His eyes were cold spring flecked with harsh autumn. Lamp had his attention now and so she studied his eyes so that she might find some way to reach him. To be so close and to stare into the eyes of another was uncomfortable, but it was the only means that Lamp had found to communicate. He was dirty. Filthy. Begrimed. Caked with befouled muck. Yet, he was something of immense worth.
For the first time in her young existence, Lamp truly understood the value of life.
Little did Lamp realise that for the second time in her life, she confronted the darkness. The first time happened when she was but a foal, and her magic strove to restore light to a world gone dark. What happened now, in the present, was a bit more metaphorical, but its impact was no less real. This was her purpose. Something resonated in her bones and her horn tingled as she stood looking into his eyes. How could she possibly explain this to others? She didn't understand it, not even a little, and so going forward seemed impossible.
How would she feed him? For that matter, how would she feed herself? Her still-empty stomach growled to remind her that it remained unfilled despite her efforts to procure food. Without a word passing through his lips, he expressed his gratitude. Intelligence glittered in the deaf-mute's glassy eyes, and something else, something that Lamp could not quite make out.
"We need food," she said, giving voice to her innermost thoughts. Though he could not hear her, she needed these words herself. Organising her thoughts aloud helped—though not as much as she might've hoped. "We can't get pinched. That'll be the end of us… together. I'll end up back with my caretakers, and I don't know what'll happen to you, but it won't be good. So I need to keep us together. That's job one. Keeping us together. Not sure how I'll do that."
There was a thrill in filching a meal in the open, but the consequences for doing so seemed far too much to bear. She might try begging, but that seemed pointless. The old grab-n-go was out of the question, as she doubted the colt could run, injured as he was. For all of the difficulty, she was not without options. The game was the same, but the rules had changed. Which meant that she needed a new way to play.
Market heists were off the table.
With a turn of her head, she glanced at the residential neighborhoods of Canterlot. They were quiet places with mostly-empty streets. During the day, many of the towers and cottages were unoccupied, or almost so. Did she dare burgle a house? There might be a root cellar or a door left unlocked. That said, a locked door didn't pose much of a problem—but she needed quiet and concentration to pop the lock. Breaking in, after all, wasn't much different than escaping. It was merely a matter of direction. Escaping was getting out, while a bit of harmless burgling was getting in.
The canny filly's eyes narrowed with resolve.
After a few seconds of distracted thought, she returned her attention to the deaf-mute colt. His dingy hide was the colour of a wheel of cheese rolled through filth and was bespeckled with befouled brownness that she feared would never be washed away. She would have to deal with that later, somehow, just one more impossible task. Clean ponies were inconspicuous ponies, but dirty ponies got noticed. Getting noticed meant getting pinched—which was the worst thing that Lamp could think of right now.
"We hafta go," she said, even though her companion could not hear her.
What surprised her though was that he responded in some vague mute manner. He couldn't hear, but he must have seen her lips move. No light of comprehension shone in his eyes, and after a moment spent thinking about it, she concluded that he probably couldn't read lips. Communication would be important, because getting him to do exactly what needed to be done when she told him to do it might be quite necessary—because failure meant getting pinched.
A gentle tug on his ear would get his attention, if need be.
"I'm gonna get us some food," she said to him whilst she had his attention. "Stay close. I have a plan. We're gonna go where the Watch doesn't."
When she started to go, she tugged on her companion's ear to compel him to follow.
The First Quarter was not, as the name implied, one fourth of the city of Canterlot. It was, however, the oldest part of Canterlot, and was constructed when the city was just a fort. The castle—still under construction—was here, far off on the other side, and the entire quarter was walled off. This was the most settled part of the city and the location that Lamp's caretakers truly coveted. The streets were already cobblestoned here, with deep, narrow gutters in the middle so that sewage and rainwater could flow. There were gardens here, with food, and chicken coops, with eggs.
However, there was no sign of the Watch.
Wary without being able to explain why, Lamp studied her surroundings. She spied another pony, an earth pony mare burdened with a double basket slung across her back. This mare was well-groomed, immaculately clean, and her mane was styled in a fashion that no earth pony could hope to do on their own. She was probably a maid, or some sort of servant, and from the looks of things, she had it good. Being the clean, mindful mare that she was, she avoided the center of the road and the deep gutter full of filth.
