squishy chair. “Apparently someone wants to kill me. Congratulations! You are now, up to speed.”

Sheer terror flashed across his face. “Someone what?!” he asked, sinking down into the armchair so deeply that half of him was sprawled across the floor. “Why?! How?! Who?! Whooo-AAAAAH! THE KATHIAWARI GOODMEN EXIST!” he shouted, leaping to his feet on top of the floral cushion with surprising agility for a vampiric book nerd (it was a well known fact that Parquetry avoided the sun like the plague). “Oh my god! Gfferanernickertgaraf was right!”

“Okay one,” Daring said, straightening up and leaning towards him, “I don’t think that was his name. And two, STOP BEING SO LOUD! I’m running from seasoned killers! Screaming nonsense to the night is just begging for trouble. So! If you value your life and your stupid antiques, you’ll hush!” she chastised him harshly.

The broad, triumphant smile on his face melted into the stubborn look of a child forced into submission as he slithered back down into his chair, forelegs folded across his chest. “Who are you, my mum?” he asked defiantly, though noticeably quieter than he had been seconds before.

Daring relaxed and dropped back against the couch cushions again. “Thank you,” she told him. “And yeah, they do exist. Garfernerfnickernislav was right, conspiracy theorist or no. At least… he was right about that. I dunno about the rest of it.”

Parquetry leaned forward eagerly, both terrified and enchanted by the news. “And why do they want to kill you?! Is it because we know they exist?! No, they’d come after me to. Oh god! You’re not still going to Pone are you? They’re going to kill you. They’re going to KILL you! Oh yes! You’ve got red on you. I can now cross that off my ‘quotes to use in conversation before I die’ list,” he told her, reaching over to a small chest of drawers and pulling out a big notebook, opening it to the centre, and crossing something off.

Daring looked down at her hind leg, where the bit of crystal shrapnel had buried itself. “Forgot about that,” she said with a frown, then looked over at the scratch across her barrel that had been left by the bullet. It hadn’t hurt while she was running for her life, but now it began to throb. “Could I borrow a band aid?” she asked him.

“I don’t think a plaster’s gonna cut it,” Parquetry told her, pushing himself off his comfy armchair and clopping to his bathroom. When he came back, it was with a (what else?) very old antique case. He set it down on the coffee table and snapped open the lid to reveal a miniature hospital. “Shut up, I can do it,” he told her when he noted the worried expression on her face. He pulled out a needle and some surgery thread, as well as a pair of miniature prongs and a bottle of what looked like whisky.

“No,” she told him definitively. “NonononononoNOnonono,” she spat out quickly, trying to climb over the sofa to get away with him. He latched onto her tail and dragged her back, and she cursed the fact that he was a unicorn. “You are NOT a doctor Parquetry! NO!” she told him, still trying to scramble away.

He pushed the thread through the eye of the needle and looked at it contentedly. “It’s okay! I’ve read all their textbooks, so it’s practically the same thing. Don’t worry about it!” He used his magic to levitate the whisky into the air and pry open her mouth (it was strangely involuntary). Before she had a chance to worm away, he forced a couple of gulps down her throat.

She coughed and sputtered when the bottle was torn from her lips, her throat on fire as the room started to spin around her. She felt like she was going to be sick; but on the bright side, the pain in her leg had definitely stopped. “Wha the heck was that fer?” she asked, trying to make the world stay still.

“Makeshift anaesthesia,” he told her, the needle floating into the air. “They wouldn’t sell me the real stuff. Apparently you need a license. Doesn’t matter though; a little whisky works wonders!”

“A little?!” she asked. “A little?! That was … a lot,” she told him. A more in depth analysis of exactly how much was beyond her at the moment. She saw the tweezers hover into the air, glowing green as they floated towards her leg. “Did you know,” she started, wincing as she felt the cold metal digging into her flesh – it didn’t hurt. It just… felt funny. “Did you know that when stuff glows by your mane, you look like Christmas?” she asked him, giggling drunkenly.

