//------------------------------// // Parlez-vous prançais? // Story: Daring Do and the Crown of Ages // by Fedora //------------------------------// Dusty Shelves and Daring Do blended into the crowds very nicely. The grey stallion wore a black homburg hat over his bespectacled face as he flipped through the pages of a book. Daring wore a bowler cap herself, having left the pith helmet in her hotel room. She had even gone so far as to trade her usual pickle-colored adventurer’s shirt for a beige one, which she wore with a tie. For Equestrians (who were used to the regularity of no clothing) they may have seemed overly dressed to anypony at home, but in the streets of Prance it was the norm. The stallions all seemed to be wearing suits and felt hats of some kind, while many of the mares had customized elaborate dresses of flashy colors. “You know, sooner or later somepony’s going to mistake you for a stallion while you’re not in a dress,” Dusty joked. “There is absolutely no way I’m getting in one of those froo-froo lacy things,” Daring snorted, “Besides, that’s the point. I cut back my long eyelashes... we’re incognito. You’re Dan Wrong and I’m Daren Wrong.” “What?” “We’re the Wrong Brothers!” “Daring,” Dusty said with a shake of his head “That’s never going to work. Nopony’s going to believe that you’re a stallion.” “You just said-” An older mare bumped into Daring sideways, knocking her down and dropping her groceries. Daring got back on her hooves in a second, shaking herself off. “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the old mare apologized. “It’s nothing,” Daring said with a bit of added rumble to her voice, “let me help you.” “Oh, I’m fine sir. Nothing got spilled out of the bag. My apologies again.” The old mare tottered off with her bag in tow, and Daring looked smugly back over to Dusty. “Alright, so you can pull the part off to fool passers by. But why the added secrecy?” he implored. “Fatcat’s a slimy sexist pig, for one. Just wait and see. Two, he’d be on guard for Daring Do or Dusty Shelves or both if he’s got something to hide. We’re known among relic-heads.” “I suppose,” admitted Dusty, “So we’re posing as a pair of brothers who...” “We’re looking to buy,” Daring said, “We’re collectors of weapons and political antiques, and we’re looking to expand to the ages-old... say, do you have the address?” “Fifteen Rue du sabot... am I pronouncing that correctly?” “Yeah. Let me do the talking though, I’ve spent more time speaking prançais.” “You’re also a mare. Maybe I should speak?” “If he’s fluent in our language, I suppose. If either of us say something, we have to be consistent.” “So if I were to say that we have a warehouse that we want to convert into a reconstruction out in Applewood....” Dusty began. “I’d have to keep the same story if asked later. Or visa versa.” The pair trotted along a cobblestone street side that approached the wealthier section of the city. A glittering fountain could be seen not far away, with several performing musicians playing music in the hopes that a kind soul would flip a bit or two in their upside down hat. Daring and Dusty were after a pony by the name of Fatcat. He owned a penthouse not far from where they were, and Celestia seemed to think he’d be a good place to start looking for clues as to where the crown had ended up, if he hadn’t bought it himself. Fatcat was a very wealthy pony, and there was evidence that he bought antiques and artifacts, specifically royal ones, from various markets. **** Daring and Dusty climbed up the many levels of wooden stairs up to the door to the penthouse atop number fifteen Rue du sabot. Daring knocked on the door first, and waited for somepony to open the door. “Allo?” a quizzical voice asked, opening a slot so that his eyes could see out. “Excusez-moi monsieur,” began Daring, adopting a roughness to her voice and forcing it down an octave, “est Monsieur Fatcat disponible?” “Oui,” the pony on the other side said, “Qui est-ce?” “Monsieur Daren et Daniel Wrong. Nous sommes des collectionneurs de vieilles choses.” “Qui vous a dit de trouver Fatcat sur ​​les antiquités?” “Clients précédents,” Daring assured him. “Ah, bon. J'aviserai Fatcat que vous souhaitez le voir.” The panel slid shut, and Daring gave Dusty a smug look. Dusty raised his