There was nopony else. Just quiet streets, mostly deserted. Lamp did not hurry and tried to act as though she belonged here. She did not have a story, an explanation as to why she was here if she got stopped, and trying to think of one seemed too complicated. She followed the mindful mare's example and steered clear of the gutter—though the real danger came from windows up on high and privy holes that emptied out onto the streets.
What she needed was a root cellar, or an unattended garden that had food, and not flowers. She was confident that she would find what she wanted here, in this place, the most established part of the city. Unsure of where to go and still exploring, she went left from the gate so that she might stay to the outer perimeter, closest to the wall. If one went near the middle, one was sure to find trouble, because in the middle of the First Quarter was the Magus' Circle, the place where the most powerful, most canny unicorns in all of Canterlot lived. The sort of unicorns that could turn her into a toad, or some small helpless furry rodent.
Which, now that Lamp thought about it, was the reason why the Watch did not patrol here.
Lamp only knew of the Magus' Circle because it was a fabled place for orphaned unicorns. If one had strong magic, if one showed promise, it was of no consequence at all to be an urchin. One would be whisked off to the Circle and never seen on the dirty streets again. A life of power and privilege awaited those taken in by the Circle, and they would never know of dire need or ache of want. Alas, Lamp was not that powerful, so she was carted off to common caretakers. She resented her lot in life, but could do nothing about it.
The cluck and coo of chickens gave her pause, and she halted so that she might hear better. Her companion paused as well, and had himself a look around. She did not see the chickens, but there were walls and fences in the way. Imposing gates stood guard against intrepid intruders such as herself. Ponies were careless creatures, however. Surely a gate would be unlocked—or the lock could be sprung if she found a secluded gate tucked out of sight.
With a soft tug upon her companion's ear, she continued.
There was beauty here; climbing vines covered stone and brick walls. Delicate flowers bloomed. Beyond beauty, there was colour here, more than dull sky, sullen fog, black soot, and unremarkable grey stone. This place had been lived in longer and was more established. There was grass here, patches of vibrant, verdant green that stood out in sharp contrast to the bare rock of the mountain they called home. Rich brown soil was brought up at great expense from the plains down below and deposited in compact, economical gardens. She saw statues, mosaics, murals, and other types of art that she did not know the names of. The windows had stained glass along with embellished over-adorned shutters.
After taking it all in, Lamp knew that these ponies would not miss a pilfered potato or two. These ponies probably paid no attention at all to their pickled vegetables or their potatoes—that was for the servants to keep track of. And if a potato did go missing—if a potato somehow grew legs as well as eyes—said servants would never report the taken tubers, for fear of appearing lax about their duties. Yes, plundering potatoes was a victimless crime.
Fog thickened like gravy left to cool. The sun dimmed a bit as the clouds overhead soupified. A cold wind blew and brought the chill of winter to the summer day. It would be a cold, bitter night, which made Lamp worry about where she might sleep. With her companion limping along just behind her, she made her way down the narrow street of smoothed cobblestones, long since time-worn.
Just ahead she saw opportunity. A wooden slat fence. There was a tower built into the corner of the walls, what appeared to be an old guard tower from when this part of the city had been a fort. A broad square mossy-stoned tower was built into the wall itself, and had two cube-shaped wings at its base, also constructed into the wall. It was ugly, but functional. The wooden fence was curved, going from one section of the wall to another. No grass could be seen in the fenced-off garden, but there were giant terracotta pots and plants that Lamp did not recognise. A tiny greenhouse sat atop the rightmost wing, and green things could be seen beyond the windows.
More importantly, there was a root cellar. From where she stood, Lamp could see the ironbound wooden doors and the glistening greased iron hinges. There was no gate of any sort on the fence, just an open gap on both ends. Why, that was practically an invitation, if ever there was one. This was the place. There wasn't even a padlock on the cellar doors. For a moment, little Lamp imagined all the good things she might find down there. Potatoes, possibly. Apples. Rutabagas. Parsnips. Maybe cabbages. She considered for a time that it might be difficult to cook them, but that was just another bridge to cross when the time came.
While making every effort to look as inconspicuous as possible, little Lamp cast a critical eye upon her target. Clearly, these ponies wouldn't mind if she borrowed a few vegetables, because they had put no effort whatsoever into security. She considered the fact that she might even be able to spend the night in the root cellar. While maybe not the warmest place, it was sheltered and would be better than spending the night out in the open, exposed to the frigid air.
