Celestia's sun arose; another sweltering beautiful day. He had seen her once: breathtakingly beautiful, standing aloft on the ramparts of Canterlot castle as she lifted the massive orb into the sky. It was a dawn imprinted on his mind, of power and majesty standing alone against the world. Sometimes he felt he understood being alone a little.
Wrath stood at the open window and breathed in the cool river air. It was early, but he liked early. The docks that lay before the pub were clear of mist, and only a few Tars loitered about the area, loading cargo onto the wide barges. He trotted downstairs and into the morning light. As he crossed the path in front of the Broken Snare, a voice hailed him from the shadow beneath the eaves.
‘Off to the Clay Pits?’ said the Agister.
‘You don't miss much, do you?’ Wrath said drily.
‘I like the docks. Interesting things, they happen. Come. I have transport heading to the other side of the city. We will make good time.’
Wrath, figuring a free ride wasn't to be sniffed at, followed the earth pony.
---
The Loncastre sat at berth in the new airdocks built between two towers of a fort that overlooked the old river docks. She was modern, sleek and light. Expensive dark hardwood was reflected in the shining silver rails along the gunwales, and powerful twin mana-engines were slung aft. A large cannon sat in the bow atop a rotating mechanism, whilst other smaller versions lined the decks. The prow swept upwards into a beautiful figurehead of a midnight blue alicorn rearing, wings swept back along the ship and horn thrusting forward.
‘By Starswirl's beard’, exclaimed Wrath, ‘is that...’
‘The Agisters de Forest : an ancient order. Older than people think; we, at least, have not forgotten’, said the officer. ‘Besides, she’s beautiful, no?’
‘Like her sister,’ Wrath replied.
‘Not many, these days, know that,’ said Cool Pastures, his mouth drawn into a hard line.
There was a rise in the general noise level around the vessel as the crew winched down the gangway, until it rested against the platform on which the two stallions stood. They quickly boarded, then settled back near the helm whilst the gangway was brought back in. As soon as all was secured and ready, the Agister called out the heading, and the helmspony brought the engines to bear. The thrusters swung out into position, blades twirling in their enclosures as magic-enhanced, high pressure, liquefied gemstone was pumped through the devices. The engines created a haunting vorpal sound as they came up to speed, before settling down into the usual steady hum.
The craft swiftly moved out of port towards the east of the city. Below, the water sparkled gold in the sunlight and as they reached the far bank, the towers and minarets reached out as if to brush against the underside of the airship. Before long, they were approaching the cargo docks for the clay pits.
The two ponies left the airship and made their way down the tower and into the main street, where the air was stifling from the heat of the kilns and workshops.
‘Are you my new shadow?’ remarked Wrath, ‘I’d have thought you had better things to do.’
‘Ah well, we Vannerans are nothing if not sociable.’
‘And suspicious,’ Wrath retorted.
‘I have a little time to kill. But no… I’ll be in the “Saggar’s” over there,’ replied the Agister pointing at a café. ‘You may find me there or on board the Loncastre, after your trip… to Mule Kimberwick.’
‘You knew all along,’ stated Wrath.
‘Hmm,’ replied the officer, jauntily, before disappearing out of sight.
---
The clay pits were the working heart of the city, providing a source of tradeable commodity that had kindled the wealth of the city and built a trading empire that spanned Equestria. Even now, the nation’s best wares were created with Vanner clay. The ponies who lived in the potteries district of the city were down to earth, hard-working types, and unusually it was the case that all three types of pony worked together in the industry. From the earth ponies working in the clay pits and goods yards, to the unicorns who spun and twisted the clay into its intricate shapes, and the pegasi channelling the needed water or creating shining glazes in the super-hot kilns: it was a tight-knit community, with its own lingo, that looked after its own.
In the heart of this bustling community, taken in as if he were one of their own, lived Mule Kimberwick, a seasoned travelling friar who had spent time in the Upper Melenan. It was to he that Wrath had been directed for further information about his quest, and he picked his way carefully through the narrow streets, seeking out the small home in which the friar lived. Tucked behind a tall church, Wrath found a modest two storey building built into the courtyard wall. On the wall was inscribed the ‘Star of Magic’, the usual symbol for the Jackite fathers. He knocked on the door.
The door was answered by a very, very old mule.
---
The sporadic sounds of a large clock on the wall grated on Wrath’s nerves. The tick wasn’t always followed by a tock at a regular interval. Sometimes the beat came a little early, sometimes a little late, and sometimes it seemed like an eternity had passed before it made any sound at all. It appeared as if calculated to drive the listener mad, yet the face did indeed show the correct time of day. The room in which he sat appeared to be a study with a large bookshelf that filled an entire wall. A heavy table stood against another wall, while two stuffed chairs, one of which he occupied, hugged the small empty fireplace. Above the mantelpiece a severe looking gentlecolt peered down over what looked like horn-rimmed spectacles. A rather gruesome reminder of a past fashion for turning ones vanquished enemies into useful household items.
A shuffling sound from the doorway preceded the object of his visit, carrying a battered tea set on a silver tray. Mule Kimberwick set it down on the sturdy table before relaxing back into the other chair.
‘So, what brings you to my abode, Mr…”
‘Wrath. Just Wrath’, said the dark horse. ‘Quiet Word at the Llamasery suggested that you might be able to help with some information which I am finding a little difficulty in obtaining.’
‘Is that so?’ replied the mule. ‘Do help yourself to some tea; and I must say the custard creams are quite delicious.’
Wrath grinned, and helped himself to a cup of the hot spiced tea; and a biscuit. The cup appeared to be silver plate, very fancy but with some serious dents that suggested this tea set had been dragged across hill, vale, mountain and possibly even through swamp.
‘I went to see the Flayed Map, for information about the villages of the hidden Jibaro plantations of the Upper Melenan,’ said Wrath. ‘El Iluminado.’
‘And..?’
‘It shows the plantations and the six villages, but I think you know as well as I that there is a seventh’, said Wrath.
‘Cazador Misterio, perhaps some three hundred years ago, wrote a journal of his travels in the region’, said Kimberwick. ‘Fortunately he passed it on to the Jackite brethren, and I took the liberty of making a copy of the text before I left. It is perhaps not coincidence that merely a day or so ago I was visited by another asking about this very text?’
‘Oh?’ queried Wrath.
‘A young Vanneran mare, a pegasus, came with her servant. She did not fly, but came in an invalid carriage pushed by a servant. She too asked to see the journal.’
Mule Kimberwick put down his teacup and shuffled over to the large bookcase, leafing through the tomes as he searched for the one he wanted. He pulled out a thick book, the heavy parchment yellowed with age and, placing the book on the table, he hoofed through the pages.
‘The village you are looking for is San Arreos’, he continued, ‘there is a map showing its location just...’, his voice trailed off. ‘By Celestia’s mane, it’s gone!”
The old mule indicated at a place in the book where the page had clearly been torn out.
‘It must have been that crippled mare’, he declared.