//------------------------------// // Chapter 5: In Which Books and Covers are Discussed, and Luna Gets Frustrated // Story: Night Watch // by Crossed Quills //------------------------------// The alley was small, cramped, an despite Canterlot's relatively open style of architecture, didn't see direct sunlight even at high noon. Gawain felt a certain satisfaction in having found it – the finding had taken most of an afternoon, despite detailed instructions. The gryphon barrister checked the package that he had slung in a pack over his shoulder again – it was still there, and still secure in the sling. He didn't check the contents directly, but the weight was reassuring, and the damn thing was creepy to look at. Landing lightly, the gryphon proceeded down the narrow alleyway on foot. Although a number of buildings had back or side doors that opened into the alleyway – and evidently used it as the dumping ground for whatever unsavoury debris was too awkward or uncouth to go into the standard garbage – only one store had its main entrance in the alley. A cramped little store, with bead curtain and faintly perfumed air, filled with all manner of mystical detritus. Small cards, placed near certain items, declared them to be items of power, Not to be Trifled With, and Gawain had heard too many tales of the dangers of screwing around with strange magic to take the risk. Even if some of it was clearly tourist junk, his contact had told him that the shop did occasionally deal in the genuine article, and his desire to end up cursed or transformed was less than zero. This, Gawain had learned, was the original deal – the little curio shop that sold differently enchanted items and then vanished as soon as the unfortunate patron turned their back to it, item in hoof. It certainly matched the accounts given by the few reliable stories, down to the moustache and rheumy eyes of the proprietor, a greying stallion of advancing years. Gawain cleared his throat loudly, and the shopkeep turned to him. “Welcome, traveller,” the stallion began, “and how may I help you today? I deal to a discerning clientele, curios and wonders from all across the world...” Gawain shook his head. “I'm interested in what you have in the back.” The proprietor had the ill grace to look affronted. “I assure you, all of my wares – all that are available for sale, at any rate – are in the shop you see before you. I do not have special stock for customers, be they ever so heavy of purse.” There was no reason to believe that the shopkeeper had any intention of stealing from him, but Gawain felt at the purse of coins that he had been provided with, and shifted it into his pack. Appearances of blindness notwithstanding, the shopkeeper had to be perceptive indeed to have spotted how it had hung upon his belt, and the gryphon reminded himself, not for the first time, not to underestimate the old pony. “I'm not here to buy. I need to consult with your... resident expert.” The proprietor scowled. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Gawain gave him a meaningful look. “I've been led to believe otherwise.” The purse re-appeared, and a small handful of the coins scattered across the counter. “Oh! That expert. Follow me.” Gawain spoke excellent Gryphodonian, and reasonable Zebrani, but one thing was a consistency across all tongues. Money was the universal language. * * * The alley had been small, dark, and cramped. The store had been small, dark, and cramped. It really shouldn't have come as any sort of surprise that the hallway leading to the back room of the store would follow suit, but Gawain still felt claustrophobic, unable to unfurl his wings in the slightest. At the end of the hallway was a curtain of beads, and the older pony gestured to it. “He is through there.” Gawain squeezed past the elderly shopkeeper, who carefully turned to head back to the front. The illumination from the light spells lingering in the hallway did not penetrate much past the beaded curtain, and he took a deep breath before proceeding inward. The information he had been given hadn't given much past this point – simply that there would be an 'expert' who could provide the information he needed. The rumours of the 'shop that had vanished when you looked back' had gotten him a certain distance, and it had occurred to the observant gryphon that the expert was probably a master of both dark magics and illusions... ...Which was why it was only mildly surprising when the lights in the chamber were lit, revealing a changeling, sitting comfortably in an overstuffed armchair by a fire. Although no expert on the species, Gawain got the impression that the changeling was old; it took no expertise whatever to realize that the milky white of the creature's eyes meant that it was quite blind. “Come in, come in...” The tone was that of an old mare, the clipped accent Canterlot nobility; Gawain doubted that to be overly significant, given the changeling's supernatural abilities of disguise, but the tone was friendly enough. He hesitated, but then entered the room. The chintzy facade of the shop outside belied the luxury of the interior room; the carpets were rich and plush, the shelves made from exotic woods. He made his way over to the fireplace, where the elderly changeling sat, and cleared his throat. “Er...” The changeling's head turned to face him, and despite the fact that the eyes clearly provided no vision to their owner, Gawain got the unsettling impression he was being closely regarded. “What brings a gryphon from the warehouse district to