He looked up at her inquisitively, his eyes wandering away from his work. “I look like what?” he asked.

She shrugged widely, her arms flailing about in the air. “I dunno,” she told him. “Stop being so lazy and finish the potatoes. You know what would be great right now? Ice cream. You know what would be creepy? A talking shrunken head. Though I guess it could be kind of cool since it could talk and it’s dead. But really. That’s creepy. What’cha sewin’?” she asked, her words starting to slur. “Are you making me a dress?!” she asked eagerly, a wide smile on her face. “I didn’t know you could sew.”

“Not now; yes that would be cool and creepy. You, no, and I don’t,” he replied to all her questions as the needle worked it’s way in and out of her skin, closing up the small but deep wound the crystal had left. “All done!” he announced triumphantly as the needle and left over thread flew back into the medical kit, sterilizing itself on the way, and a pair of gauzy bandages pressed themselves over her now clean wounds. “Now it’s time for be—”

Beef? Beer? Be-Ice cream? She had no idea what it was time for, because just as the word was crossing his lips, the deep black of sleep swept over her. Thank Celestia for whiskey.

Chapter Four

When Daring finally woke up, it felt like the bright rays of morning sunlight were trying to saw her eyeballs in half, and even the smallest sounds -- the ticking of the clock, for example -- threatened to cleave her head in twain. She groaned into the pillow stuffed under her head and flipped herself over like a pancake, forcing her eyes open and staring painfully at the white ceiling spread out before her. For a moment, she wasn't sure where she was, or how she'd gotten here. And then it all came flooding back; the gun, Mr Moustache, Parquetry, his 'sewing kit', and most importantly, the whisky. She grumbled something inarticulate at the ceiling and pushed herself off the couch as the sweet smell of French Toast floated over her.

"I hate whisky," she told Parquetry as she dragged herself into the kitchen and pulled herself up onto a stool. "And I really hate you."

Parquetry waved he off as he pushed the sweet smelling bread onto two plates and drowned them both with deliciously sticky syrup. "Nonsense!" he told her. She clapped her hooves over her ears -- he may not have said it particularly loudly, but to her alcohol-addled brain it sounded like someone yodelling full blast on top of the Alps. "A little Whisky never hurt anyone. And a little Parquetry is never to be missed! That's not me talking, it's everyone else."

"Tell that to my head," she muttered miserably. "It feels like there's a dinosaur tap-dancing in there. Fix it!" she demanded. Or begged; really it could have been either one. Though judging by the desperate expression plastered all over her face, it was likely the latter.

"I can do that," Parquetry told her, sliding her about a gallon of water. "Drink all of that, then take these," he demanded, passing her a couple of pain killers. "And when that's all done, have this for good measure!" He plopped a jug full of sloshy red liquid down on the table and smiled broadly at her.

Daring looked at it suspiciously, and sniffed it cautiously, scared that might would come to life and swallow her head. She shoved the jug away and pulled the gallon of water over. "I'm not a vampire, Parquetry," she complained, crinkling her nose at what looked like congealed blood.

"No no! It's a Bloody Marey! It's supposed to be the best. Possible. Thing!" he told her enthusiastically -- he'd never had a hang over before, so at the moment he was living vicariously through her.

"I am not drinking blood!" she told him definitively, clapping her hooves over her ears to keep as much of his voice out as possible.

"It's not actually blood! It's tomato juice with lemon and Worcestershire sauce. And pepper and celery. Oh, and vodka. All the books say it works like a charm!" he insisted, shoving the spicy-smelling drink towards her.

She looked at it with distaste, trying to imagine how anyone could drink that monstrosity -- it sounded disgusting. "The last thing I want right now is more alcohol, thanks," she told him again, shoving the jug back in his direction and sneering at it.

Parquetry put on his best cuddly, pity-me face in a last futile attempt to convince her to chug it all down. But Daring Do was not one to be seduced by cuddle-faces and puppy dog eyes. “Not a snowball’s chance in – why are you looking at me like that?” she asked worriedly.

