//------------------------------//
// Chapter 6 
// Story: From Canterlot with Love 
// by Sagebrush 
//------------------------------//

An explosion erupted from Gray Mane’s lab, which came as no big surprise to anypony.  Folks had gotten used to this kind of thing.  Since the alchemist, arcanist, wizard, or whatever Gray Mane was had been interred in an isolated wing of the castle, a distant detonation or two had just become part of the background noise.  Within weeks, the other denizens had learned to accept each boom, bang, burst and blast without bother, and each expulsion and explosion without explanation.  If a few days went by without some ground-shaking disaster, it would be as if the birds had stopped chirping or the bees had stopped buzzing.  Somepony would probably feel compelled to go and make sure that everything was alright.
 
The source of this most recent reinforcement of the status quo had occurred when an alembic filled with a volatile reagent was knocked from one of the work tables.  This was after another table had leapt into it.
 
“Ach, will ye hold still, damn you!”  Gray Mane loosed a spell towards the errant furniture as it tore around his laboratory; the magic soared harmlessly over it, and less harmlessly into a shelf of beakers.  There followed the crystalline sound of shattered glass.
 
“Hey, uh, boss.  Are you sure you’re going about this the right away?” asked Febre from where he hoped was out of firing and trampling range.  In short order, his mentor and the table had reduced the lab to shambles.  Well, maybe they had.  Whether or not the new mess was an improvement over the old would be a point of debate.  Either way, it was making it hard to get work done.
 
“And what would ye suggest?!”
 
The table charged towards Gray Mane, and he attempted to duck out of the way.  His joints, well past the use-by date for daring dives, stiffened and sent him tumbling only a few inches out of the few yards he had aimed for.  Fortunately for him, the table was much spryer than he; it leapt over him and towards the doorway where it collided heavily with the frame.  He began preparing another spell.
 
“For one thing”—Febre winced as the spell took out an autoclave—“I don’t think the magic is having much of an effect.”  He looked around the wreckage of the lab.  “At least not one that we’re looking for.  Maybe we could just get one or two of the guards to smash this thing up?  Er…”  Right after he had said it, the table had turned sharply towards him; even without eyes, its glare bored into him.  “…Or maybe not.”
 
“Pah, that would’na work.  Back when I was about yer age—and further in ability, I’ll have ye ken—I tried that with a rogue broom and ended up floodin’ my mentor’s laboratory for my trouble.”  Gray Mane took another shot while the table was distracted, but it sprung away just before the spell made contact.  “Will this bloody thing nae stay in one place?!”
 
“They had laboratories back when you were my age?  Wasn’t everypony still too busy discovering fire?”
 
“’Tisn’t the time, lad!”
 
“Wait—if you’ve seen this happen before, how’d you deal with it back then?”
 
“My master cast a disenchantment, leavin’ us with a closet filled with more brooms than we started with.  Hah—take that!”  Gray Mane fired off another futile spell.
 
“But you tried that when this happened less than a week ago, and I don’t need inform you that it doesn’t seem to have taken!”
 
Gray Mane went quiet.  The table tried to squeeze through the doorway again.
 
“…Aye, aye, I reckon it was similar.”
 
Febre stared.  He knew Gray Mane well enough to tell the difference between a stammer and a brogue, but there was a much larger red flag whipping at the end of that sentence.  The stare narrowed into a glare.
 
“What do you mean by ‘similar’?”
 
“Well, when yer researchin’ innumerable arcane mysteries, delvin’ into unknown and dangerous arts, compilin’ countless forbidden words that your laypony can nae ever hope to understand, well, sometimes…”
 
“Sometimes…?” Febre prodded.
 
“Sometimes… ye might misremember a couple.”
 
“You forgot how to do it?!”
 
“I didna forget, I misremembered, ye fouter, and the spell still lasted nearly a week!  Now, if ye’d lend me some assistance in rootin’ this thing into place, perhaps I could make it last.”
 
“Whatever.  Did you at least, by some divine providence, happen to remember how to do it?”
 
“I’ve got some very good guesses.”
 
“Why can’t you ever, just for once, be completely certain about what it is you’re doing?”
 
“Because then there’d be no point in doin’ it, lad.  Now make yerself useful and distract it!”
 
Febre groaned in compliance, making sure that it was known how put upon he was, and stepped towards the table.  A flicker of flame began wisping around the fluting of his horn, before darting towards it.  The flame extinguished itself on the table’s lacquered surface without a mark, but succeeded in drawing its attention.  The table gave up on the doorway and faced this new attacker; it edged along the wall away from him.
 
“Hey,” said Febre, his horn beginning to glow once more.  The table crouched into a defensive stance.  “I suppose some sharp one-liner would be apropos at this moment.  Maybe something about plywood legs, or your father being an elderberry bush, though, to be honest, I’m not sure what would be considered biting commentary to a piece of furniture; something about termites to be more literal, perhaps?  Or what about something about your grain, or how well you were leveled, or—oh good, that takes care of that.”
 
Febre relaxed his magic as the table thrashed about fruitlessly under the effect of Gray Mane’s; its legs were anchored to the floor (which was to say the styrofoam strata above it) with a set of glowing binds.
 
“You got this, boss, or are you going to have another senior moment?”
 
Gray Mane shushed him.  “Quiet, lad.  I’m workin’ with two spells now, and I need total concen—”
 
“Hey, you two, is this a bad time?”
 
The binds evaporated and the table sprung away.
 
“Fantastic,” said Febre.
 
“Bloody!”  Gray Mane spun towards the doorway, where one of the pegasus guards was watching the entire scene with a grin so wide and bright it would’ve been right at home on a jack-o’-lantern.
 
“Ye daft, plated scunner!” shouted Gray Mane.  “Don’t ye know better than to sneak up on ponies like some kind of brigand?!”
 
The pegasus whistled as he took in the scene and the cause of it.  “How about that; you guys decide to get a pet?”
 
The table crouched near the rear of the laboratory in a scattering of broken glass, watching the three ponies, at least as far as they could tell.
 
“’Tis not a pet!” Gray Mane spat.  “’Tis a thing of evil!  Of wanton destruction!”
 
“Really?  Then you ought to get on swimmingly.”
 
“Featherbrain, right?” interrupted Febre.  “Is there a reason you’re here instead of standing in front of a door somewhere?”
 
Featherstep shook his head and stepped inside.  “You do that on purpose, don’t you?  For your information, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a reason; you can trust me on that.  It just so happened that I was unlucky enough to draw the short straw.  A letter came in addressed to Crack Shot, and word is that you’re handling these.  Do you want it now, or should I come back at a better time?”
 
Febre sighed.  “Just set it on a table.  One that isn’t moving.  I’ll deal with that once we’ve dealt with this.”
 
Featherstep plucked the letter from within his barding, and set it down.
 
“So what is up with that thing?” he asked.  “Did you create it as a bit of extra help?”
 
“’Create it’?  Ha!  That creature happened, and has been a source of mayhem since,” said Gray Mane.  “Also, yer being here is of no help, a nuisance, and entirely undesired,” he felt it necessary to add.  
 
“Hmm…”  Featherstep ignored him and began walking noiselessly through the sea of broken glass and ruined experiments toward the table.  He had come within a few yards of it when it began to retreat backwards.  “Mayhem, huh?” he whispered to himself before turning towards Gray Mane.  “Say, a question:  how long have you been trying to corral this thing?”
 
“If ye must know, it has been for the better part of a half hour, and not for the first time.”
 