Perhaps staying in the cellar wasn't her best idea, but what choice did she have?
Ever so cautious, the felonious filly crept forward, and her eyes darted in every conceivable direction. She peeped around corners, checked windows for concerned faces, and her pricked ears listened for the sound of hooves against cobblestones. Other than the colt just behind her, she was alone. This place was deserted and she had trouble believing in her good fortune.
Tugging on her companion's ear to keep him close, she made her way to the wooden fence. Strange fern-like plants with thorny, knobby seed pods grew in the giant pots. The smell of laundry wafted out of a nearby window, the scent of soap and cleanliness. After stepping around the wooden fence, she paused. Half-in, half-out, she waited for the sounds of alarm. Long seconds stretched into longer moments, and she stood blinking whilst they passed.
The cellar door sat in the corner where the two wings connected to the main body of the tower. Triangle shaped, and rather unusual. No rust on the hinges, which was good, because rusty hinges squeaked. What a curious garden she found herself in, with bare stone and gravel beneath her hooves. No effort had gone into turning the ground green, which was peculiar. Ponies like greenery and green things. After a few careful steps forward, she examined one of the strange plants that she did not recognise. It was hairy, covered in thin fibrous growths, and it smelt rather awful, like whey left too long in the sun.
She backed away from the nose-crinkling stench and moved towards the cellar door.
It was quiet. She remained unseen, unnoticed. No pony came sauntering down the street at an inopportune time. There were no interruptions to her delinquent dealings. The cellar doors were two triangles that made one big triangle. They looked solid, heavy, and she was somewhat worried that she might have trouble lifting them. At least the hinges were well-maintained and greased. Did she dare? Oh, dare she did. So indeed she dared as the daring are wont to do.
This was almost too easy and so it gave Lamp reason to pause.
She stood in the shadow of the tower now, a darkness made all the darker by the weakened sun and overhead clouds. Being out of the sun caused her to shiver—it certainly wasn't fear that did so—and she pulled her companion even closer to her. Reaching out with her mind, she opened the cellar doors. Thankfully, there was no squeak, nothing that disturbed the silence, and whatever reward that awaited them was down in the gloom. Root cellars had spiders, and cobwebs, and walking face-first into these things was always a hazard. There was nothing quite like a fat, hairy spider having a stroll through one's mane.
As she lifted the door open, she was stricken with a truly morbid thought: what if she didn't find roots down in the root cellar, but dead foals? What if she found a cellar of would-be thieves all stacked up like cordwood? Little felonious fillies just like herself, victims of bad circumstance, all of whom met an untimely demise. Unable to help herself, she shivered. This always happened at the worst possible moments. When doing something that required concentration and focus, her brain would turn on her.
The darkness could conceal all manner of horror.
Squinting, she shone her light into the darkness and saw… nothing. Nothing at all. There were shelves, but they were empty. A few baskets, some bins, all empty. There were no cobwebs, no spiders, and no bodies of felonious fillies stacked up like cordwood. Not a single morsel of food to be had. Nothing. Protesting this awful state of affairs, Lamp's stomach let go a ferocious, feral growl that almost startled her.
This time, merely swearing wasn't enough to satisfy, so she let go with the most dreaded of all the words that started with the eff-sound: "Fudge nuggets." When the awful thing she said sank in, her ears pinned back and she felt a sharp twinge of guilt. Such vulgarity pinged her conscience, but burgling a root cellar did not. "It's empty."
"It does rather appear that way, doesn't it."
Her companion was deaf-mute, which meant that he couldn't say what had just been said. Which meant that—"Oh, treacherous treacle tarts!" she swore as she willed her legs into action. It was long past time to skedaddle, so she made a hasty exit without a lot of thought.
The skinny filly ran; she was quite speedy, being so slender and light. She bounded and boinked, half-pronked, and then using her legs like coiled springs, she lept over the wooden slat fence. Her landing? Most excellent. She hit the ground running while also sucking in a tremendous quantity of wind. With luck, she would reach the gate in mere moments, and make good her escape. If she could reach a crowd, she could blend in and vanish.
But then she realised that her companion was not with her, and so she skidded to a halt.
