//------------------------------// // Vol. 2 Interlude 4 // Story: Pipsqueak the Valiant's Adventure Journal! // by Casca //------------------------------// Mayor Mare walked into a bar. The closest thing there was to a punchline was the fully seated counter, behind which a burly bartender and his wife doled out pint after pint of beer—ha ha, punchline, because all of them deal in punches and they form a line, get it?—and despite her increasing nervousness, she managed to steel herself to nudge through the thick, happy masses, past the roaring, slamming of tables and general sailor hoohah, to approach the bartender for an inquiry. Then she turned and realized she didn’t need to any more. It seemed that tonight, she was in luck. As mayor of Ponyville, Mayor Mare had access to plenty of databases. All she needed to drop was the words “Elements of Harmony”, she had discovered, to gain permission to almost any kind of list of names and figures. She had made a request one day out of curiousity, and had gotten a picture about twenty years out of date. Then she played around with a few different keywords and got a better approximation, until she was fairly sure that she could spot the stallion even if he was in a crowded bar. And there he was, down to the odd, splat-shaped mark around the eye. Up close, she could see how the stallion was Pipsqueak’s father after all, albeit barely. He was lean and tall and fairly broad-chested, his physique reminiscent of Princess Cadence if she had been put to hard, muscle-building labour during her formative years instead of whatever it was adolescent princesses did. Even sitting down, he held his head up high and sat straight, and she could almost imagine the well-worn blue uniform of a captain on his shoulders rather than the stained, dark brown trench coat draped across a yellowing shirt; the golden-rimmed hat on his dry, knotted mane instead of the wide-brimmed black pirate hat. Even his eyes, which were golden, were stoic rather than sleazy, though reddened like all sailors’ from exposure to the salty winds, and Mayor Mare mused how lucky Potsherd was to find herself a stallion like that. “Copper Mast?” called Mayor Mare, sidling up to the table, where some of his crew were drinking quietly. “That be I,” said Copper Mast, with a voice made gruff by years of yelling over storms and inhaling bitter air. He stood up and nodded. “State your business.” “I seek passage to Eastside Port,” said Mayor Mare. “We’re not doing journeys to Equestria for the next three months,” growled the closest one to her, a stallion with a thick beard and blackened teeth with a voice even more gruff than Copper Mast’s, and accented to boot. “Sorry to disappoint ye, but you’ll be leaving elsewhere now.” “Shush, Trappenheim,” frowned Copper Mast with a wave of his hoof, “but it is as he says. Your beloved Princess of the Night has been spotted patrolling the waters near Eastside. Reports tell of enough ships to take over the Fog-drowned Isles should they wish, and pegasi patrols that dot the sky like flies during Armageddon. Any pirate going over will be apprehended sooner than the sou-easterly can whip away a child’s kite.” He worked a crick out of his neck. “Not that it matters, since we intend to take our fates to the north of the continent anyways. ‘tis the season for coffee trade.” “The slit-eyes are having a lunar festival around now,” giggled a hunkered-over griffon with a rheumy eye. “Equi-sai,” corrected Copper Mast. “That’s racist, and I don’t want to hear that coming from you of all scallywags.” “What is it that they’re so fond of saying?” asked Trappenheim. “Never flout the feng shui lucky?” “Roughly translated, yes,” spoke a wizened pony Mayor Mare had not even noticed until then, stirring from the shadows, whose image struck her as being simultaneously that of a headmaster of a posh school and extremely out of place. “The pronunciation of the pictograms is xian bu ke—” “Cap it, Bookie,” snarled Trappenheim, but before a scuffle could break out—Bookie was already standing up, sporting a shocking pack of pectoral muscles—Copper Mast slammed his hooves on the table. “Will ye all shut up! Look,” he said, turning to Mayor Mare, “the point is, you best be looking for somepony else. I also advise you to have a trunk-ton of gold for the reckless beggar who takes you on, or perhaps choose a less ridiculous spot to dock in.” He did not, she noted, suggest that she take the officially-approved ferry; probably assumed (correctly) that they could not (due to lack of papers), else they wouldn’t have looked for him. Such was the mutual reckoning of residents of the underbelly, and it gave her some small satisfaction. It was professional. And, of course, professional bargained. “What if I told you you wouldn’t get caught,” asked Mayor Mare, pointedly ignoring the stares from the rest of the crew, “because I and my companion, who happens to be your son, are the ones Luna is looking for?” There was a moment’s