eyebrows, impressed. “I understood most of that, I think,” he admitted, “I’m better with written Prench than spoken.” “I just hope Fatcat speaks our language,” Daring said, “I don’t feel like doing all the talking. This voice is killing me.” The door opened wide this time, and a very fat stallion stood in the doorway. Perhaps stood wasn’t the best word. Blocked was more like it. He had a pale bluish coat and a navy mane, and a cutie mark that was partially obscured by a travelling cloak. “Je viens de rentrer. Vous vouliez me parler?” “Yes,” Dusty blurted out. Daring shot him a glance, and Fatcat raised his porky eyebrows. “Equestrian, honh?” “Yes. You speak?” “Oui, I do,” Fatcat said, “Come in then, oui?” The two ponies entered through the door into a living room that could only be described as wealthy slovenliness. Empty cases of expensive alcohol were strewn across the floor, and there appeared to be a haphazard stash of crumpled bank notes and papers that were important, but regarded with little respect. Daring wrinkled her nose, smelling something harsh wafting through the hallway. “The maid is cleaning the rug in the master bedroom with chemicals,” Fatcat explained. He motioned for the pair of them to sit down on a leather sofa. “What brings you two here, honh?” the gluttonous stallion asked, “I was told you’re after some kind of valuables?” “We’re collectors, brothers actually,” Dusty began before Daring could open her mouth, “We’ve got a place out in Applewood, full of old weapons and political things.” “Political things?” Fatcat asked, stroking his tubby chin, “Like buttons and pins? You’re at the wrong place then, mes amis.” “What he means is that we’re interested in things left over from old monarchs,” Daring said, “Like busts, jewelry, crowns, the like.” Fatcat sat back, nodding slowly. “Well, I suppose. Come, come, follow me.” **** Daring felt uneasy. This was far too easy. Fatcat had up and agreed to show them his valuables without even attempting to verify their legitimacy. Either he was very stupid, or he knew who they were. And if he knew who they were, then he was already planning on a way to dispose of them. In her mind, Daring began mapping out escape routes from the upstairs of the penthouse. “Zis ‘ere is a sword, believed to have belonged to General Thundercrash, a pegasus commander from two hundred years ago.” They stood in a room lit only by the sunlight from windows overlooking a marketplace. On the wooden tables within the room were piles of items, from gold scepters to ruby-embedded robes and even a couple of tiaras. The platinum crown, however, was nowhere to be seen. “Do you have headgear?” Dusty asked, uninterested by the sword. “Like helmets?” “I was thinking about crowns,” he said. “Aha!” Fatcat said, wagging a hoof, “You are looking for royal crowns! I posses several in zis here collection, oui? But I am not positive on the origins, no no no!” “I see tiaras,” Daring commented, “But those don’t really count. I mean to say, we’re not interested in tiaras.” “I, uh... I have six of them already,” lied Dusty, “The wife back at home doesn’t want any more around the house.” “Understandable,” said Fatcat, “You know how they can get, honh? Nothing can ever please them!” Daring’s eye twitched. “I do have some full-on crowns, however.” “Excellent. Any sources?” Daring asked. “Ah, non. You might find what you are after though? A particular type?” He took out a canvas sack, and emptied four crowns onto the table. One was silver with emeralds. One was gold with reddish satin on the inside. Another was made out of crystal. None of them were the platinum crown. “See anything you like, Ms. Do?” Daring looked carefully at the crowns for a few moments before she realized what Fatcat had said. She heard him chortle and stagger back a few paces, his voice descending into a steady wheeze. A gun clicked. Daring sprang into action, grabbing a metal shield off from the table and holding it up just as one of Fatcat’s cronies shot at her, causing the bullet to lodge inside the shield. She pushed the shield into the obese stallion, knocking him down to the floor along with his gun-wielding minion. “Dusty, go!” she shouted, pushing her friend out the window and breaking the glass. She followed suit just as the gun-wielding pony was getting to