The deaf-mute colt's captors were two unicorns. One stallion, rather old, and somewhat greying. The other, a mare, held the earth pony colt in a bubble of shimmering magic. Lamp knew she could run. She could run and go back to her caretakers. This would all be over. But… could she live with herself if she did? No, she decided, she could not. She didn't know his name. Nothing at all was known about her companion. If she did not fight for him, who would?
"Leggo of my friend," she demanded.
"Your friend?" the old stallion asked.
"Yeah. Now leggo before I blast ya." Teeth now bared, Lamp charged up her horn. She'd never fought back against adults before, because that was the sort of thing that got you sent to the mines below Canterlot. She had, however, had plenty of target practice against vicious rats, stray dogs, and one particularly mean alley cat with a foamy, sickly maw. Lamp understood all too well the basic mechanics of the application of violence.
She allowed her horn to glow exceptionally bright, and changed its radiance to a fiery orange to be extra-scary. Her companion wiggled, he kicked his legs but to no avail. His magical prison held fast. Infuriated, she took careful aim and then took a moment to consider if this was worth a lifetime in the dark below. It didn't take her long to get sorted out. If she didn't take a stand for her new friend, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it, and that, that was worse than being banished to the crystal mines.
"Last warning," she said to her companion's captors. "Don't make me do it."
"Young lady, don't you dare!" the stern mare said. "Submit, and there'll be mercy, ye foul-mouthed filcher!"
"You called him your friend—"
The old stallion never got a chance to finish his sentence because a sizzling bolt of magic flew right past his fuzzy ear. It struck the stone wall just behind him and left behind a smouldering scorch mark. He seemed more than a little concerned by this, and for that matter, so did the mare. But no one was more surprised than Lamp, who had trouble believing what she had just done.
"I didn't hafta miss," she said to them. She had missed because of poor aim—but they didn't have to know that. "That was yer one warning shot. Next one is going in yer eye!"
"Young miss… I believe you. But before you blind me, might I inquire into your relationship with this colt? You called him your friend and I—"
"Ye daft old coot!" the mare shouted. "This is no time for one of yer friendship studies!"
"Now is an excellent time for said studies, Miss Combes. Did you fail to witness this act of impassioned defense?"
"She tried to kill ye, ye old crank!"
"We have her friend," he replied, patient and kind. "It's rather understandable. Let him go."
"I'll do no such thing! And if she tries to blast ye again I'll burn 'er to the ground!"
"Miss Combes, yo shall do no such thing! That would interfere with my studies. And leave ashes in the streets. What a mess! Civilised ponies and housekeepers do not make messes!"
"She tried to turn yer 'ead into jam, ye dimwitted dumpling brain!"
Confused beyond measure, Lamp wasn't sure what to do next. Talking this out would be good. She might be able to talk her way out of this mess. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up from the chipped wall behind the old stallion's head, a reminder for Lamp that if provoked, she could do awful things. If she had hit her target—he might very well be dead. This shocked her more than she would ever admit. She was grateful—thankful even that she had missed. An accident had saved her from a fate surely worse than death.
All she had to do now was talk her way out of this.
"You seem ready to talk," the old stallion said. "You called him your friend. Why? You could have run away, but you did not. More than anything else, he seems like dead weight for you. Why would a unicorn risk her neck for a sickly, half-starved earth pony colt? You are a survivor of the streets. I know your type. No loyalty to anypony but themselves. Anything goes. So why save him? Why put yourself at risk like you are doing right now?"
"If I don't, who will?" she replied, and these words surprised her. They'd lept out of her mouth before she had a chance to think about them.
The old stallion seemed surprised by this response, but the mare even more so.
"My name is Ficklewick." A gentle smile appeared as if by magic when he bowed his head. "Would you like some supper? You and your companion?"
"What're ye doin', ye cludge-minded coot? I'll not be fixing 'er supper!"
Ignoring the frustrated mare, Ficklewick once again made an offer. "No tricks. Nothing mean. No nasty surprises. There is a free meal awaiting you if you tell me all about your friendship. If you want to feed him, and that does seem to be your intentions, young miss, you can earn it." He turned to mare beside him and added, "Miss Combes, would you please put him down as a sign of good faith? This presents a rare opportunity for me."
"My name is Lamp," she said, introducing herself.