“Uh huh.  And from the look of the scorch marks all over the walls—those are new scorch marks, right?—you’ve probably tried all kinds of tricks and spells to do so.”
 
Gray Mane managed to roll his eyes despite a lack of lubrication.  “’Tis not the most difficult deduction to make.  Does this line o’ thought have a point at the end of it?”
 
“Have you tried not doing all of that?”
 
“What, just wait for it to tucker itself out and curl up in the ruins of my labors?!”
 
“Hmm, well… have you ever dealt with animals before?  Have you ever, say, owned a cat?”
 
“I can’t say I’ve had the displeasure.”
 
“Really?  Not even as a familiar?”
 
“Not the time, tin can.”
 
“This is just a guess, mind you, but could it be that the reason this thing is tearing around your lab and tearing up your lab is because it might be terrified?”
 
“Hrmm…”  Gray Mane scratched his chin, careful not to scratch too hard lest it catch fire.  “I suppose it does seem a tad more sentient than the broom did.”
 
This was lost on Featherstep who had trouble imagining the desiccated old wizard using a broom for anything other than to fly on.  Besides, he reasoned, if a broom had been given a spark of intelligence in this sty of a lab, it would’ve fled the moment it had seen what it was up against.
 
Puting these musings aside, he said, “Here, let me try something.”
 
He returned his attention to the table, which, he assumed, was still eyeing him warily.  He tried not to stare at it, keeping his eyes soft and low.
 
“Don’t worry, nopony is going to hurt you.  Relax,” he cooed softly.  He removed a gilded shoe, extended a forehoof, and prayed that this would work.  He’d had success as a colt with the neighbors’ cats, but never had the chance to practice with furniture.  Visually, the similarities stopped with the number of legs.  However, as for the behavior…
 
Featherstep waited.  The table didn’t budge, but neither did he.  He would let it take its time.  After a few uncertain minutes, it took a tentative step forward, only to quickly flinch back.  Still, he did not move.  Cautiously, the table circled around him, finally stopping a small distance away.  Just within reach, Featherstep noted.  Ever so slowly, he eased his unshod hoof towards it and, when it didn’t start away, began to gently pet a corner of it.  He had no idea if the table enjoyed the gesture or not, but at least it wasn’t running away from him or, more importantly, running over him.  It pressed up against his hoof.  Alright, maybe it did like it after all.  No doubt the whole scene looked ridiculous; Featherstep would allow himself the embarrassment later.
 
“See?  Just a big misunderstanding.”
 
Gray Mane grunted in grudging affirmation.  Then, to both Featherstep’s and Febre’s surprise, he apologized.  “I misjudged ye,” he said to the table.  “I’m sorry fer tryin’ to exorcise ye when, against all natural law, ye sprung to life and made a damn bloody mess of my laboratory.”
 
Nopony would say he was very good at it.
 
But, in its own funny little way, it was sincere.  Gray Mane practiced his style of universal hatred more out of habit and hobby than genuine malice.  He was curmudgeonly, but he wasn’t cruel.  The table seemed to accept his words, and, albeit somewhat hesitantly, moved towards him.  Gray Mane frowned slightly, but gave it a pat.
 
“Aww, now isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”  Featherstep grinned as he walked past Gray Mane towards the doorway.  “Anything else I can do before I go?”
 
“Actually, now that I think about it, yes.”  Febre rooted through a sheaf of notes and retrieved two envelopes.  “Would you mind sending these off?”
 
“Oh?  What are those?”
 
Febre stared at him.  “They are letters,” he said slowly.
 
“Yeah, I got that far.  From whom?”
 
“Check Mate and Storm Stunner this time.”
 
“Yeah?  How are they doing, anyways?”
 
“They have gotten themselves waylaid for the next couple of weeks as unpaid farm laborers, so about as well as can be expected.”
 
“Mm-hmm.  I’ll assume there’s more to it than that, and that maybe I’ll find out later.”  Featherstep tucked the letters behind the breast of his barding.  “For now though, I’ve done what I’ve come here to do, duty calls, and so does my lunch break before that.  Since I’d like to have an appetite for it, and since that requires fresh air, I’m going to say so long.”
 
“Ach, away with ye and show yer face around here no more,” said Gray Mane noncommittally, but when he turned to face the guardspony, he had already vanished into the hall.  “Pah.”  
 
He looked over the ruins of his laboratory.  Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. It was a shame about the broken glassware, but that would be replaced by funding out of somepony else’s pocket, and all of the small fires were taking care of some of the clutter he wouldn’t have bothered to clean up otherwise.  Every cloud had a silver lining, so maybe the smoke and fumes that were currently filling the laboratory did as well.
 
“Looks like this thing is still in one piece,” said Febre, after freeing the smart stone from beneath some debris and removing it from its case.  Gray Mane was charitable enough to ignore the disappointment in his voice.
 
“So it would seem our cohort has grown by one more,” he said, considering the table, as it seemed to do the same to him.
 
“Yeah-huh,” Febre replied, not really paying attention.  He picked up the letter that Featherstep had dropped off and looked it over.  It was pre-stamped with the address of a Wonderbolts training facility in Cloudsdale.  He opened it, began to read its contents, and frowned upon making it down a tenth of the page.  He hadn’t needed to read any farther.
 
On the leaf of Wonderbolts stationery was written:
 
Hey CS—
 
Not a lot is up with me.  What’s new with you?
 
-Skyway
 
Febre grumbled.  This was clearly going to become a thing.  He decided to wait until the evening to relay Skyway’s message, along with some choice commentary, when the guardsponies were most likely to catch it.
 
“And I suppose it’ll need a name if we’re to be addressin’ it, and if it’s to make itself useful,” continued Gray Mane, still musing over the table.
 
“What about ‘Table’?” suggested Febre, intending to save any creativity for Crack Shot’s later invective.
 
Gray Mane looked at the table—or Table, rather—which bent its legs in a wooden approximation of a shrug.  “Hrm, it doesn’t seem to mind the capital letter.”
 
“Glad to hear it.”
 
“Though, I suppose it’ll be an additional responsibility as well.  It’ll be needin’, er, varnishin’ I suppose?  Maybe walks to… to keep the oak limber, perhaps.  Hrrm.  ‘Tis hard to say what exactly should go into its caretakin’.”
 
“I would imagine.”
 
“I’m certain that ye’ll have no trouble figurin’ it out.”
 
“Great.”
 

---

 
Featherstep moved through the castle like a breeze, unnoticed by those he passed on his way to the gardens.  He wasn’t sneaking, of course; that would be amateurish.  Anypony with the slightest experience in subtlety knew that there was nothing less subtle than trying to skulk about on the tip of your hooves.  You might as well have been wearing orange.  No, the trick was nothing more than a relaxed gait, an unassuming expression, and making sure you happened to always be where nopony else was looking.  Easy as breathing, really.  Was it necessary?  Probably not.  But it was practice, and it made patrols interesting.  Speaking of which…
 
“–can’t believe they wouldn’t let us in, just ‘cause it was ‘off-limits,’” said a unicorn stallion to his shorter friend, who grunted in agreement.  “’Sides that captain of theirs with that bubblegum barrier of his, what do they even do outside of acting pushy?”
 
“Hah, don’t forget getting shown up by a bunch of mares from out in the sticks!  I bet their job is just to make those six look good.”
 
“I say that the Princesses oughta replace the lot of them with marble and save the taxpayers some money.  It’d probably do the job just as—“
 
“Greetings, sirs,” said Featherstep, just behind the taller unicorn and his friend.  “Enjoying your time at the castle so far?”
 