his hooves, and was just out the window as the wall’s paint exploded in a puff of smoke. Daring and Dusty fell out onto a shop’s awning, crashing into a pile of what had previously been fresh fruit. An incensed owner was yelling at them in a foreign language, while Fatcat was at the broken window, overlooking them. “And STAY OUT!” he shouted, slamming the broken remnants of the window pane down. “That was...” Daring began, wiping smashed fruit guts off from her disguise. “Absolutely terrifying,” Dusty finished, “Daring, I am never accompanying you on another adventure, and that’s a promise. Somepony’s liable to get hurt.” “At least we know he doesn’t have it,” she said, dodging out of the way as the cart’s owner tried to smash a chair over her head. **** Daring and Dusty made their way back to the hotel that afternoon. Daring had ditched the fake mustache but had kept the black derby on her head so as to remain inconspicuous. They trotted up the cobblestone street to the entrance of the hotel, and entered. “Ah, Dr. Daring Do and Dr. Dusty Shelves,” announced the clerk at the desk as they went for their room keys, “Somepony was here looking for you earlier. I gave them your room number, but they came back saying you were not there.” “We’ve been in town,” Daring replied, somewhat suspicious. Who had come to see them? The only ponies who were supposed to know about this trip were the Princess and select members of the museum’s senior staff. Dusty seemed to share her concerns, as he began to look about in a flustered manner. “Is something the matter?” “Do you know who this pony was?” he asked? “Mais non, they did not leave a name,” answered the clerk with a frown, “It was a middle-aged stallion I think. Unicorn, with a ruby colored coat. Wearing a gray hat. It rings a bell, oui?” “No,” Daring said, shaking her head, “Thanks for letting us know, though.” **** Dusty’s room was pristine and untouched. He sat down on the bed backwards, stretching his legs out and staring up at the ceiling. It was a very nice room, with replicas of paintings on the walls and pieces of fine furniture sitting on the far side. There was a door leading to a balcony that remained shut for the time being. The room had a neat and orderly appearance. The afternoon sun was beginning to set outside, and through the windows came a brilliant reddish light. He decided he didn't much like the glare of the setting sun, and got up to close the blinds. It was then that he heard a rap on his wall. “Dusty, get over here,” came Daring’s muffled voice from the other side of the wall. The older pony set his things down on his bedside and hung up his hat, going outside and over a room into Daring’s hotel room. He was greeted with a totally different sight. Instead of neat and organized he found a scene that looked as if a tornado had torn through Daring’s room. The dresser and vanity were overturned. The luggage had been torn open and strewn about the room, leaving pickle shirts and old satchels and other gear scattered about. “Did they take anything from you?” Daring asked, frantic. She opened a drawer and began rummaging through it, tossing articles of clothing about to dig through to the bottom. “No...” Dusty began, looking at the total mess, “What’s all this?” “I’ve been tearing this place apart looking for my journal, but I can’t find it anywhere! My journal’s gone, as is my grandpa’s bullwhip, and our return tickets.” “The stallion who the clerk said came here.... he must’ve forced the door open and taken them!” Dusty said, “Daring, we have to track him down. Those tickets are our trip back to Equestria!” “Forget Equestria, that journal has all the information and the little details of my different adventures since at least the late 20’s! Think of what that could do in the wrong hooves?” “Allow them to write a biography?” Dusty shrugged. He didn’t see the importance. “No!” scoffed Daring. She sat down and wrung her hooves through her mane. This was bad. “That journal has information and bits of knowledge I’ve amassed about a number of artifacts I haven’t gotten around to searching for. I’ve got pencil-drawn maps in there, manuscript translations, potential locations of artifacts and historic sites of interest, and even layouts of where traps are likely to be in a few temple