Grumbling, the mare put the colt down on the ground, but didn't let him go.
"This is my housekeeper, Miss Combes." Ficklewick gestured in the direction of the mare beside him. "She's actually quite kind, I assure you. We mean you no harm, and we would like to offer you some much-needed kindness."
"No 'arm? No 'arm!" Rolling her eyes, the mare shook her head from side to side and then glowered at the old stallion. "Ye and yer Elements of 'Armony and yer friendship theories—"
"Might one day save our world," the old stallion said.
"She'll prolly lift the silverware!"
"A small price to pay for knowledge. Though perhaps if we are kind to her, she'll be grateful. She seems quite reasonable, Miss Combes."
"Reasonable? The wee cuss nearly took yer 'ead off."
"Yes. She missed, for whatever reason. Perhaps you can instruct her so that she might improve her aim? You are, after all, the combat veteran. I am positive that you could greatly improve her odds of survival on the mean streets."
This offended the housekeeper more than anything else said and she stood with her mouth agape.
"Now, Miss Combes, if you could be so kind as to clean them up before supper—"
"Get yer eyes checked, ye old coot! Do I look like a nanny?"
In response, he examined the mare beside him for a moment, then replied, "Maybe a little—"
"Ye old nutter, I'm yer 'ousekeeper!"
"Yes, my housekeeper. One who is very well paid. Whose room and board is not subtracted from her pay. There is very little work involved because I am by nature a clean and fastidious creature. The housekeeper I keep around for her good company, her candor, and her ability to make the finest potato soup on the continent."
Refusing to be mollified, the grumpy housekeeper cast her baleful glare upon Ficklewick.
Meanwhile, Lamp smiled. 'Twas a rare thing, her smile, and it made her face shine as bright as her namesake-inspired light. Feeling courageous, and maybe motivated by hunger, she approached. She felt bad about what she had done—a rare thing, because she hardly ever felt bad about any of her actions. Ficklewick seemed like a truly nice pony, and she had nearly blasted his head right off his neck.
"Why are you being so nice?" she asked as she drew near.
"Why do you have an earth pony colt in your care?" he replied.
"I really don't know." She didn't bother to think about it, because there was no point. It was something too big, too complicated to explain.
"By helping him, you are making the world a better place. In return, I would like to help you, young miss. I think we would be better off if we all helped each other, as the Founders envisioned." His bushy overgrown eyebrows sagged low over his eyes. "I need to ruminate upon this. You must excuse me. I shall leave you in the care of my capable housekeeper. You just so happened to meet me on the one day I have off. I cannot help but wonder if fate is somehow involved. There is strange magic that I sense about you. Some peculiarity that I am unable to—"
"Oh, 'ere we go. Fate and destiny. And ye wanna 'elp 'cause of course ye do." The longsuffering housekeeper rolled her eyes once, twice, thrice, and during the fourth time, she sighed. "Ye want to turn the wee cuss into a project, ye barmy bilbog. One of yer thinkism projects."
"Perhaps." His eyes shifted, going from side to side, and something that was almost—but not quite—a smile tightened his deflated cheeks. "This strange magic must be discerned. I shall take my leave of you for now. Summon me when supper is ready."
"Go on, take yer leave, ye crank. I'll get them presentable for the table. This colt needs a scrub. As for this filly… maybe I can teach 'er some manners."
The kitchen was everything a unicorn needed and nothing more. It took up the entire bottom floor of the tower and in the center was a circular hearth that surrounded a pyramidal brick fireplace that was open on three sides. Lamp, though mostly uneducated, recognised it for what it was: a triangle within a circle, which was an ancient symbol believed to be a focal point for magic. Where she had learned this she could not remember; it was just one of the many things that existed inside of her head.
Sometimes, unicorns knew stuff and there was no explanation.
Lamp's companion followed Miss Combes without fear or reservation. He did not seem the least bit afraid of her. This bothered Lamp, though she could not say why. Though mute, he bleated like a sheep when he was lifted up and placed atop a broad wooden table. He stood there, mostly unmoving, while Miss Combes pulled down an enormous copper wash basin, the sort most commonly used for laundry.