us, hrm?” The changeling tilted her head slightly. “What has he got for us? And who is he working for?” Gawain boggled slightly. “I... wait, can you see me or not? And who says I'm working for anyone?” The changeling sat back in her chair, and there was the audible creak of the chitin on her old joints settling into a familiar position. “You are clearly not an equoid, from your gait. Your wings brushed the doorway on your way through it. You still bear the faintest scent of fish and machine oil, the unquestionable aroma of the Canterlot docks.” She shook her head. “And a dockworker does not carry around the kind of coin it would take to convince Questionable Purchase to let them in to see us. We do hope that whatever puzzle it is you believe that we can resolve for you is more challenging than that.” Gawains brow knitted. There was technically no law against changelings being in Canterlot, but he knew that they were not welcome, especially after the affair that had been the royal wedding. Still, the affects of the room suggested that its sole resident spent most of her time within, and had for many years. “I... have come across something. I was hired to guard it, but it seems dangerous, and I need to know what it is.” Despite himself, Gawain found his words stumbling to come out. He swallowed, and continued. “A pony I met at the pub suggested that you might be able to help me.” The changeling looked thoughtful. “We are an expert in many things, but not all things. You have coin, so we will help you if we can, although we are quite sure that you will be discreet with whence came this information.” Gawain reached into the pack he had slung over his shoulder, and produced the item, the lower half of a stone tablet, with strange runes and disturbing diagrams chiseled into it. The mercantile part of the gryphon's mind took note, as it had before, of the large gems that decorated the artistry, but without much pause, he set the tablet upon the table with an audible 'thunk'. The blind changeling raised a hoof, running it along the tablet, and there was faint nimbus of green around the hoof as she did so, a matching one lightly illuminating the insectoid equine's milky-white eyes. The changeling looked up at Gawain – doubtless a practised gesture. Her expression was serious. “This is old magic, gryphon. We have not seen its like in some hundreds of years, and this...” the changeling face was not well-suited to emotive expression, but Gawain was quite certain that there was both concern and distaste in the subtle emotions that played across the changeling's face. “This is not... good magic.” She looked frustrated, as if having trouble finding words for what she meant to say. “Ponies... they talk of 'light' and 'dark' magics.” The changeling shook her head. “Mostly, these distinctions are trifles. Magics that are consumptive, that are aggressive, that are... distasteful, the pony does not like. It evokes in them fear and anger; they do not use them, and speak of them as lesser because the spells so called can turn the head of one not strong enough of will. There are good and evil ponies; these spells that they so mislike simply allow those ponies to express what is already within them. Little wonder that they distrust it so. “This is magic that is less wholesome than even that.” The changeling spat into the fire, a faint sizzling sound punctuating her distaste. “This is magic that we would hesitate to invoke. It is not the whole of the thing, but... We suspect that it is with an eye to bring something forth. As to what, we cannot tell without more of the tablet. Do you have it?” The question would have seemed ominous to Gawain, but the tone behind it was a distressed disinterest. It was possible that the changeling was the master manipulator and actor that her species implied, but... no, this was disdain for those that would use such magic, and not a little fear. In his work with the Griffon courts, Gawain had learned to read subtle oral and facial cues, and if the changeling's mask was near perfect, the inches by which it missed the full title were crucial and telling. “No. The tablet was incomplete when it was recovered.” The changeling scarcely moved – the stillness making the equimorph seem stranger and more alien – but to Gawain's discerning eye she sagged in relief. “We are happy to hear that. You seem a decent enough fellow. We'd hate to kill you.” There was an amused candour to the changeling's tone. Gawain gathered up his effects. The changeling sat back, as if in deep contemplation, and Gawain squared away the tablet in his pack. “What do I owe you?” The changeling didn't look up. “There will be no fee for the consultation. You have paid Questionable Purchase his due, and that will suffice. Take your bastard heathen magic and get out of our shop.” She seemed to be brooding. “Griffon... take our advice. Since we have come to Canterlot, we have seen fire rained upon it. Invaders, at its gate. Our hive, never large, is now merely us – a swarm of one. Had the upstart queen Chrysalis come upon us, we would be a thing that is extinct.” The changeling's voice was distant, and Gawain got the impression that she was talking past him now, rather than to him. “We are alone now. Once, when we had hope that our people could be more than a parasite race, that would have frightened us. Now, little frightens us.” The unseeing eyes turned to Gawain. “Now, what frightens us is what you brought to our gate. Find out what is going on. Stop it.” * * * “Not a little melodramatic, was she?” In absence