The pitiful expression on his face had darkened at her stubborn resolve, and his pearly horn began to glow bright green. The jug flew off the table, it's contents sloshing around angrily inside it. "You're gonna drink it, and you're gonna love it, and it's gonna work!" he told her, leaping at her across the table.

Daring's eyes widened as the other pony flew at her; had she been in a better condition, she could have avoided him easily. But as things were, he knocked her off her stool, sending her sprawling across the kitchen floor and pinning her down against the black and white tiles. "Now open wide," he instructed her as she clamped her mouth closed, locking her jaw as he tried to pry it open, the jug of sloshy spirit juice hovering forebodingly above her head. She squealed through her clamped teeth and kicked at him. A painful 'oof' erupted from his mouth, and she made the terrible mistake of letting out a mocking "HA!"

As soon as she opened her mouth, the jug attacked her, throwing itself between her lips and forcing it's contents down her throat. She drank deeply and painfully as it shoved itself down, leaking out the corners of her mouth as she tried to yank the jug away (to no avail, quite obviously). This time, it was Parquetry's turn to laugh condescendingly at her -- and he did it quite well, and so maniacally that for a moment, she couldn't help but think that could have made an exceptional villain. If he left his house more. And could run without killing himself. And if he thought of anything other than his precious antiques. Well, if nothing else, he had the crazy laugh down.

The jug dislodged itself from her lips as the last drop of Parq's spicy miracle cure slithered down her throat. She gasped for air and grabbed the jug as it was floating away, hurling it against the back wall and sending it shattering into a million pieces. The loud noise made her head throb, but the look of horror on Parquetry's face made it entirely worth it. He gaped wordlessly at the shards scattered across the floor. "That was two thousand years old," he told her painfully. "Two thousand years old..."

For a moment, she felt a twinge of regret as she watched him blubber over his ancient wine jug. And then she began to feel her mouth again -- and it was on fire. She yelped and threw herself at the kitchen sink, turned the water on full blast and shoved her head underneath, mouth wide open as she gulped it all down like a fish.

"That's what you get for poisoning me!" she rasped out, her throat half shut by the spice in the drink. "What the hay did you put in there?! Evil?!"

He managed to drag his eyes away from the shattered, ruddy red clay on the floor and turned them on Daring. "Tabuckskin," he told her. "Not evil. Spicy. Besides, you're going to India; you need all the practice you can get."

Daring let out a strangled yell as something inside her clicked. "INDIA!" she exclaimed, her whole head flying to look at the clock: she had ten minutes to get to the port before her ship left. "OH MY GOD MY BOAT!"

She cantered to the couch and swung her saddlebags over her back, then hurled herself into the air, her teeth closing around a thick slice of French toast as she swooped down at the breakfast table. Parquetry ducked as she pulled herself back up and shot out the open window.

He ran after her, waving at the window as he watched her speed away. "BRING ME BACK A TURBAN!" he called to her as she yelled something back that sounded vaguely like 'goodbye'. But it also could have been 'god no'. He supposed he'd find out when she got back from India, with or without a turban in tow.

Thank Celestia for wings, she thought to herself as she wept down onto the paved ship port, landing gracefully with three minutes to spare. The smell of salt water and fish from the market next door invaded her nose, coming on so strongly it could have knocked her off her hooves. She'd gotten used to it over time though; in recent years, the Canterlot Port had become like a second home to her. She slept in a ship as much (if not more) than she did in her own bed, and at this point, even the captains praised her sea hooves. So the squawking of the fishmongers and the screeching of the gulls overhead were a sound she loved and welcomed with open arms.