This was placed beneath the wrought iron pump handle, which began to bob up and down. Water trickled at first, and then a steady flow gushed forth into the copper basin. There was something comforting about the sound of running water striking metal and Lamp listened with her ears pricked tall. After a moment spent listening, she looked up at the ceiling so that she might check out everything above her. Bunches of herbs, bulbs of garlic, glass bottles filled with unknown liquids, and all manner of curious things could be seen up there.
"He's hurt," Lamp said. "Can you help him?"
"Sickly and 'urt, is 'e?" Lower lip protruding, Miss Combes cast a critical eye on the deaf-mute colt. "I bet it was the pale pox that robbed 'is 'earing. The kind that causes thick-neck and makes you strangle. Nasty disease, that. The 'igh fever kills yer ears while the swelling in the neck robs yer voice. All this 'its the earth ponies all 'ard like 'cause their communal living. Allows the miasmas and foulness to spread like wildfire."
After a moment, she added, "Wood is unclean. Proper stone keeps the diseases away."
"No one helped him. He was sick and wandering around the market."
Scowling, Miss Combes appeared as though she'd just eaten a whole lemon, rind and all. Just as Lamp had done, she pulled on the colt's ear to get his attention, and then began to examine him. Evidently, she didn't like what she saw, because her nose crinkled in disgust. Beneath her hard expression there was a faint hint of kindness, and there was a gentleness to her actions.
"So what's a filly like ye doing with a sickly colt anyhow? Did ye wrangle him for a bit of grift? No… no, ye didn't do that. Yer not the type. Not yet, anyhow. So why are ye with 'im?"
"I don't know," Lamp replied as the basin continued to fill.
"I was once like ye," the housekeeper said.
"You were?"
"I was," the mare sighed in response.
After finding her courage, Lamp asked, "You lost your parents?"
"Or my parents lost me. Don't know. Don't care. I survived." While speaking, she opened up a jar and then poured its contents into the copper wash basin. "Ficklewick is right though. Ye took on dead weight. And I don't think ye did it for grift. Ficklewick'ill want to know why for the sake of thinkism."
Rather than reveal her ignorance on the subject of thinkism, Lamp refrained from asking what it was. She didn't know why, but she knew what she had felt. That meant something. This meant something, even if she didn't understand what was going on. She watched as the cranky housekeeper peered into the colt's ears, and then examined his eyes.
"Ye took on dead weight and it made ye desperate. Ye came 'ere to 'ave yerself a bit of a burgle and now yer in over yer 'ead. Ye made yerself this 'ere colt's caretaker with no means to feed 'im or meet 'is needs. Yer not 'alf as starved as 'e is, so I know ye 'as caretakers. Ye don't look well-fed though, so they're not goodly caretakers, just selfish sots. Those sores around yer nostrils and the corners of yer mouth are symptoms of long-term malnutrition."
In awe, Lamp maintained a respectful silence.
A scent—medicinal and soapy—tickled Lamp's nostrils. Steam was already rising from the wash basin and a part of her worried that the bathwater might be too hot. It was just one of those fears that happened and if acted upon, might make her appear foolish—or worse. Miss Combes wore a frightful scowl now as she examined the colt, who did nothing to stop her. This scowl was the sort of scowl that might come from a worried mother—the sort of worried mother that Lamp wished she had.
Who was this mare with a funny accent, a multitude of skills, and a deceptively gentle nature?
"Favouring yer leg, are ye?" It didn't seem to matter that the deaf-mute colt couldn't hear these words, Miss Combes spoke them anyway. She lifted up his left rear hoof—the one he did not put weight on—and had herself a better look. After a moment, she nodded, clucked her tongue in some vaguely maternal way, and turned the colt's head away so he couldn't see what she was doing.
Then, with a swift, sudden burst of movement, she yanked a sharp sliver of pottery out of the colt's frog. He bleated, his whole body trembled, and Lamp's heart somersaulted up into her too-small throat. Blood and something else dribbled from torn flesh, and with it came a foul, bitter unpleasantness that befouled the nose. Miss Combes might have been a kind pony, and she might have been a gentle pony—but apparently there was only so much to go around and then it was gone.
Still, the sliver was out and with luck, the nasty wound would heal.
"Well, that's a leg saved," the housekeeper said in deadpan. "Maybe. We'll 'afta see. Yer pretty far gone, ye are."
"Will he die?" asked Lamp, whose heart currently lodged in her throat made it very difficult to say anything.