The two ponies stiffened.  Slowly and against all better judgment they turned towards the voice and then instantly wished that they hadn’t.  Behind them and well within listening distance stood a guardspony; his face wasn’t readable, but then it didn’t really need to be.  The taller one blushed, the shorter one blanched, and Featherstep grinned internally.  The taller one thought quickly and began to speak.  Unfortunately for him, thinking quickly was not the same as thinking cleverly.
 
“’H-hey, eerr, I—“
 
“’O’ and ‘U’, sir, and sometimes ‘Y’.  Yes, the castle will leave you speechless,” said Featherstep, enjoying this immensely but managing not to show it.  “Anyways, I wanted to let you two know that you won’t want to go down this way for the time being,” he added, pointing past them down the hall towards one of the gardens.  “A couple of us will be training through there, so it will be off-limits for the time being.  But other than that, may you enjoy the rest of your time here, sirs.”
 
Featherstep then walked off, leaving the two ponies to gather their wits since they probably wouldn’t have had enough to spare otherwise.  He sighed.  Ponies like them were all too common.  They noticed the big crises and ignored the small, enjoying peaceful days in the city and showing no comprehension of the fact that, in a city, peace was something that was kept, that it was a day-to-day job.  No doubt when he was gone and their chests had stopped pounding they would have plenty of unkind things to say about him as well, though he’d wager that they wouldn’t dare speak them without glancing around a few times as they did so.  But that was alright; you didn’t do this job for the appreciation.  He continued down the corridor towards the garden, where he intended to meet Ikebana.  The other guardspony had had a meaningful discussion with the Staff Sergeant regarding his knack for floral arrangement and was interested in discussing with Featherstep how it could be applied in matters of camouflage.  And who knew?  Depending on how much of the garden they used, a bit of camouflage could prove useful once the topiarists found out.
 

---

 
It was not only in the gardens that guardsponies were trying to fit a bit of extra training into their lunch breaks.  In the courtyard, a dozen or so had gathered for an impromptu session, discussing ideas, putting them into practice, and seeing what worked and what didn’t.  From varied and unpredictable locations Cacopony’s bellows exploded, making the whole area feel like a minefield of sorts.  On a relatively quiet patch of grass, Rosetta and Sender talked.
 
“You’re absolutely certain about this?” asked Rosetta.
 
“Yes,” said Sender.
 
“You know exactly what you’re doing?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“It won’t go wrong in some terrible way?”
 
“No.”
 
Rosetta paused.  “…Is that a ‘no’ as in ‘no, it won’t go wrong in some terrible way,’ or a ‘no’ as in ‘no, your statement that it won’t go wrong in some terrible way is, in fact, erroneous’?”
 
Sender sighed, rubbing his face with a foreleg.  “The first one.”
 
“But what if, say, a fly got caught along with me in the teleportation?” Rosetta continued.  “My wings won’t be turned into some sort of weird, chitinous things, will they?  Could you imagine that:  giant, translucent wings, blurring and buzzing as they flapped?”  She stopped to imagine this in greater detail.  “Hmm, I wonder what that’d be like.”
 
“No, I can promise you that won’t happen.”
 
“Really?  Are you sure about that?” she asked, having begun to warm to the idea.
 
“I am positive.  Now look; I can teleport myself with no complications whatsoever.  Watch—”
 
Rosetta managed to shield her eyes before Sender vanished in a burst of green light.
 
“As you can see,” he said from a few yards away, before disappearing again.
 
“—it is no—”
 
Pop!
 
“—big—”
 
Pop!
 
“—deal,” he finished, once more in front of her.  “See?  It’s simple.”
 
“Well, yeah, teleporting yourself should be no problem, I would think.  You’ve had a lifetime to get used to how you’re all put together.  Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that you can do this with another pony?”
 
“Yes.  It wouldn’t be the first time.”
 
Rosetta pursed her lips.  “… Alright, fine.  I’ll give it a go.  But if I end up inside out or upside down or in some other dimension filled with eldritch horrors, you’re going to regret it.  Probably not as much as me of course, but I’ll find a way to haunt you.”
 
“Trust me; you’ll be fine.  Are you ready?”
 
Rosetta took a deep breath.  “Alright,” she said.  “I’m ready.”
 
Sender’s horn began to glow, and Rosetta closed her eyes for all the help that’d do, which wasn’t an awful lot.  Green light enveloped her; however, it did not stop there.  It suffused her and it saturated her.  It shone not just through her eyelids, but from behind her eyelids, from her corneas, and from her retinas.  It wasn’t blinding this time, but it was omnipresent, and, for that sliver of a moment when the light bled from every atom of her, she wondered if this was what it was like to be a star.
 
“See?  What’d I tell you?” came Sender’s voice from some distance away and below.  “Not bad at all right?”
 
As Rosetta’s eyes shot open they filled with blue, the courtyard walls nowhere in sight.  Looking down, she found that she was standing on a swath of cloud, her hooves making small dimples in its surface.  Over the edge and a few hundred yards down, she saw Sender, the size of a dot, looking up towards her.  She reeled back and fell onto her haunches.  The experience had not been at all what she had imagined, and she had imagined a lot of things.  There was no sensation of being torn into a million tiny pieces and then reassembled, no feeling of being stretched atom-thin across time and space; heck, she didn’t even get that knotty feeling in her stomach that came with moving really fast.  She was simply there one moment and here the next, as if somepony had flicked a switch to change the scenery around her.  The sheer normalcy of it was disorienting; it had all happened in an instant, but what an instant it was.  After taking a few minutes to process it, she stood back up and looked over the side of the cloud.
 
“Hey!” she shouted down.
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Do that again!”
 

---

 
That evening, a pair of guardsponies was enjoying a low-key end to their day off, sitting at the counter of a small salt bar nestled away in one of Canterlot’s alleys because that was the only place anypony would be willing to put it.  The place could have been called a dive, but that might imply that it had further to fall, and the place was clearly at rock bottom.  It had floors you would eat off of after having seen the plates, a health rating pulled from somewhere near the back of the alphabet, and standing room only because nopony would trust the furniture to support its own weight, let alone theirs.  However, it did have couple of things going for it.  One was a decent sel gris at a price unbeatable anywhere else in the city.  The other was an uncommonly relaxed atmosphere, given the kind of place it was.  Unlike other similar disestablishments, never was there a fight, fracas, or even an affray.  The Staff Sergeant’s presence tended to have a mollifying effect.
 
“Everypony’s really gettin’ into the new trainin’, eh, Effie?” said Kickstart.  And at that moment it should be said that he was just Kickstart.  When off-duty he made a practice of hanging up the ‘Corporal’ alongside his armor.  He was picking at a plate of wilted, brown strips that might’ve started life as lettuce, kelp, or possibly a dish cloth.
 
The Staff Sergeant swallowed a mouthful of water and said, “Don’t call me ‘Effie.’”
 
Although also technically off-duty, she’d prefer to say plainclothes.
 
“What about ‘FB’?”
 
“Don’t you dare.”
 
“Budgie?”  He grinned, earning a glare from the Staff Sergeant.
 
In strong relationships, such as friendships, kinships, courtships, or, as between the Staff Sergeant and Kickstart, battleships, individuals learn to read each other.  They pick up on the little tells.  In this case, the Staff Sergeant’s glare was telling Kickstart to shut up.
 
“Fine, fine, jeez, I’m sorry,” he said, raising a hoof in a placating gesture.  “So how about turnin’ down the death stare?  There are civilians present, and you wouldn’t want to turn one of them into stone.”
 
