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// Canterlot 
// Story: Mister Cook Goes to Canterlot 
// by Dave Bryant 
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Steam hissed and billowed; steel groaned and squealed. Hooves by the hundred clattered on concrete and pavers, underlaid by the chimes of spellcasting and the whisper of feathers. Voices shouted, sang, laughed, echoing from the train shed’s glass and iron roof high overhead. The platforms were a living, breathing mass of ponies, their warm bodies steaming no less than the locomotives towering over them. The stamping and chuffing of the latter, in this unexpected juxtaposition, proved a deeply visceral reminder of their archaic nickname—“iron horses”.
I stood stock-still, stunned by the flood of sights and sounds—even scents—that was the Canterlot rail terminal. The jostling of the crowd around me itself betokened a bustling vitality, a metaphorical heartbeat. I felt a grin stretch across my face as I drew in a deep breath sharp with winter cold, redolent with metal and wood, spice and dust. I felt as if I’d stepped into a vintage picture postcard; I could hardly wait to see what it held.
After another few moments I began to pick my way across the platform to the station house, rubbernecking shamelessly all the way. Here and there among the ponies I caught my first sight of other denizens—a pair of griffins, a family of bison, a minotaur, a group of tall, graceful full-size horses. Canterlot might not be a large metropolis, but truly it was a city of the world.


I emerged from the station house onto a newfangled concrete apron thronged with ponies coming and going, or simply loitering for one reason or another. A transverse wrought-iron frame nearby supported a huge sheet-metal placard, more than a stallion-length wide and high, topped by an arched banner proclaiming WELCOME TO CANTERLOT in gold swash capitals. The brightly enameled sign bore a stylized, color-coded map of the city, complete with fanciful contour lines roughing out the slopes on which various districts were built. A ring of ponies around it peered up and pointed, chattering to each other, orienting themselves, and planning their further sojourns.
At the curb stood a line of bright yellow two-wheel cabs for hire, each hitched to a pony wearing a small peaked cap. The whole lot of them was in constant motion, newcomers steadily taking the places of departees. I was struck by the preponderance of hale and hearty earth stallions among the hacks, though a few sturdy, athletic earth mares and a couple of equally muscular unicorns were visible as well.
I hung back a moment, letting the flow of other folk pass around me, and glanced about. The street itself lay barely visible under the traffic, cobbled and crowned. A separate curb-height sidewalk kept pedestrians away from the heavier, slower, less maneuverable vehicular traffic.
Across the street stood a solid row of stone multi-story buildings. The architecture suggested they were less than a century old, making them relatively recent in an old country still in the midst of transforming from a traditional agrarian economy. From the look of it, the structures rose straight from the sidewalk’s outer edge. Their doors, prudently, were recessed in alcoves. Above the mansard roofs I caught glimpses of the city’s terraced upper reaches, among them the gleaming white towers and wings of the palace, all backed by the snowy slopes of the mountainside threaded with the dark skeins of waterfalls.
Having looked my fill, I started forward. When I was far enough from the station house I turned my head to see its clock tower—more from curiosity than anything else; the sun and my stomach suggested it was midmorning. I could spare only a moment for the clock, though, before reaching the row of cabs.
“Where to, sir?” a cheery voice asked. I turned back and couldn’t help smiling at the young earth stallion, just out of colthood, positively bursting with pride and energy as he stood tall in front of his shiny-new cab, polished to a fare-thee-well. His purples and blues looked a trifle odd with the yellow and checkered livery, but the fine wood-spoked wheel of his mark went perfectly with the vest and cap—not to mention the chromed coin-changer riveted to his oversize collar. Rear-view mirrors, the right one surmounted with what looked a giant stopwatch, were mounted on ingeniously designed, and heavily built, forks extending forward from the collar’s sides.
“A Happy Hearth’s-Warming to you, young fellow,” I greeted him. “That’s a very good question. I’m rather new to Canterlot, so I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer for it.”
He lit up, clearly delighted by the implied return query. “Well! Are you here for business or pleasure, sir?”
I laughed, equally delighted by his infectious enthusiasm. “I’m just a tourist here to see the city dressed up for the holiday season.” My stomach chose that moment to punctuate my statement with an audible rumble.
The colt’s expression turned sly. “That’s a better answer than your words, good sir. Hop in! I think I have just the place for you.”
Won over by his upbeat demeanor, I did as he suggested and sat on the low padded bench. I let my forehooves rest on the woven-straw mat, still fresh and clean this early in the day, that covered the deck. The canted dashboard bore, on the side facing me, a stamped and painted plaque listing the rates, but for the nonce I spared it only a quick glance.
The cabbie reached up to tap a frog on a big knurled button protruding from the side of the timepiece; a broad, bright-red—well, not hand, I realized—began its sweep around the dial. After a brisk warning of “Here we go!” the small carriage jerked into motion, turning smartly into the steady flow of ponies, carts, wagons, and other conveyances.
After a few moments enjoying the scenery rolling by, I turned my attention back to the rate card. Interestingly, while the basic rate was by the minute, there was a surcharge for every change in elevation. Intrigued, I called out, “So how does the elevation fee work?”
“Every level has a number,” he called back, head raised to make his voice audible without turning his attention from the road. “I think it’s based on how many strides it is above the lowest parts of the city. So one neighborhood might be at level three, say, but another could be at level five. You’re lucky—we won’t have to change levels at all this trip—but if I had to go from five to three, then back to four, to get somewhere, you’d have to pay for three elevation changes. It’s hard work, and going downhill is just as bad as going up!”
I chuckled. “Does anypony ever cheat and change levels more than they need to?”
“Uh, sometimes,” the colt replied, “but not very often. It’s bad business for all of us in the long run, so if somepony’s caught doing it, he could lose his medallion.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable, so I desisted and went back to watching the city go by.
Stone and tile seemed to predominate. An astounding number of windows were arched to one degree or another. Buildings universally stood cheek by jowl, as befitted a very old city standing on very limited buildable land. A dusting of snow, of course, graced every surface that would support it, competing with the wreaths, garlands, and ribbons of the holiday; I made a mental note to look into the symbology behind the decorations and their relevance to the founding and the events leading up to it. At least one group of carolers stood in a small park surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence, their voices just reaching me over the considerable rumble of traffic.
In contrast to the snowy roofs, street furniture, trees, and lawns, the roads seemed mercifully free of slush and puddles. A glimpse of a hard-working city crew busily sweeping a side street explained the latter. Wet cobbles could be downright dangerous, I knew, and metalling wasn’t enough to keep a busy unpaved lane from turning to mud without constant attention.
At last the cab drew up before a pale polished-stone edifice with salmon-pink trim. A pylon over the entrance stoop held up a gigantic magenta torus swirled with lighter lines; the hole in its middle looked more than big enough for a stallion to jump through.
“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie told me in a voice filled with civic pride as he clouted the stopwatch button again. “Doughnut Joe’s! One of the best places in Canterlot for pastries and coffee. Why, I hear tell even Princess Twilight Sparkle favors it when she’s in town!”
As gravely as I could manage, I replied, “Well, if it’s good enough for Her Highness, it’s certainly good enough for me.” Carefully I stepped down from the cart and, after a brief discussion, levitated over payment and a hefty tip. The colt beamed and wished me a happy Hearth’s-Warming before speeding off to find his next fare.
I grinned and shook my head before looking both ways, crossing the street, and making my way up the small flight of steps. The arch-topped door swung open at the touch of my magic, and a wave of warm, moist, fragrant air greeted me as I entered. My stomach growled again in response.