ruckus as the rest of the bar worked its way merrily down the umpteenth keg of beer, almost filling the void that had settled in their private circle. The stares of the ponies (and griffon) around the table intensified. “May I offer you a drink?” asked Copper Mast at last, beckoning to the waitress. “I don’t drink,” said Mayor Mare. Copper Mast finished his orders and sent her away before leaning in. “Trappenheim. If you would be as kind as to give the lady your seat.” Unwillingly and unsteadily, Trappenheim got up and shuffled to the counter. Mayor Mare sat down and glanced round the table. Bookie was looking very pointedly at a spot two inches left of her ear, the griffon was giggling soundlessly as he cradled his mug, and two other ponies, a gruff red one and a muscular brown one with an earring, who had been sitting in the shadows, shifted forward with guarded looks. “Your son Pipsqueak,” said Mayor Mare, “and I have been stranded in Maretopia for the past...” She frowned a little. Had it really been that long? “The past month, give or take. He was kidnapped from Equestria. We tried to rescue him, but the plan went awry. That’s why I guarantee you that you will be safe if you’re helping us. You’ll be on the same side as them.” Copper Mast frowned and gave her a once-over. “You certainly look the part, albeit a little more well-fed. But tell me this, Miss...” “Mare. Mayor Mare.” “Miss Mare. Why do you say I have a son when I do not?” The griffon sniggered and Bookie looked away. Copper Mast sipped at his mug coolly, looking up once as if to say, “Well?” “Because you do,” said Mayor Mare. Copper Mast gave a snort. “I would think that in a case of my word against yours regarding the matter, mine would prevail.” “Dear me. If you’re so insistent, I must have been mistaken then.” Mayor Mare shrugged and stood up very slowly. It was mean, but she had to hammer the point across. “What with the mark around his eye just like your own, and his wife’s name being Potsherd, and the unexplained mystery of their hidden wealth, I could have sworn...” When you thought about it, there really was only one way to deal with pirates. They lived carefree lives, taking when they needed from others who had, filled half of their days with hollow pleasures and wandered the other half away with aimless sailing. These were not ponies who bargained, merely were distracted. It was a take-it-or-leave-it deal that had to satisfy them then and there, and thankfully, Mayor Mare had the right chips to play with. A hoof rapped sturdily once on the table behind her. “Halt.” She complied and kept the smile on her face to a minimum. Copper Mast was looking intently at her now. “Assuming I were to believe you, what is your request, and what is your payment?” “Ferry us back to Equestria’s Eastside Port,” said Mayor Mare coolly, “and you can come to collect your son in seven years’ time. I will pay for the supplies and custom taxes, up to six thousand remii.” “And how is that supposed to be an offer I’d gladly accept?” laughed Copper Mast. “Seven years is a long time for a pony to disappear herself, and even longer for a pirate to stay alive. It’s like borrowing from Mister Cake and telling him you’ll pay him and his twenty percent interest ten years later, when your investments in chicken feed give returns.” He took a mouthful of drink. “I expected absurdity, and you are delivering in spades. Even if you offered the six thousand remii instead, my friend, it is not worth being caught.” “What do you think the seven years are for?” Mayor Mare met him solidly in the eyes. “Seven years from now, go to Eastside Port and the Crimson Clupea. Ask the bartender for your package, which will give you directions, papers and supplies to make the journey. I’ll work through the loopholes and get you free passage in Equestria. Money for food and travel won’t be a problem. And you will get to see your son. Isn’t that much better a prize than mere money?” “As I said, I have no—” Mayor Mare took out a folded piece of paper and passed it across the table. It was a sketch of PIpsqueak she had drawn a while ago; things were playing out more or less as she had imagined they would. “As it stands,” said Mayor Mare, “I should think that I know more about what your son looks like than you do. But if you still aren’t convinced, I can tell you about the gold bars that you keep sending but never find their way to their intended recipient. Miss Potsherd, it seems, is rejecting them and having them returned to sender.” The flicker in his eyes told her that she was making headway. “How did you know that?” “Your wife and son are no longer in Trottingham. They are now living under my protection,” said Mayor Mare mysteriously. It was simple inference. Potsherd had taken to starting her own business, and nopony worked unless they had to—not unless you were a good Equestrian pony, or bourgeois, the likes of which didn’t work anyways. And Potsherd had to work if she wasn’t getting