The Staff Sergeant rolled her eyes and returned to her glass of water.
 
“Moving on and continuing your earlier thought, I agree, Corporal.  It’s satisfying to see everypony attacking the activity; I look forward to seeing what strategies they come up with in making use of their talents.”
 
“Heh, jaywalkers and litterbugs beware.  By the way, as much as the fact irks you, you know we’re off-duty; you don’t have to call me ‘Corporal.’”
 
“I don’t, you say?”
 
“Come on—we’ve known each other long enough.”
 
A rare smile crossed the Staff Sergeant’s features.  “Alright, I’ll grant you that much, KS.”
 
“Oh, that’s just not fair.”
 
Kickstart took another bite of his salad, which for the sake of future appetites the Staff Sergeant tried to ignore.
 
“I don’t know why you insist on coming here,” she said.  “That can’t be palatable.  It’s probably not even edible.”
 
Kickstart swallowed and said, “Nah, it ain’t bad; it’s kinda like kimchi without all the pepper, and with its own vinegar.  I think it’s pretty good.”
 
The Staff Sergeant shook her head.  “I think you’ve been wearing your helmet too tightly.”
 
“Heh, maybe.  Say, on the subject of helmets, what do you say about leading a PT session without one?”
 
“What would be the point of that?”
 
“Looks cooler.”
 
“Looks cooler,” the Staff Sergeant echoed flatly.
 
“Definitely.  Think about it:  in books, pictures, movies, you name it, you can always tell who’s a flank kicker by if they’re helmetless, preferably with their mane billowing in the wind or something.  It’s cool looking.”
 
“It’s idiotic and asking for a head injury.  I’ll take utility over some vain—”
 
“Barkeep!  Salt!”
 
Kickstart, the Staff Sergeant, and the rest of the patrons turned towards the holler and the slamming of the bar’s front door.  A pair of unicorn stallions stood in the entranceway and, by the look of their swaying, this was not their first stop that evening.
 
“Just a minute,” said the barkeep as he polished one of his dishes.  He gave a satisfied smile once he could make out his reflection, which, given that the dish was made out of wood, probably should have been a cause for alarm.  “Now then, what would you two gentlecolts like?”
 
“Somethin’ cheap,” the taller of the stallions slurred.
 
“Mm, low sodium might not be a bad idea, either,” the barkeep muttered to himself. Out loud he said, “Coming right up!”
 
“Now tha’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout—service!  Much better than a’ the friffin’-frig-friggin’ castle!”  The stallion banged a hoof against the countertop, oblivious to the disapproving stares this earned from the other patrons, or perhaps just not caring.
 
“Yea’s right.  Stupid gold-plated pansies,” the shorter stallion agreed, sneaking a glance behind himself as he did so.
 
Kickstart looked at the Staff Sergeant and raised an eyebrow.  She shrugged and took another sip of her water.
 
“Freedom of speech,” she said as she set her glass down.  The stallion banged the counter again, tipping her glass over into her lap.  “And now I will exercise mine.  Hey—”
 
The two stallions spun towards her, then fell into each other when the room kept on spinning without them.
 
“What?!” the taller of the two managed after pulling himself up.
 
“A number of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful evening out, so I would appreciate it if you’d quiet down some.  Please.”
 
“Oh, sod off!” the stallion sneered.  He turned towards the bar and banged the counter once more.  “Barkeep! Where’s that salt?!”  He was starting to sober up and was not happy at all about the fact.
 
“This is what I am referring to,” continued the Staff Sergeant, calmly, “storming into the place, making a scene, and being generally rude.  I would recommend that the two of you return to wherever you’re staying and get a good night’s sleep.  You will be glad for it in the morning.”
 
“’You’ll be glad for it in the morning!’” the shorter one mimicked in falsetto.  “I think we’ll be glad to stay right here, actually!  What do you have to say to that?!”
 
The Staff Sergeant said nothing.
 
By now an audience was starting to gather for this unexpected bit of dinner theatre, and the bartender had wisely given up on getting those plates of salt.  Kickstart was stepping back, getting some distance.  She was being civil.  Celestia help those two idiots, she was being civil.  That meant one thing: in the aftermath of whatever was going to happen next, she wanted it clearly known that she hadn’t instigated it, that she had tried to talk it down.  And these two dolts thought it just meant that they had found somepony to bully.
 
“What, so quiet all of a sudden?”  The shorter stallion leered and took a stumbling step towards her.
 
“I ask that you keep your distance,” the Staff Sergeant said.  “I will defend myself.”
 
“Yeah?”  The stallion took another step closer and, as he jabbed a hoof roughly into her chest, added, “A pretty thing like you?  I’d like to see you—hey!”
 
The Staff Sergeant stepped to his side, thrust a foreleg beneath his raised hoof and over his neck, and pulled him headfirst into the counter with a dull thud.  He slumped to the floor with a low groan as entire star systems erupted across his vision.  A helmet would've helped with that, she thought to herself.
 
“Oh!  You nasty, little—”

The taller stallion reared up, intent on bringing his forehooves down upon the Staff Sergeant, but she was with him the moment he rose, driving a hoof into his sternum and sending him sprawling heavily onto his back.  Her hoof remained in place, pinning him down.
 
“Are you finished?” she asked.  Her tone of voice hadn’t changed in the least.
 
The stallion attempted to say something, but everything came out in coughs and gasps.  The Staff Sergeant waited patiently for him to catch his breath.  A few moments later he turned his head away from her, his face hot and red and twisted into a grimace.  “Hmph, and where’s the damn Guard when you actually need them?” he growled.
 
Silence followed, broken by a few snickers and an embarrassed cough from the peanut gallery.
 
“Corporal,” the Staff Sergeant said, and the face of the stallion beneath her paled at the sound of it, “return to the castle and bring back a couple of soldiers to collect these two.”
 
“Yeah, will do,” Kickstart sighed.  He maneuvered between the spectators and out the door into the coolness of the alley.  With a strong flap of his wings, he was in the air like a shot.  
 
The stallion pinned beneath the Staff Sergeant’s hoof tried with no luck to break free; beside him, his colleague still lay out cold.
 
“So then,” she said, “disturbing the peace, as well as assault, although you didn’t quite manage the battery:  it looks like we know where you’ll be getting that good night’s sleep.”
 
As Kickstart raced towards the castle, he frowned.  This was going to mean paperwork and witness reports.  This was going to mean an early end to his day off and the start of a long night ahead.  All because a couple of headstrong dolts had the indecency to go and get their flanks kicked by Effie.  He sighed to himself once more.  Sometimes he just had the worst of luck.
 

---

 
While Kickstart was speeding away from the scene of the crime and what only he would call a dinner, back in the cafeteria of Castle Canterlot many of the guardsponies were beginning theirs.  As a rule, the castle cafeteria saw continual activity during the day, with guardsponies coming and going between breaks carefully scheduled to keep patrols and sentries in place.  However, now was especially busy.  It was a period of transition, one when many would be ending their day, while others would be starting their night.  It was a time for those who had performed the Day Guard and those who would perform the Night Guard to say ‘good evening’, ‘good work’, and ‘good night.’  And to those who would be performing a double shift, ‘good luck’ was also thrown in for good measure.
 
“The black armor looks good on you guys,” said Featherstep to Ikebana and Sender, rather charitably.  Ikebana still had bits of twigs and leaves stuck in his mane from the afternoon's training, and Sender had met with little success in trying to brush his down into the signature swoop of the Night Guard.  It stuck out at several odd angles, and a couple of even ones, too.
 