"Will 'e die?" The housekeeper repeated these words. "Will 'e die. Well, 'e might."
"That's horrible! Don't say that!"
"That's 'orrible, ye say? That's 'onest. I'm no doctor… no barber. Not a surgeon. I'll not lie to ye to make ye feel better, ye invader of cellars. I can only make do with whats I gots. This'ere colt is sick. Infected. Running a fever. Starved. Wee guyo 'as the breath and e'erything." Her accent somehow thickened to the point that she became difficult to understand. "I dinnae unnerstan all the wrongs in the wee bairn. The best that I can 'ope for is tae do what I can and 'ope it turns out, ye ken. If I make ye a promise that 'e'll be fine and 'e goes all a-ghost in his sleep, that'll make me a liar. There's many things I am, but a liar isn't one of them. A 'ousekeeper lives and dies by honest reputation."
Defeated, Lamp aimed a huff of frustration in the stern mare's direction.
The wrought iron pump handle ceased its movement and went still. Faint ribbons of steam rose in question mark curls from the wash basin. Lamp—who desperately wanted a little reassurance—held tight to her vexation for the stroppy housekeeper. But she also felt grateful. She felt many things and right now she was too hungry to give them a good sorting out. Miss Combes' expression changed and her eyes saddened.
"Things are s'posed to be better, not worse. But things are worse. Ficklewick can tell you why. Brilliant pony, Ficklewick. Princess Celestia's advisor for inter-tribal relations. If only she listened to 'im. But she doesn't'ave that luxury 'cause she's fighting to 'old it all together. Feels like everything we worked for is coming apart."
"You talk funny."
"Aye, I do," the housekeeper replied as she tossed the deaf-mute colt into the tub.
He bleated a bit, squirmed, sat down, and settled in.
"You didn't get the way you talk from your parents, so who does it come from?"
"Yer a smart filly," Miss Combes said as a scrubbing brush materialised just over her head. She went to work, scrubbing the colt, who leaned into it. "Ye and I have much in common, so it seems. Still miffed at you for almost blasting Ficklewick."
In response to the housekeeper's withering glare, Lamp tried to look as apologetic as possible.
"I was raised by earth ponies and griffons…" A faraway look appeared in Miss Combes eyes as she scrubbed the colt in the wash basin. "Goodly sorts. Took me in. Was a bit odd, I s'pose. The earth ponies, they didn't want to be afraid of magic no more so 'aving somepony small and unicornish that they could boss around 'elped 'em get used to it. Griffons, too." She sighed, shook her head, and her ears sagged.
"Those griffons 'ad enemies. Other griffons. The Royal Pony Sisters insisted that we 'elp our feathered friends… so when they came, there was a big fight. I was about yer age. The E'erfree was invaded. I fought. I fought for my 'ome. I fought for those I loved. I fought for those I didn't even know. Couldn't save them. Most of them died. I almost died. Those griffons were led by an evil manticore… Princess Luna took 'is 'ead off with 'is own axe. She did it after 'e surrendered and begged for mercy. I s'pose we all should've took it as a sign of things to come. The Night Princess was more than a little disturbed by this point."
Bad things did indeed happen later, though Lamp did not remember the specifics. Just the crushing darkness, followed by her bright light. It was her earliest memory, maybe her first memory. In silence, she studied the housekeeper, and watched how she bathed her filthy companion. In some way, stories were more satisfying than food—though they did not fill the belly. There would be a meal soon enough though; she trusted the housekeeper enough for that to happen.
"Now what do we 'ave 'ere?" Leaning in close, Miss Combes squinted so that she might examine the colt with a critical eye. Her horn glowed with a bright, steady light that did not waver, did not flicker. "Those are magical burns."
Bothered, even angry about this, Lamp asked, "How can you tell?"
"Well, 'cause I've done this to others."
"Why would somepony do this to him?" asked Lamp.
"To make 'im behave. Make 'im listen. To make 'im obey. Some ponies 'ave no patience."
Once again, Lamp's eyes stung, but she had no tears left. "He's so trusting."
"What do ye mean, filly?"
"He's so trusting. Look at him, Miss Combes. He's let you do everything to him without a bit of fuss. He's been hurt. By unicorns. You picked him up and he didn't fight. I don't know if I'd be that trusting if I was him."
"Aye…" The word stretched for far too long. "Aye. What a sweet little wee guyo."