chambers,” Daring said, “The fact that it’s gone means not only that all of my time and effort compiling that information was wasted, it means that whoever took it has the ability to go and scoop up any of up to twenty five artifacts without getting their manes mussed.” “And your grandpa's whip?” “Well, it’s really only there as a backup in case I’ve lost the ability to use my wings. It’s happened before.” Dusty sat himself down in a chair, only to stand up again and need to toss Daring’s pith helmet out from it and onto her bed. He looked about the room, hopelessly. He noticed something out of the corner of his eyes, however, and snapped to it. “Daring, what’s that attached to the lamp?” The gold-coated mare leaned in to look at it. Something had torn on the hooked edge of the lamp, which was mainly there for decoration. It looked greyish, and it was fuzzy. It had to be less than a centimeter long at most, but it was substantial enough for her to be able to scoop up. “That’s hair, but not the hair of a pony,” she said. She brought the tiny tuft of material over to Dusty for him to examine. “Yeouch, somepony tore off a piece of their hat’s felt. It must have gotten caught by the brim,” he said. “Hat felt?” “Yeah you know, rabbit, beaver, hare.” “This is part of the robber’s hat?” “Might be. It looks like he went and barbed it on that lamp by accident. Yikes.” **** Daring approached the clerk dressed in her regular adventurer’s gear sans pith helmet. The sun had set by now, but the evening was warm and the night was young. Dusty traveled shortly behind her, holding the clump of hat material in his hooves. “Sir,” Daring said to the clerk, “are you familiar with local businesses?” “Ah, oui!” he replied enthusiastically. He used his magic to levitate a book as he flipped through it. “I’m looking for a hatter who can replace part of the felt body,” she said. “I must recommend Monsieur Castor. Finest Chapeaux in town!” “Thank you, we’ll be on our way then.” “Bonsoir!” the clerk called after them. **** The hat shop was rather spacious, and contained shelves and shelves of felt bodies that sat open-crown, awaiting a head to claim them. An older pony sat behind a desk, measuring a customer’s head circumference above the skull and above the ears. “Oh... bonjour,” said the older mare, “comment allez-vous?” “Bien,” Dusty replied, “We’re travellers, and... well, I was wondering if you could help me identify where this felt came from.” “I’ll be with you in one moment,” said the older pony as she finished the measurements. The pony whose head was being measured was given a size, and the mare told him to try a few different colors to his liking. She then turned her attention to the bit of fuzz in Dusty’s hooves. “Rabbit and beaver blend,” she said without even touching it, and adjusted her glasses. “How did you know that?” asked Daring, “You didn’t even pick it up?” “Ah, but you see, a stallion came in here not fifteen minutes ago, wanting to drop his hat off and sell it for a fresh one,” she replied, “I told him it wasn’t necessary... the rip occurred in the brim, so I just trimmed it down to get rid of the tear.” Daring blinked. She looked up at Dusty and raised her eyebrows. “First try, too,” she remarked, impressed with their luck. She turned her attention back to the old hatter. “Tell me... do you happen to know where this stallion was going?” Dusty asked. “Loin, mes amis, loin. He was in a rush to catch his boat.” “Thank you very much, Madame. Merci beaucoup.” **** “Daring, I think this is a terrible idea,” Dusty said, “You’re bound to get yourself killed, and who wants that?” Daring stood with her side up against the stone wall of a building adjacent to the pier. She had her father’s old sidearm tucked away inside the cargo pocket of her jacket. They had seen the pony in question helping to load crates onto the ship, which was bound for the country of Carpathia. “Ahuizotl, for one, plus the entire Gryphon Archaeological Force.” “So you’re going to just go up and demand your journal back?” Dusty asked. “No, I’m going to physically pin him down and demand it back... I have to go Dusty, I’d get out of the way. This might get nasty.” Dusty poked his head around the corner, and drew it back. “They’ve got tommy guns slung over their withers.... good luck Daring.”