“Uh-huh, right,” replied Sender absentmindedly as he fidgeted with his barding.  “Engh, dangit—it feels like the chest strap got twisted around all funny,” he muttered.
 
“Yeah, I like it,” said Ikebana, looking himself over.  “It looks edgier, dangerous.”
 
Rosetta tilted her head one way and another as she scrutinized her contemporaries.  “Mm, well it does have a few more pointy bits, that’s for sure,” she said.  “The both of you might want to give your manes another brushing, though.  Yours looks like a small garden, and I think Sender’s longs for its native helmet.”
 
Ikebana reddened and ran a hoof through his mane, snagging a couple of burrs.  “Er, to be fair, we did gear up in a bit of a hurry.”
 
“Alright, that does it,” growled Sender.  His horn flickered and flashed, and his barding blinked onto the table.  He leaned forward and untangled its fastenings.  “What?” he said when he noticed the stares.
 
“All that for a knot?” asked Featherstep.
 
“Better than having it pressing into my side all night.”
 
“What about you two?” said Ikebana.  “What are you guys going to do for the rest of the evening?”
 
Rosetta canted her head upwards.  “Actually, I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said.  “I might just call it an early night.”
 
Featherstep retrieved the letters tucked into his barding and said, “I’m going to deliver these.  It looks like Sergeants Storm and Check are writing home.”
 
“Huh, so that old ghoul’s invention really does work,” said Ikebana, resting his chin on his hoof.  “Huh.”
 
“Surprisingly enough.  You know that one of his work tables had come to life when I dropped by?”
 
This might’ve gotten more attention if the guardsponies didn’t know Gray Mane so well.
 
“So you’re going to deliver those letters?” asked Rosetta.
 
“I might as well,” said Featherstep.  “They’re addressed locally, and it’ll be faster than waiting for tomorrow’s mail pickup.  Why not save the castle the cost of a couple of stamps, right?”
 
“Mm… hey, I know!”  Rosetta sat up straight.  “Why don’t you send them, Sender?  You can do that right?”
 
Sender took a sip of his tea and shook his head.  “Doubt it,” he said.
 
Rosetta sagged forward, pouting.  “Aw, laaame—why not?  I thought that was your thing.”
 
“These are letters we’re talking about, and letters go in mailboxes.  That’s a tall order.”
 
“Hmm…” Rosetta tapped the tip of her hoof against the table.  “You could get close though, right?”
 
“Close only counts in horseshoes, and only if you’re throwing rather than wearing them.”
 
“Nonono.  Well, yes—but no.  What I mean to say is you could get one of us close right?”
 
“Ahh, I see.  Yeah, I’m sure I could do that.”
 
Rosetta turned to Featherstep.  “What do you say?  Want a hoof delivering those letters?”
 
Featherstep pursed his lips for a moment then shrugged.  “Yeah, what the hay, why not?” he said, before sliding the letters to Sender.  “You recognize these places?”
 
Sender read over the addresses.  “One of them.  The apartments Storm is writing to will be no trouble at all, though Check Mate’s addressees will be more of a ballpark shot.”  Sender divided the letters between Featherstep and Rosetta.  “And you guys’ll have to fly back, of course.”
 
“That’s fine with me,” said Featherstep.  He placed Storm’s letter into his barding.  “What about you, Rose?”
 
“Sure, no problem here!”
 
“Alright then, take care, you two,” said Sender.  His horn began to glow.  Then, in a grand burst of green, the two pegasi were gone.  He gave his head a good shake afterwards, and took a deep breath.  “Phew, that’ll take it out of you,” he said.
 
Ikebana looked at their empty seats.  “Uh, don’t you think you should’ve let them finish their dinner first?” he asked.
 
Sender looked at their full plates.  “Hmm, good point.”  In another flash of green the plates vanished as well.  “No harm, no foul, right?”
 

---

 
When Featherstep’s vision cleared, he noticed that he was at the entrance of a two-story apartment complex.  He didn’t notice much more about it than that.  He certainly didn’t notice a dinner plate clattering onto the ground next to him a moment later.  This was because the very next thing he had noticed was a pair of mares, a unicorn and earth pony with bags on their sides, staring at him wide eyed from a couple of yards away, as if he had just popped out of thin air.  He decided to play it straight.
 
“Good evening, ladies,” he said with a small nod, tapping the brow of his champron.
 
“…Hi there,” said the earth pony.  She leaned into her friend and whispered, “Hey—is he the one you’re seeing?”
 
The unicorn slowly and subtly shook her head.
 
“Ah.”  The earth pony looked Featherstep over.  “So… how can you tell?”
 
“Ugh, don’t be so tactless.”
 
“Oh, you know I’m teasing.  Anyways, if that isn’t him… dibs.”
 
“Villa…”
 
“Oh, don’t you ‘Villa’ me, Nomde,” the earth pony whispered back.  “Why should you be the only one that gets one?”
 
At odds with no doubt being the subject of a conversation he couldn’t quite hear, Featherstep coughed and said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ve got some business to attend to here, so I’ll wish you both a pleasant night.”
 
“Aww, taking off so soon?” said the earth pony.  “What kind of business?  Maybe we can help.”  She stepped closer with a sly smile.  “I’m Villanelle, by the way, and this is Nomde.”  She gave a small toss of her head back towards her friend, who was dragging a hoof down her face in embarrassment.  Not that Villanelle noticed, her eyes fixed on Featherstep as they were.
 
“Ah, it’s nothing too trying, really,” said Featherstep, hours of training keeping the red from his face.  “Just delivering a letter is all.  To somepony in this complex named—” he took the letter from his barding and read the front of it.  “…Nomde Plume, it would seem.”  Well, wasn’t that something.
 
Villanelle clapped her hooves together.  “Oh, how serendipitous!  Say, why don’t you bring it up with you?  Nomde can make us some tea, and you can tell me about how you made that neat little appearance, and maybe what you’re doing later?”
 
“Oh for the love of—I apologize for her,” said Nomde as she magically plucked the letter from Featherstep’s grasp.
 
“No, it’s-it’s no problem, though I should be on way pretty soon.  But… Villanelle, was it?”
 
“Call me Villa,” she purred.  “And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”
 
Featherstep smiled and introduced himself.
 
Nomde rolled her eyes.  “I’m heading inside,” she said.  “Will you still be joining me, Villa, or will your evening plans have changed do you think?”
 
“Just a minute!” Villa sang.  She ducked into her bag and pulled out a pencil and piece of notepaper.  She jotted something down and said:  “This is a charming little tea house that I like to visit every now and then.  If you’re ever free, we should visit it some time.”  She took the note between her lips and winked when Featherstep took it in his.  Those hours of training were powerless against something like this, and his cheeks reddened with a vengeance.
 
“Don’t be a stranger,” she whispered, before turning with a flick of her tail and following her friend into the apartment complex.
 
Featherstep watched her trot off and waited for his heartbeat to slow; it wasn’t often that he was the one being caught off guard.  He placed Villa’s note in his barding and, noticing the castle cafeteria plate beside him, picked that up too.  Then he took to the air like a whisper, with Villa’s still echoing in his ear.
 

---

 
The inside of Nomde’s apartment could have been accurately described in one word as a shelf.  However, that doesn’t mean that her apartment was dirty; like many ponies she told herself that she’d clean the place up, and unlike many ponies she actually did.  Regardless, her books tended to quickly migrate onto any relatively flat surface that would hold them, and this often included the floor.  It wasn’t that she didn’t have bookcases.  No, she had plenty of bookcases; in some rooms they formed the walls.  Books just didn’t stay on them for very long.
 