any gold, or refusing to use it, whatever the reason—and Mayor Mare knew that it wasn’t the first. The little birdie she had in the Trottingham post office told her that the gold was coming in steadily, and redirected free of charge too. She put on a kindly tone. “You were Equestrian once, too. You know how ponies are there, where the world is still bright and protected and in harmony. I’m not here to do business with you. I’m here to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime chance, to help me help you. I want to help you reunite with your long-lost family. But you have to reunite them first. Trust me when I say that I am a friend of your family, and friendship is”—her mind stumbled for a moment and she grabbed hastily at the first word that came to mind—“magic.” Copper Mast sat stiffly, staring into his mug. Finally he stirred, drank another mouthful, and replied, to the thinly veiled surprise of his crew: “I will consider it. Meet me at the sea-serpent statue at eight tomorrow morning, and I will tell you my decision then. Bring Pipsqueak. You may go now.” “I forgot to mention,” said Mayor Mare, getting up. “You must keep your identity a secret during the trip.” His eyes hardened. The flicker died. “And why is that so?” “He believes that you’re still a captain of the Navy, fighting pirates and living on the side of justice.” Mayor Mare kept her voice light. “Either he doesn’t believe you and thinks you a liar, or he believes you and his dreams are shattered. The consequences could be tragic.” She let her voice drop. “You know, he really does want to see you. Why not have it be under the best circumstances possible?” Copper Mast tilted his head and looked full into her face. “I will be frank. The offer, if true, is very well and all, but who are you and what business is it of yours regarding my family?” There was no harshness in the words, thankfully, and Mayor mare plied her answer with as much grace as the suffocating noise could allow. “I’m the mayor of Ponyville,” said Mayor Mare. “Taking care of my citizens is what I do.” Copper Mast met them as agreed, and if he was emotional from the sight of his son after years, he did an impressive job of keeping it off his face. “Pipsqueak, this is a friend,” said Mayor Mare. “He’s a captain from Equestria on some business. I’d like you to meet him.” Pipsqueak, who was bouncing from excitement from everything, blurted, “I’m Pipsqueak! It’s a pleasure to meet you! Do you know daddy? His name’s Copper Mast and he’s a famous captain!” “I do. Why don’t you come on up? I’ll show you around,” replied Copper Mast, and the long, hard gulp that followed did not miss Mayor Mare’s eye. She could not help but clap a hoof on his shoulder as she passed him and walked up to the ship. It was a small but sturdy ship with two masts, the sails painted black. Trappenheim, Bookie, and a couple of other ponies were busy on deck, making preparations and shuffling around. All of them, she noted, stopped briefly to look at Pipsqueak, and a kind of awkwardness settled on their expressions which did not quite go away for the rest of the trip. “Why’re your sails black?” asked Pipsqueak. “It’s a disguise,” replied Copper Mast smoothly, “so that the pirates will think that we’re one of them and don’t attack us.” “That’s very smart,” said Pipsqueak, nodding happily. “What’s the ship called?” “It’s a happy coincidence,” beamed Copper Mast, adding a throwaway glance at Mayor Mare, “that this ship shares the same name as you. Our main one, the Sea Plough, is in maintenance in the eastern docks, so we’re taking this lad out in case we have, um, stuff to do. Little stallion, welcome aboard the Pipsqueak.” The deck hands nodded to him as they passed. Copper Mast gave them a tour of the ship, taking them from one end to the other, down below deck into the hold and into the captain’s cabin, up to the quarter deck where the wheel was. Mayor Mare could not help but smile; Pipsqueak was so happy, and Copper Mast was enjoying himself almost too much, judging from the strength in his voice to the gleam in his eyes. She eyed his cutie mark: a simple crosshairs, a circle with two perpendicular lines through it. After letting PIpsqueak wander around the ship, Copper Mast turned to her. His eyes were misty. It almost made her feel guilty for doing this to him. “If you are not convinced that he is your son,” said Mayor Mare, “I will take him with my sincerest apologies for disturbing you so.” “No, no. You... do not need to do so.” His tone was still firm and proud. “But you have to give me time to think it over. The journey to Equestria is still no less dangerous, and explaining a sudden change in plans to my crew...” “I understand.” Mayor Mare clapped him on the leg in what she hoped was a matey way. “I want to look around the port for a while. Ask around if there are any other alternatives. No offense, of course, just in case your crew refuses, or anything as such. Is it okay if I leave him in