She grinned to herself -- a mischievous smile that often made other ponies cringe back in horrified anticipation -- as she caught site of the Floating Filly, her barrel dipping lazily in and out of the crystalline ocean. All over her impressive deck swarmed the sea stallions that kept her afloat, flitting about and yelling commands at each other as they went about their work like ants, crawling over the hull and heaving barrels onboard as they prepared to set out. Overhead, the Filly's massive masts scraped at the underbelly of the sky, her pearly white sails unfurled and flapping loudly as her crew members tried to tie them down. She was an old fashioned ship, and nowhere near as impressive as the other ships which frowned down at her, dwarfing her with their massive steel bodies -- but she was a good ship, Daring had been assured, with a good captain and a steadfast crew. Daring had liked her from the moment she'd first laid eyes on her, and refused to take any ship but her. Or she would have, if there had been any other ship to refuse, but at the moment, the Filly was the only one going or coming. It had been sheer luck that she'd managed to secure a spot on the old girl -- according to those at port, trading ships came twice a year. Any other time, and she'd have had to fund the voyage herself. which brought to light the question on how on earth she was going to get home, but she'd worry about that later.

She trotted up to the old ship and flapped her wings, lifting herself into the air as they began to raise the gangplank. Just in time, she thought, both relieved and triumphant for having made it from the antique shop to the ship in ten minutes flat. If she'd not been in public, she'd probably have patted herself on the back. However, considering she was stuck with these guys for a while, she didn't really want them to think she was insane. Not just yet, anyway.

She landed on the deck amidst the shouting of sailors and the quick clipping of hooves as they ran from bow to stern and back again. The old girl groaned as she was pulled out of her parking place by a small herd of pegasi.

Daring watched in awe as it all happened; she'd never been on a ship like this before, and everything they did seemed new and exciting. She did not however, appreciate the crew members' intermittently suspicious and curious glances. They made her feel uncomfortable. On the other hoof though, no one was trying to throw her into the ocean, which she figured she should take as a good sign.

The cloud of pegasi above dropped their ropes, sending them spiralling onto the deck below and as a couple of the more clueless crew members dove for cover. Now that they were well on their way to sea, the flock broke up; most of the pegasi flew the short distance back to the port, landing on the cement as they waved goodbye. The others touched down on deck and began trotting off to join their friends or to finish some last minute work. But one pegasus looked at her and stopped.

Daring had noticed from the moment her hooves had touched the deck that there were pitiful few mares on this ship (despite the fact that it was called the Floating Filly). But standing before her now, her lavender wings folding themselves into her body, was a mare about her age, perhaps a little older (but not by much). Daring noticed almost immediately how all the other ponies reacted to her: they all tried to look busy and helpful, snapping to work immediately. She was a strong mare, who seemed to demand respect and take it, whether you liked it or not. She reminded Daring vaguely of Casablanca -- the difference was that Casablanca's respect and prestige came from a name. This mare had earned it, and Daring couldn't help but feel challenged by her, as well as a slight sense of admiration. But mostly challenged.

She straightened herself as she stared into the other mare's deep blue-grey eyes, which seemed to be picking her apart piece by piece.

"Daring Do?" the mare asked as the wind snapped the sails into place, and the crew cheered as the vessel picked up speed. They were on their way at last!

"Yeah, what of it?" she asked roughly; it was going to be a long trip if they found themselves in closed quarters. She was positive they'd do nothing but bash heads the entire voyage.

The mare nodded, the wind picking up a few strands of her cropped white mane as she did, throwing them into her face. "I'm Captain Angel Stern, so called for the North Star and not for my sparkling demeanour, as you'd best remember. In future you will address me as either 'captain' or 'ma'am', and you will mind your tongue or loose it. Am I clear?" the lavender mare asked, her icy blue eyes boring a hole through Daring's forehead.

Yup. Daring hated her, and all of a sudden, she wasn't all that keen on the Floating Filly either. She should have just spent the extra money and chartered her own ship. But that would have taken too long, she reminded herself. And she needed to be in India now.

Daring fought off the urge to call her some rather unfortunate names. Instead, she gave her a stiff nod, not daring to open her mouth for fear of something awful falling out of it.