Nomde exited her kitchen with a wooden serving tray topped with a pot of coffee, a pot of green tea, and two china cups for the sake of civility.  It would be just enough caffeine before bed to ensure a good night’s sleep.  She pushed a couple of softcovers on her living room table out of the way and set the tray down, before taking a seat across from Villa in a cotton papasan.
 
“So, about just now.  You’re incorrigible; you know this, right?” she said as she poured a cup from each of the pots.
 
“What?” asked Villa, with faux innocence.  “I only invited him out for tea some time.  Life’s too short to be bashful.”  She blew on her cup, which Nomde recognized as preparation to shift the conversation.  “So, what’s in the letter?”
 
“I will find out as soon as you’ve gone home.”  Nomde smirked at Villa’s huff.  “Moving on, how are things at the Digest?  Any interesting new submissions come in?”
 
Villa set her cup down and rubbed her forehead.  “Ugh, don’t ask, Nomde,” she said.  “I swear:  if I read one more time that somepony ‘released a breath they didn’t know they were holding,’ I’m going to rip the page in twain.”
 
“‘Twain,’ Villa?”
 
“What?  It’s a word.”
 
“Mmm…”  Nomde took a sip of her coffee.
 
“What about you?  Have any new projects that you’re working on?”
 
“I was invited to write something for an anthology about the seasons.  If I decide to do it, I was thinking of trying my hoof at Winter.”
 
“Oh?  Chestnuts roasting over an open fire and that sort of thing?”
 
“A characterization, actually.  I’ve got this image of her in my mind as this sterile beauty:  aloof, taciturn, and, in others’ eyes, pitiless.”
 
Villa poured herself another cup of tea.  “Well, as they say, ‘Write what you know.’”
 
“Hush.  I was kind enough to buy that tea you’re drinking, wasn’t I?  It was imported all the way from Neighpon.”
 
“It’s lovely, thank you.  So continue with your interpretation of Winter.  I notice you said ‘in others’ eyes’.”
 
“Well, I see her as doing the ‘necessary’ tasks.  Covering the world in snow and frost, so that Spring and Summer can turn it into snowmelt; giving nature a chance to rest and catch its breath, so that trees will fruit for Fall; doing all of those unpopular bits of work that ultimately make everypony a little happier when she’s gone.  I think it’d work best as a poem.”
 
“Mm, poor thing.  It sounds like it would be a rather melancholy piece.”
 
“I suppose it could be.  However, I’d like to think that she would do it out of love, that she would shoulder the burden so her sisters wouldn’t have to.  But, we’ll see if it goes that way, if I even decide to write it.”
 
“Well if you do write it, I’d love to take a look at it.”  Villa drained her cup of tea, the last of the pot, and stood up.  “For now though, I must say good bye; I’ve got a bit more reading to do for work.  We’re featuring romances next month, and I’ve got a running tally of how many courtships begin with a forced kiss and an awkward apology.”
 
Nomde smiled.  “Have a good night, Villa.”
 
“You too, Nomde.”
 
After Villanelle had stepped out the door, Nomde brought their used cups and pots into the kitchen, washed them, and hung them to dry.  She then returned to her living room and took the letter from her bags, reading the outside of it by the dancing light of a firefly lantern.  The address lines struck her as odd:  they said Storm Stunner in the top corner, but the writing was off.  It looked too neat.  There was also the matter of the letter coming from the castle when Storm was supposed to be away, but perhaps answers to those questions lay in the letter’s contents.  She opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper that smelled faintly of vegetable broth.
 
She read the first couple of lines and smiled.  There was no doubt about it:  such a dopey introduction was Storm through and through.
 
“Oh, Storm,” she said with a small laugh.  “It’s better than starting with the weather at least.”
 
She continued on to the second paragraph and, as she read into it, felt her cheeks warming.  “Oh, Storm…”  Did he really read her that well?
 
She read through the letter, then, once she had gotten to the end, she read it again.  She refolded it carefully and brought it with her into her room, setting it on a nightstand.  She then took a seat at her desk, arranged paper and ink, and, beneath a firefly’s glow, started to write her response.
 
Hello, Storm, she began, and…
 
…And wasn’t this ironic?  Here, surrounded by words, she found herself at a loss for them, uncertain about what to write.  Still, she placed the quill down, in the hope that those words would come.
 

---

 
After coming down from the thrill of another teleportation, Rosetta had been confronted with the knowledge that she had no idea where she was.  She found some very large homes that were very far away from each other, with very fancy street numbers that were very hard to read.  She had spent a few minutes trying to decipher one in the dimming light before realizing that it was actually a name.  As she followed the cobblestones, she came under the distinct impression that if a pony didn’t know where they were going in this neighborhood, they probably weren’t supposed to be there in the first place.  She followed the road as it curled through the hills, wishing she had a map, and wishing she had the light to read it by.
 
After about a half hour of counting up the house numbers that actually were numbers, she at last came to one greater than what she was looking for and backtracked.  This brought her to a giant staircase cut of marble, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of the point of it.  Did the occupants go up and down this climb every day?  Maybe they liked the exercise.  Maybe they thought the mailpony needed it.  She flew to the top of it and whistled at the behemoth of a building that rose into view.  She had never seen a house that big in her life.  Heck, she didn’t know that houses came that big!  Surely at some point it stopped being a house and started being a castle?
 
She flew to the front door and found the address number she had searched for plated to its side.  Given the distance between the door and the street, this seemed a terrible placement.  She tapped out a simple rhythm on its brass knocker, wondering just who Sergeant Check Mate knew that lived here.  She also wondered if anypony had heard the knock, since it seemed like there was an awful lot of house for the noise to get lost in.  After a long minute, she heard the sound of approaching hoofsteps.  The front door swung open and she was greeted by a moustache.
 
“Good evening, miss,” said the unicorn behind it.  “How may I assist a member of the Guard?”
 
“Um, let’s see.”  And how did he see anything, she wondered; it looked like his eyes were shut.  “Would this happen to be the residence of a Magnus and Marequessa?”
 
“Indeed it is.”  The unicorn’s eyes opened slightly.  “Is something the matter?”
 
“Oh no, not at all,” she said quickly.  “I’m just here to drop off a letter, and after that I’ll be out of your ‘stache.  Mane.”
 
“Is somepony at the door, Pennyworth?” came a female’s voice from somewhere inside.
 
“A member of the Royal Guard, madam,” the pony named Pennyworth called back.  “She is here to deliver some correspondence!”
 
“Oh!  Invite her in, then!”
 
Pennyworth turned back towards Rosetta.  “Please pardon the interruption just now, miss.  May I invite you in to give the lord and lady the pleasure of your company?”
 
“Ah heh, well… well sure, I’d love to.”  She hadn’t expected that; maybe she should have just slipped the envelope under the door.
 
“Excellent, miss.  And how shall I address you?”
 
“Rosetta will be fine,” she replied as she stepped inside, uncertain of what she was getting herself into.
 
As she walked through the entrance hall, her eyes wandered from left to right, taking in the paintings hung on each side, just above the wainscoting.  Previous masters and mistresses, she presumed, judging by the fashion choices and the grave expressions.  She imagined their eyes following her as she turned away, like something out of a ghost story.  Pennyworth came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to the next room, and she narrowly avoided colliding into him.
 
“Please allow me a moment to make known your entrance.  Until then, please make yourself at home.”
 