your care? He is still your son, after all, and who better to keep him than you?” She smiled wryly. “Or do you have stuff to do?” “What? I do not. It is fine. You can leave him with me,” nodded Copper Mast. A lesser mare would have cringed at the thought of leaving an escort with pirates geared up and ready to set sail. But Mayor Mare understood the kind of pony he was, and it was so much simpler when you did. When she returned half an hour later, Copper Mast told her that he had agreed to the deal, he had a small crew ready to go, and the trip would be over within a day, without the need for supplies—just some loaves of bread for lunch, water, and two thousand remii for the toll. They set off ten minutes later, and Pipsqueak was all wide-eyed until half an hour later. The seas were calm and the wind was slow; they made slow progress, and the foal soon fell asleep, lying in his cabin with his cheek squished against the porthole. Mayor Mare put him down properly and made her way up deck, only for Trappenheim to stop her. “Tell me, wench,” said Trappenheim in a low voice, “is that truly the captain’s lad?” “It is,” said Mayor Mare, meeting in full his bleary gaze. “What is it to you?” Trappenheim shook his head. “‘tis a good thing. Whatever ye be doing in Maretopia, it was a fortuitous wind that blew ye across here. Th’captain needed it.” With that, he lumbered on, booted hoofsteps heavy and clacking. When she resurfaced, she spotted two black spires protruding out of the water a few hundred metres in front. The skies were clear, but around the horizon, tiny clumps of clouds like pebbles could be seen. It was just as good a day as it had been when they set off. “How fares, captain?” asked Mayor Mare, walking up to the wheel. “So far so good,” replied Copper Mast. “We’ll be taking the Il’yashamine Passage, and be in Equestrian waters within an hour.” He caught the look on her face and pointed to the spires. “The passage is of changeling design. Some form of eldritch magic will carry us through what they call the ‘Il’ya’—hence the name—which is, as explained to me, some kind of pocket in space. The short of it is that the five-day journey will be over with within the day.” He gave her a decided nod. “Apologies for mentioning it only now, but certain classes of folk are wary when it comes to changeling magic. Somewhat understandable, but bothersome nonetheless.” “I’m all the more happier to get out of Maretopia,” replied Mayor Mare, “but what’s with the rush?” “Getting enough supplies for the full-length trip on such short notice is hard going. There’s also news of a storm brewing which would cause trouble if we were to set out any later. And I’m not sure how long I can keep my mouth closed around him.” The smile on his face was dry, and he glanced at her before casting his gaze out once more. “It’s best if we get this over and done with. Seven years, was it?” “Seven years,” confirmed Mayor Mare. She found herself blinking rapidly; it was, she supposed, the sea air. “The Crimson Clupea, Eastside Port.” He nodded and waited, as if to let the names sink in. “Tell me, Miss Mare. How long did it take for you to become respectable?” She gave it some thought. “With or without the decades spent running from thugs?” Copper Mast raised an eyebrow and laughed. As they drew close, a pair of changelings buzzed their way on board. Trappenheim resurfaced with Bookie, who began a conversation with them in a rasping, chittering tongue. Bookie stopped briefly to look up at them. “The money,” he said simply. Copper Mast nodded at Mayor Mare, who took out the bundle of bills, wrapped in oily paper. The changelings ripped it open and leafed through the bills with the newly-morphed claws where their hooves had been; they hissed at each other for a few more moments, then flew back to the spires. “It used to be,” commented Copper Mast as the spires began to glow a deep purple, “that the passage required the sacrifice of twenty virgin souls to open. But changelings these days are much more forward-thinking, don’t you agree?” Mayor Mare mumbled something indistinct as she watched the spires pulse with a purple aura. Once the changelings landed, they stomped their hooves and took to the skies. The blackened stone unravelled from the top like fraying rope, forming thick strands of bending material that elongated and wriggled, low thrums as they moved through the air. As the ship drew closer, the strands bent towards each other to form an arc; the pulse thickened, and was casting its dark light across the nose of the ship now. It was not so much ominous as it was weird. On her end, the world was still bright and fine; more than half the ship now was drenched in thick purple, the figures of the deckhands, barrels and ropes blurred beyond recognition. It was like passing through a curtain. She found herself biting her lip and holding her breath as the ship crawled through, and she watched with stinging eyes as the aura swallowed them at last.