of an office space with anything like enough room, the Night Watch had adopted a bar that had been popular among the Day Guard during Sharp Salute's days, and the quiet booth where the Watch's unofficial base of operations had been established was far enough from the nearest table that reasonably confidential conversations could be had with some surety of privacy. Gawain had returned there after consulting with the changeling, and was now being debriefed by Icewine and Zorada. Gawain shrugged. The logic behind sending him had been solid enough – it afforded the Night Watch some plausible deniability. They had found the tablet fragment in a safe, in a hidden compartment in the warehouse, and given the other contraband that hadn't been similarly protected, it had seemed a good bet that it was among the more important relics that the warehouse had housed. Still, it would be difficult to pin anything on Lord Clearing House without further information, and lacking sufficient evidence when accusing a peer of the realm of trafficking in misappropriated artefacts was the sort of mistake a guardspony's career only really suffered once. Gawain was, to the best of anyone's knowing, a free agent – so even if the follow-up investigations had been observed, it would look as if the gryphon was simply covering his own ass. The truth of the matter was somewhat different. True, he had been found by the Watch with his figurative claws in the cookie jar, but it hadn't taken all that much effort to prove that he was the hired help, and little more. Looking through the files that the Canterlot immigration office had on him (most of which, he suspected, had been his own complaints, lodged with the office), they had determined that he had skills that they desired. Given broad powers in terms of his organization's roster, Sharp Salute had made the call that the virtues of having a skilled – if not licensed – barrister on the Watch's side carried a lot of weight. His first task had been to get an expert's appraisal of the fragment, and Gawin flattered himself to think that he had done so admirably. Ice Wine was looking at him, and Gawain realized that the small academic had expected a response. The gryphon shook his head. “I get the impression that she was talking more to herself than to me. It can be hard to live in Canterlot when you aren't a pony.” Zorada's eyes glittered a little at that. “Indeed. But it ill behoves us to discount an expert opinion after we have sought it.” Zorada was drinking ice water against the heat of the day, and Gawain had been unsurprised to learn that the zebra was a teatotaller. “I think that we may have to consider the possibility that somepony with ill intent toward the safety and security of Canterlot or Equestria might have a hoof in the warehouse that we raided – and I imagine that they will be missing their seized relics soon.” Ice Wine rubbed his chin. “I'll have to do some digging. Most of these relics haven't been reported missing anywhere – I know that Sticky and Hot Streak are checking with the local museums and collectors. It seems likely that someone has been smuggling them into the city.” Zorada glanced at the other two. “Yes... but why?” * * * Hot Streak didn't realize that she had walked into an ambush until it was too late. True, the streets of Canterlot were classically safe to walk at any hour of the night, but she chided herself as she recognized the tell-tale signs of a magical suppression field. She wasn't the scholar that Icewine was, but the unicorn had been in such a field before – mostly in efforts to learn to control her own volatile magic. As the field went up, the yellow-orange nimbus of light illuminating the various records that she had acquired through her enquiries snuffed suddenly, causing the ring-binders to fall to the ground, no longer buoyed by her telepathy. “Sticky, we're in trouble!” The pegasus hadn't been paying attention either, but one did not last long as a petty thief on the harsh streets of Manehattan without being quick on the uptake, and on Sticky there were no flies.(15) Too late, she saw the netting that had been cast over the top of the alleyway, preventing swift escape by wing... and the burly-looking figures that had blocked off either entrance. Swearing under her breath, the pegasus landed, to take up a defensive position beside Hot Streak. “Right. So, I'll take the...” she paused, doing a quick nose count. “five on the left, and you take the six on the right?” Steel glinted down the alley, as one of the toughs, a frankly enormous diamond dog, drew a holdout blade that he probably thought of as a knife, but which was a small sword by anyone else's standards. Hot Streak crackled her neck. It had been a long time since she had undergone the Equestrian Guard's basic training, but she'd done well enough at the time. If only she hadn't set that training base on fire. “That hardly seems fair. We have them so badly outnumbered.” It was, perhaps, a bit of bravado, but when someone had your back to a wall, it didn't hurt to bluster a little bit. Just because a numerically superior, well-organized and heavily armed force had cut off your avenues of retreat was no reason to let them grow overconfident. “True. Maybe I'll spot them an advantage and tie both wings behind my back.” Sticky was scanning the area with a refined eye. There were a couple of dumpsters, a few doors that looked like they locked from the inside – not, admittedly, a lot of advantages for the average brawler, but she had a few ideas in mind. Privately, the