“Thank you, Pennyworth was it?  I shall,” said Rosetta, keeping the word ‘try’ from the end of that sentence.  ‘At home,’ he had said; she felt like she had just stepped into the main exhibition of a museum, with marble busts, porcelain, and figures of brass and silver crowding the impressive space.  It was expansive, certainly expensive, and she didn’t trust herself to distinguish between the antique furniture and the just plain antiques.  She decided that the safest place to wait in that room was right there at the entrance.
 
“The settees nearest the bookcases are quite comfortable in particular, if I may remark,” said Pennyworth, before disappearing into another room.  Rosetta took the hint and picked out a small velvet sofa where he had indicated.  After removing her plated shoes, she took a seat and waited for his return.  She took the letter from her peytral momentarily to read the front of it once more.
 
‘Magnus and Marequessa.’
 
Was it really just the two of them in all of this house?  Well, and Pennyworth, of course.  Still, it sounded lonely.  But what did she know?  She chose not to worry about it.  The air had a sweet, pungent scent and she decided to focus on that instead.  It reminded her of cinnamon, whatever it was; it smelled delicious.
 
Rosetta heard hoofsteps and quickly rose from her seat to meet them.  A unicorn couple entered the room, just behind Pennyworth, and even without an introduction Rosetta would have recognized them as the masters of this palace.  The mare had an aristocratic poise and a mane like spun silver.  The stallion’s was swept back into an immaculate coiffure, a match in color to the gold-rimmed spectacles resting on his nose.  Rosetta stood a little straighter.
 
“Lady Rosetta,” said Pennyworth, “allow me to introduce you to the lord and lady of the house, Sir Magnus and Lady Marequessa.”
 
“Just Rosetta is fine, thank you.”  Rosetta extended a hoof to Marequessa.  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marequessa.”
 
Marequessa stared at the hoof for just a moment, her mouth half open, before giving a small smile and reaching up to shake it.  “Rosetta it is, then.  Charmed,” she said.
 
“Welcome to our home, Rosetta,” said Magnus, as he shook her hoof in turn.  “So, a member of the Royal Guard; may I assume then that you serve with our son, Check Mate?”
 
So he was their son.  “Ah, yes, that is correct,” she said.  “In fact, the letter that Pennyworth told you about is one that I’m delivering on his behalf.”
 
Marequessa’s eyes lit up.  “Is that so?  May we see it?”
 
Rosetta took the letter from her armor, whereupon Marequessa quickly levitated it away.  As the older mare read the front of it, she quirked an eyebrow.
 
“This is from Check Mate, you say?”
 
“I believe so.  Why, is something the matter?”
 
“It’s just that his writing looks odd.  It seems a bit… messier than I recall.  Oh dear, I hope something hasn’t happened to him!”
 
“Ah, I think I know why that may be,” said Rosetta hastily, hoping to snuff this flicker of maternal worry before it could flare into maternal panic.  “After he and the others left the city, they started using this invention of one of the castle magicians to keep in touch.  Sergeant Check Mate and the others are able to send messages from anywhere in the world, supposedly, whereupon those messages appear at the castle for transcription and mailing out.  It sounds a bit roundabout, but apparently it happens in an instant.”
 
“Really?” said Magnus, adjusting his glasses.  “If what you say is true, it would be interesting to see how communication evolved, were such technology to be commercialized.”  He blinked.  “Pardon, did you say ‘Sergeant’?
 
“Oh yes, you weren’t aware?  Although a few of us have a bit of trouble understanding what he’s saying at times, he’s much respected by everypony.  He’s tremendously bright and extremely well mannered.”
 
Marequessa preened.  “I appreciate your saying so, I really do.  To be honest, I had feared those facets of his personality would’ve gone unnoticed, unappreciated, or worse when he left to join the Guard:  that his savoir vivre would become the bête noire of his fellows.”
 
“‘Qu'il donnerait de la confiture aux cochons,’ so to speak?”
 
Marequessa’s eyebrows rose.  “Very impressive, my dear.  You’re bilingual?”
 
“Well, not exactly,” said Rosetta, with an embarrassed smile.  “Why stop at two, I figure.”
 
Marequessa and Magnus exchanged a glance.  “Would you be free to stay for tea?” Marequessa asked.
 
Rosetta put a hoof to her lower lip as she considered the offer.  “Well, I won’t want to be away from the castle for too long since I’ve got a morning patrol, but… sure, I would be happy to stay for a cup before going on my way.”
 
“Splendid!  Pennyworth, would you be a dear and be so kind as to brew us a pot of silver needle?”
 
“But of course, madam.”  Pennyworth bowed low and marched out through the other side of the room.
 
“I wish we could have invited you to dinner,” said Marequessa.  “However, I’m afraid that we finished just prior to your arrival.”
 
“Oh, that’s quite alright; I already had a bite,” said Rosetta, which was a bit more honest than her stomach would have preferred.  “Was your dinner the source of that wonderful cinnamon scent I smell?” she asked.
 
“Ah, well, that would be the potpourri, my dear.”
 
“Er, I see.”
 
“I’m pleased that you like it though.”
 

---

 
Beneath Castle Canterlot, in long corridors cut into the base of its mountain, was a quiescence as old as the world.  In these corridors silence reigned, and it could even be said that it poured, filling the subterranean spaces and washing away the sounds of the outside world as one plumbed their depths.  The Staff Sergeant marched down one of them, the click of her hoofsteps and the clinks of her armor echoing off of the rough-hewn stone, giving the quiet passageway a pulse.  She walked alone, with only her shadow to keep her company; it fell behind and darted ahead with every candle she passed.  It was rare that this particular hall got traffic, and she would have preferred that it stay that way, but there were times, such as this, when she would make the trip down it.  She hoped that it would be worthwhile.  
 
She came to a heavy iron door watched over by pair of guardsponies.  The Staff Sergeant knew that they probably hadn’t been happy taking such a dismal post, but if so they did not show it.  That was to be respected.  The guardsponies saluted, and the Staff Sergeant returned the gesture.
 
“Good evening, ma’am,” said one of them, Peony, “is there something we may assist you with?”
 
“Just the door.  I am here to visit our guests.”
 
“Understood, ma’am.  Will you want an escort?” she asked, though only out of formality; the Staff Sergeant never did.
 
“No, I will be fine.”  The Staff Sergeant nodded towards the door.  “If you would, please.”
 
“Yes, ma’am.”
 
Peony unclasped a large key at her side and worked it into the door’s lock, creating a tattoo of metal clicks as the tumblers slid into position.  A dull clang reverberated down the halls as she turned the key, and the door fell open with an ancient creaking.  An irritated grumble soon followed from behind it; the Staff Sergeant went to meet its owner.
 
The taller stallion from earlier that evening sat at the end of his bed, glaring through the iron bars of his cell.  His companion lay on the opposite side of the cell, snoring loudly.
 
“Hello,” said the Staff Sergeant; the stallion’s eyes narrowed when he recognized her voice.
 
“Ugh, what do you want?” he growled.  “Did you come to gloat?”  Gone was the salted slur, replaced by a coherent, deliberate disdain.
 
The Staff Sergeant took a seat in front of the bars.  “No, I came to talk,” she said.
 
“Alright, then go ahead.  In the meantime, I’m going to try to sleep off this headache you gave me earlier tonight.”  The stallion fell back into his mattress, crossing his hooves over his chest.
 
“Is this really the kind of behavior you want to define you?”
 
“What?  Trying to enjoy the abundant peace and quiet a jail cell affords?”
 
