//------------------------------// // 7. Admissions, Part 2 // Story: We Are Such Stuff... // by Lucius Appaloosius //------------------------------// 7. Admissions, Part 2 Mule London’s town hall turned out to be the brick building across the street, guarded by the bronze donkey. A small flowerbed surrounded it; but Ben approached close enough to read the inscription on the statue’s base: PATIENT BURDEN Died AE 132 This Memorial Was Erected by Public Subscription At the Request of the Foals of the Survivors Society AE 235 “ON OUR BACKS, WE BEAR THE FUTURE” Registration was rather like the DMV, although with shorter lines: forms to be filled in triplicate (the unicorn scribes having mastered the skill of controlling three quills at once); his signature, or at least his mark, to be added to each (it was awkward holding the quill in his teeth, but he managed); and finally a brief physical examination. Seals were stamped, documents tied up with red tape: he was now officially a citizen of Mule London. The Arrivals Aid Society clerk, poker-faced, scanned each paper carefully, before depositing a small pouch on the counter. “Allowance, one silver, fifteen coppers per week. There will be a monthly review to assess your situation. Welcome to Mule London.” Ben dropped the poke into his saddlebag, on the other side from his secret cache, and accompanied Welcome Wagon to the exit. “Now, you’ll need lodgings,” she said brightly. “There’s a boarding house a few blocks from here, that’s good for new arrivals: they only charge one silver a week, including meals, and it’s quite respectable. Mrs. Cake -“ Ben pulled up short. “Mrs. Cake?” He just barely kept his composure, although inwardly he was laughing hysterically. “Is her first name Evadne, by any chance?” “No, it’s Journey: why do you ask?” she said, looking extremely puzzled. Ben pulled himself together. “Sorry: just a wild guess. Lead on.” The boarding house was typical of Mule London: an old cement and brick understorey, with a frame superstructure. On top of the roof was a small penthouse, with a “widow’s walk” around it. Beside the door was a painted placard: CAKE HOUSE Lodgings and Meals Inquire Within NO SOLICITORS TORCHIES, THIS MEANS YOU! “Torchies? What are those?” Ben asked. Welcome Wagon frowned. “They call themselves ‘Torchbearers’, and sometimes ‘Repentants’: they started showing up about thirty-five years ago. They hang around places where foals or new arrivals might be, and try to recruit them. They wear these robes - “ Ben’s guts began to sink. “But never mind them.” She pulled on the bell rope beside the door. “Mrs. Cake? Journey? You have a new lodger!” Above, the penthouse door opened, and a stout, purple pegasus mare with a yellow mane looked down on them. She wore a hat much like Welcome Wagon’s, but with a few feathers stuck in it. “All right, dear, I heard ye!” She fluttered down to the street beside them, and gave Ben the once-over. “You don’t look like trouble, anyway. Got yer rent in front?” Ben pulled out the pouch he’d been given at Town Hall: she took out the silver, and deposited it in an apron she wore over her chest. “All right, come in.” A small entrance hall led to a dining room on one side. On the other, one door opened on a small parlor; another revealed a ramp. They followed Mrs. Cake to the upper floor, where small chambers lined either side of the hallway. She paused at number 7, and fished a key out of her apron. “Here y’ are.” A spartan room, much like the farmhouse, but without any homey touches: a tiny fireplace stood in the corner, and a small cupboard hung on the wall; the coverlet on the bed was a coarse, drab weave. There was a sash window, with proper panes; but that did not improve the atmosphere much. “Chamber pot’s under there, and the privy’s at the end of the hall, in the washroom. Supper’s at five: see ye at the table.” Mrs. Cake presented him with the key, and clattered off downstairs. “Now that you’re settled, I’ll bid you good-day,” Welcome remarked. “If you need any more assistance, you know where to find me.” She followed Mrs. Cake down the ramp. Alone again, Ben considered his options. His second day in a strange new world: he had been extremely lucky to find someone who knew him, and had given him employment: that in itself would have been a comfortable existence. But he had pledged himself to a quest, based on a heartfelt appeal: he couldn’t go back on that. Had he been religious, he would have prayed: as it was, he could only hope. It was still early afternoon. Ben stowed his room key safely in his saddlebag, and trotted back down to the market square: Harvest Bounty and the rest were still busy selling their produce. He briefly thought of talking to them again, but he had already said his farewells. He spent the afternoon touring the town and checking the shops: two and a half coppers later, he had a toothbrush, a few candles, and, on impulse, a newspaper: that would do for now. He paused to gaze out at the harbor: white sails flocking in and out, and the hulk of Ledge Light in the distance. A clock chimed two, then three, then four. He climbed back up to Cake House, and opened the door to his room. Removing his saddlebags, he stowed them and their contents in the cupboard and latched it; then headed for the washroom. He ran a washcloth under the tap - thank heavens for running water! That, and a scrap of soap soon wiped away the worst of the day’s dust and sweat: he dried himself with the roller towel beside the sink. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed his pupils had narrowed to cat-like slits in the light of day. Back to his room: he sat down on the bed and thought. His brief excursion had not settled any of his doubts: in fact, it had focused them. Who were these “Torchbearers”? Did they have anything to do with Fallow Field’s alienation and flight? Who, or what, was behind them? Could one single person do anything to counter them? The questions kept repeating themselves in his head, without answer. The jangling of a dinner bell roused him from his thoughts. He heard a few hoofsteps in the hall, and more commotion downstairs. He left his room, and clattered down the ramp. Four other lodgers stood beside the benches at the table: two earth ponies, one unicorn, and a rather morose griffin. Supper was plain, with a perfunctory grace: a simple hay-and tomato salad (the griffin abstained), pea soup with potatoes and carrots, and a slab of bread. Ben noticed the griffin glancing at Mrs. Cake. She nodded, and produced a chunk of smoked fish, which the lodger shredded into his soup. So they have a non-vegetarian option, he thought: I’ll have to ask her about that. He took a sip from the tankard of weak cider beside him. The meal over (there was no dessert, except, he would find, on Sundays), the company dispersed again. Mrs. Cake, one of the earth ponies, and the griffin, retreated into the parlor: the other two headed upstairs. After a moment of decision, he followed them back to his room.