The other mare nodded in return, satisfied. "Good. You'll be sleeping in the first mate's quarters, beside my own. I wish you every happiness during the time you are with us, but I warn you that incompetence shall not be tolerated. Feel free to explore, because starting tomorrow, you're a crew member on this ship and shall act like one. Every hoof counts on a vessel like the Filly," Captain Stern told her. Daring hated the way she spoke down to her. It made her want to kick the other mare in the face. She wondered briefly if it was possible for a pegasus to fly from Canterlot to India. Quickly, she threw the idea away. She doubted even she could fly across the world without a rest.

She said nothing to the Captain in return. For a few moments, the two mares stared at each other, the tension between them almost tangible -- she could tell by the fact that every pair of eyes on deck had found their way over to them. All work had stopped as the crew members stared at the captain and their passenger, wondering if one was going to hurl the other over the side.

Finally, Captain Angel Stern broke the heavy silence between them. "As I said, Miss Do, you are welcome on my ship so long as you stay out of trouble. It has been a pleasure, I'm sure, but I have duties to attend to and unfortunately cannot spend the remainder of the voyage entertaining you. I would like to remind the rest of you that if you'd like to keep your hooves on my deck you will get back to work," she instructed, turning back to the crew who all jumped back to life at once, looking like guilty foals as they went about their business.

Daring watched as Angel Stern walked proudly towards the captain's quarters, her wings pulled against her velvet captain's jacket, and snorted angrily at her as she disappeared through the ornate wooden door. "What a stick in the mud," she announced to no one in particular.

"Aye, that she may be, but a good captain nonetheless," one of the sailors said, who up until that point had been fiddling uselessly with some rope to seem busy for his captain. "She's seen the lot of us through each and every storm Hippocampus has thrown our way. We've never lost a one on this ship, and that's a triumph by anyone's standards."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "If you say so," she said dismissively. "Doesn't mean I have to like her."

"Not a soul here will ever claim to like his captain, Lady, but luckily, that's not a necessity in our world. So long as you obey, you get home alive," he told her, scanning the deck for something... sailor-y she supposed. She didn't know the first thing about a ship like this.

"Wasn't there another Captain?" Daring asked as the stallion began to meander away.

He stopped and turned to look at her. "Other captain?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. "No, there's only one Captain, Lady. She's her you've just seen and she's it," he told her frankly.

"No, there was another one, a stallion," she insisted. "He's the one who invited me here; he sold me my spot on the boat!" she persisted, despite the blank look on her companion's face. "There has to be another one, there has to," she continued, pressing in on him.

He took a step back as she began to shove her face into his. "Take it easy, miss, there's no need for worries! He actually said he was captain, he did?" he asked, trying to put space between himself and the over zealous Daring Do.

Daring paused, thinking back to their conversation that afternoon. "Well... no, I guess not," she replied, frowning. She had been so sure! But now that he mentioned it, he never had proclaimed himself captain, or even eluded to it. She had just assumed...

"Well, there you go! We all know there's an extra room on board and Captain Stern does take passengers when she can get them, so like as not it was probably one of these scoundrels that sold you your spot," he told her, waving around at the crew, most of whom were busy lounging about now that their captain had vanished.

She looked around at the faces on board, trying to find one that looked in any way familiar. "Is this the whole crew?" she asked the sea stallion, who laughed brightly.

"No, of course not! The kitchen staff's in the kitchen, there's men bellow deck and them that's sleeping in the holding cells," he told her. "No prisoners in there these days, mind you; we use it mostly for turnips and the like, but it's a good place to hide away from prying eyes. Not to mention a great place to loose the Captain," he told her as he began to walk again, heading towards a group of stallions huddled around a water barrel. "Don't worry your pretty little head over it, Miss Lady, he's here and you'll find him eventually. After all, we knew you was coming, didn't we?" he asked her.

Daring couldn't doubt that; they had obviously been expecting her. Nonetheless, she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right here. You're just being paranoid, she told herself as she trotted to catch up with the other pony. Cool it; it's all gonna be fine. No one else is worried, so you shouldn't be either.

And yet she was. Amazing how one never listens to their own advice.