“No, I’m talking about earlier tonight:  menacing others and starting fights; acting like a bully, a thug, an abuser.”
 
The stallion sprung back up, his face red and his teeth clenched.  “Oh don’t you act like you know who I am, that you’ve got me all figured out!  Where do you come off?!  You only saw one unflattering side of me tonight, and that’s just because I wasn’t able to think straight at the time!”
 
“You’re right:  I did, and you weren’t.  But you know what they say about first impressions, and I doubt that I’m the first pony you’ve given such an impression to.”
 
The stallion scowled, a deep, embarrassed scowl, but said nothing.  The Staff Sergeant continued.
 
“Since this is a first offense, since the injuries were minor, and since they were yours, you two will be free to leave in the morning after you’ve rested up.  You will be fed.  However, if I ever see the two of you in here again, for the same reasons as tonight or similar, I will be unforgiving, and I will see to it that you are sent somewhere built for a much longer stay.  Understand?  You don’t have to behave like you did tonight.  You can be better than that.  Be better than that.”
 
“Whatever…”
 
The Staff Sergeant stood up and returned through the iron door, and bid the two guardsponies a good night.  She shook her head.  Pride could be a good thing.  It could let you know how far you’ve come in life, how far you can go.  It could also rot into stubbornness, into a willing ignorance, which was the worst kind of all.  Maybe those two would consider her words.  Maybe they would see those words as the self-righteous drivel of some gold-plated bint.  But she had said her piece.  Their future was theirs to decide.
 

---

 
There was a knock on the door to Gray Mane’s laboratory, meaning a second guest that day, which was in and of itself a wonder.  Febre opened it to find a guardspony clad in the armor of the Night Guard; he looked him over.
 
“Benihana, isn’t it?” he asked.  “Can I help you with something?”
 
“Ikebana, actually.  Is it true then that you’ve got a direct line between here and wherever Check Mate, Crack Shot, and Storm Stunner are?  Via some magic gadget or something, I hear?”
 
“I wouldn’t call it a gadget, but yes, we do.  Why?”
 
“Can I use it?”
 
“Who’s at the door?  Tell ‘em to get lost,” said Gray Mane in greeting from across the lab.
 
“A guardspony,” said Febre.  “He wants to send a message using the smart stone.”
 
Gray Mane shambled towards them, followed by Table.  It was carrying an open tome, along with some bubbling flasks that were bubbling over onto its pages.  Gray Mane shifted the book out of the spill zone and patted Table absentmindedly on its corner, and, unnoticeable in the gloomy lab, Ikebana raised an eyebrow.
 
“Hrm, well I suppose that’s what it’s fer,” said Gray Mane.  “Aye, feel free to leave yer message with Febre here, and then get lost.”
 
Ikebana frowned. “If you’re talking about leaving something written on a piece of paper, I don’t have that,” he said.  “From what I’d heard, I thought you just had to write on this thing of yours to send it off.”
 
“Aye, aye, ‘tis how it works, more or less.  Alright, I’ll allow ye to intrude fer a bit to send off whatever thoughts are rattlin’ around that pot on yer head.  Febre—”
 
“Yeah?” said Febre as he took the smart stone from a desk.
 
“Fetch ‘im a piece of paper.”
 
“What?”
 
 “Oh, and a quill,” said Gray Mane, already shuffling away.  “Don’t know why ye need me to tell ye these things.”
 
“Any reason I couldn’t, oh I don’t know, let him use the stone himself?”
 
The geography of Gray Mane’s face gained a few new crevices as he knitted his brows.  “Aye, I suppose that might work as well.  Assumin’, of course, that he’s not too simple to grasp the simplicity of it.”
 
Febre presented the stone to Ikebana and gestured to its panels with its stylus.  “Read here, write there, send by blowing across the words.  Make sense?”
 
“As much as it could,” said Ikebana.  “I think I got it, thanks.”
 
“Great.  Go nuts.”
 
Ikebana levitated the smart stone and stylus before him and eyed each item in turn.  The tip of the stylus shimmered with a faint green, like a precious stone.  He tried penning an experimental scribble in a corner of the panel Febre had indicated; his eyes lit up along with the scrawling.
 
“How about that?” he mused, before trying for actual words.
 
Hey, this is Ikebana.  Anypony awake out there?
 
He blew the line away, and a few minutes later the conversation began in earnest.
 
Ah, it is a pleasant surprise to hear from you, Ikebana!  This is Check Mate, I should mention.  I am glad to see that Gray Mane is willing to allow others the opportunity to use his invention.  How are you this evening?
 
Hey, Check Mate.  Things are going fine on my end; it’s a slow night.  How are things where you guys are?  Are your travels going well so far?
 
To be honest, our travels are, well, in abeyance for the time being, but things are going happily otherwise.  Storm Stunner and Crack Shot have just now requested that I send their regards, by the way.
 
Yeah?  Tell them I said hello.  That reminds me, Featherstep and Rosetta went out to deliver a couple of letters of yours and Storm’s earlier tonight, and, if I recall correctly, one arrived for Crack Shot just this morning.  Did he get it?
 
Oh yes, the response from his brother; just a moment ago he received it from Febre.  Well, perhaps it would be more apt to say that Febre let him have it, so to speak, not that I think that Crack Shot paid much attention to his censure.  But disregarding that, please extend our thanks to Featherstep and Rosetta for those deliveries, and allow me to take the chance to thank you once more for sharing with me the Pandect; it has been a splendid read so far.
 
Really?  I’m glad it’s a hit.  Has it been helpful at all?
 
Already it has helped Storm and I find lunch, and an avid young scholar with her homework.  It has been a boon.
 
Ikebana chuckled.  Were you supposed to transcribe a chuckle, he wondered.  Clearly there was an etiquette to this that he had yet to grasp.  He decided to go for it anyways.
 
Heh, I’m happy to hear that.  Hey, I’ve got to get back to work, but be safe out there and keep in touch.
 
That I shall do.  Take care, Ikebana.
 
Ikebana set the smart stone and its stylus on a clutter-free section of an immobile table.
 
“All finished, then?” asked Febre.
 
“Yeah, thanks.  That’s a pretty nifty device, isn’t it?”
 
“Yes, one would think so, until they had to take notes from it.  On that subject, would you mind taking a letter from Crack Shot along with you when you leave?”
 
“Sure, that’d be the least I could do.”
 
Febre took an envelope from the top of a pile of papers and presented it to Ikebana.  “They say that words have weight,” he said.  “If that were to be taken in a literal context, you’d still have no trouble carrying this.”
 
Ikebana looked it over; it was addressed to one Skyway of the Wonderbolts.  He tucked it into his armor.
 
“Ah, all finished it looks like,” said Gray Mane from across the room.  “If that’s the case, ye may feel free to get lost at any time, ye ken?”
 
“Yeah, yeah, I ken, you geezer,” said Ikebana as he stepped out the door.
 
At the end of the corridor leading to Gray Mane’s laboratory he met Sender, who nodded in greeting.
 
“How’d it go?  Did you get to talk to the others?” Sender asked as they began their patrol anew.
 
“That I did.  It seemed like Gray Mane was in a good mood tonight.”
 
“Really now?  Huh.  I hadn’t thought he’d heard of those.”
 
Lighting their way with the glow of their horns, they moved through the hallways of the sleeping castle.  The shadows flitted and retreated before them as they walked, but beyond that nopony stirred within them.  It looked to be just another quiet night, and they would do their best to make sure it stayed that way.