"I want to help him. How do I do that? I'm still so young. I can barely help myself. What do I do? This has to be made right somehow."
Miss Combes resumed scrubbing with an expression so dour that it made Lamp turn away. Some ponies had a natural aptitude for crankiness, for grumpiness, and the housekeeper was one of them. She said nothing and her lips remained a tight, thin, crinkled line. While the grumpy mare gently removed the layers of caked on filth, Lamp wondered how she might do the impossible.
"Do you have any foals of your own?"
This question startled Miss Combes, and her head jerked backwards in a sudden manner. "Goodness no. Worst idea ever. That's 'ow mares die. It kills us. Saps us of our vitality. Makes us die young. Infections. Bad 'ealth. It's said that it's every mare's duty to foal, but that's 'orse apples. There's whole 'erds of unwanted foals in the streets. I'm not about to throw my life away out of some misbegotten sense of duty. If you 'ave a lick of common sense, ye'll listen to what I have to say." Ears fully erect, she added, "I plan to live to Ficklewick's age… or older. I want power, filly, and ye don't get that by dying young."
"Power?" asked Lamp.
"The root cellar is well-stocked, ye cuss… but did ye see anything?"
Lamp blinked; then, for good measure, she did it again.
Miss Combes laughed; it was a harsh braying sound that grated the ears. As for Lamp, she recalled just how empty the root cellar had appeared. She'd found nothing but empty shelves and old baskets. Which she now realised were probably overflowing with stored goods. Rather than be upset, or even put-out, young Lamp found that she both admired and respected the canny housekeeper.
"Doing what I do is no real work at all, ye ken. Ficklewick is a clean sort. And for a unicorn such as meself, keeping of the 'ouse is no strenuous chore. Takes me moments to tidy the 'ouse and put things in order. All my free time is spent in study and experimentation. As for Ficklewick, 'e's a good sort. Don't do no untoward caddishness. Pays well. Which is why I'm still peeved that ye almost took 'is 'ead off. Ye nearly ruined the good thing I 'as 'ere for meself."
"You had my friend!" Lamp blurted out.
"Ye barely know 'im and ye—"
"That doesn't matter!" Little Lamp stomped both of her front hooves to emphasise her words. "Something happened! I… I can't say what it is! But something happened and I hafta do right by him!"
"Destiny put a tight 'obble 'round yer leg, didn't it, filly?"
Lamp's response was barely a whisper: "I don't understand what happened. Only that it did."
"That complicates things. Ficklewick believes that some friendships are so important that they're fated. Why, 'e's practically alone in that, and most of his peers think 'e's addled. Even soft-'eaded. Even Princess Celestia thinks the whole thing is rubbish. But I believe Ficklewick. I believe in 'is work. That stallion is brilliant. I s'pose I can forgive ye for what ye did, Lamp."
"Thank you."
"The world'll tear ye a-twain, ye ken."
"I know," the filly whispered. "It was one of the first things I thought of. What do I do?"
"Crivens, I wish I knew." After a sigh, she continued, "Doing right is never easy. After doing all the killing I did, and I did quite a lot, I 'ad to learn how to live with meself. 'Twas the right thing to do at the time, but living with it was 'ard, so it was. And then came the night when Princess Luna lost 'er mind. Why, I 'ad to do me a lot more killing… I 'ad to keep Ficklewick safe 'cause 'is work is just that important. 'Cause of what I did when I was younger, I found the killing part all too easy, ye ken. Things 'appen for a reason. I guess. Though those words seem like so much rancid treacle."
"I feel really bad for what I did and I—"
"You tell Ficklewick that during supper. I've no doubts ye'll spend the rest of yer life a-worrying 'bout what might've been 'ad you 'it yer mark. If I was ye, and in yer place, I might've done the same. We're not so different, ye and me. This colt is yer Ficklewick."
Consumed by stupefied silence, Lamp didn't know what to say.
"If yer smart, filly, as smart as I think ye be, you'll make Ficklewick yer Ficklewick and find some way into 'is good graces. If 'e offers, let 'im 'elp ye. Don't be prideful. Be agreeable. Now, come closer and make yerself useful, ye cuss. I want ye to peel potatoes and chop some celery. Got it? Ye'll earn yer supper this even, and if yer lucky, maybe a place to sleep."