pegasus was wondering where Canterlot's famed city guard were – Ancestors knew that if she'd stolen the wallet of one of the advancing thugs, the guard would surely have been on her like red on an apple. “It only seems fair.” The menacing figures were growing quite close now, and Hot Streak gritted her teeth. The magic-suppressant field was strong, but not overpowering, and if there were any flaws in it... there! Hot Streak found a flaw, and poured power into it. The field cracked like an egg, and the unicorn and pegasus charged. * * * Luna was annoyed. The special meeting of the House of Lords had required the presence of both of the princesses, but both she and Celestia were both being ignored as noblepony after noblepony grandstanded and fillybustered(16) in an apparent attempt to express their displeasure about the levy. When the subject of the Night Watch had come up, it had been Lord Clearing House complaining about the legitimate raid that the group had performd on one of his warehouses near the Canterlot docks. Lord House had evidently no idea where the illegal artefacts had come from, but protested his innocence with a vehemence that beggared belief. He loved law and order, and blessed its little cotton socks, and the past half hour at least had involved wild speculation as to whence might have come the illegal relics housed in his facility. Everything from a changeling plot to Discordian interference had been proposed, with Luna particularly amused by the proposed possibility of moon-ponies having done the dirty deed in flying cups and saucers. Herself excepted, there were no moon ponies, a point that underscored the inappropriateness of the implication. This, she decided as the lord's filibuster reached a full forty-five minutes, had gone on long enough. “Enough.” Technically, Luna was speaking out of turn, but the parliamentary niceties did not actually apply to either princess – they simply usually observed them because they were niceties. Alliterative statements about punctuality notwithstanding, politeness was the politeness of princesses. “Lord House, the rules regarding your holding of the floor do not extend to your slandering of the name of one of your sovereigns. You have not been directly implicated or accused of malfeasance in the trade of illegal artifacts... yet.” The night princess' eyes narrowed. “Our investigations are ongoing, and you can quite reasonably expect this to be amended should they turn up the faintest whiff of complicity.” In truth, the investigation had turned up more than the least whiff, but the political realities of the situation had prevented the investigators from EIS from preferring charges. (A brief survey of the investigatory team had turned up a number of things that they would prefer instead, the list beginning and ending with a drinks order.) As Lord House was the current leader of the Opposition, an arrest or even formal accusation on anything less that direct evidence would... complicate the Government's initiative to remain solvent. Particularly if the scandal sheets got a hold of it. Luna reflected, not for the first time, that the wildly variable approaches Equestrian citizens took to their government made it difficult to predict precisely what tack would be best to take. On the one hoof, the average Equestrian-on-the-street could scarcely give less of a damn about the decisions made in parliament, excepting those that affected them personally. There was an air of apathetic savoir faire to this disregard that beggared belief at times. Mostly, the average pony on the street seemed to believe, the government would manage the relatively basic tasks of good governance and practical decision making.(17) They tended to be honest, pious, and hardworking, and put their faith in their royals and elected officials. In absence of a scandal arising. With the slightest hint of corruption (such as, say, the government attempting to gaol the leader of the opposition unjustly for smuggling charges), the average pony-on-the-street became a wildly opinionated creature, who knew every detail about every facet of the issue, whether this knowledge was based upon fact or otherwise. When the faint hints of corruption had reared their tiny heads in Luna's brief time as a serving royal again, Day and Night Court attendance had climbed a staggering four hundred percent. All of which made things... tricky. The budgetary levy was important, and would probably be entirely stifled by the hint of scandal. Luna was not ready to pull another all-dayer with the budgetary committee to try and hammer out something else that could afford the relief efforts the necessary funds. More than that, she was coming to trust the team that she was putting together. If there was some kind of smuggling operation going on in Canterlot, and if it endangered the lives of Equestrian citizens, she trusted her team to sniff it out. They were an odd bunch, the Night Watch, but what most of them needed more than anything else had been a second chance. Luna could relate. Lord Clearing House was sputtering, and Luna rose from her throne. “Honoured peerage, we understand that the idea of additional taxation is a bitter pill to swallow. Many of you have spoken at length, complaining about how it is yet another expenditure from the throne. But there are ponies out there who need our help, and we intend to render it to them. If you have an answer to that which does not involve personal affront, I invite you to share it before this matter is put to a vote. If not...” The night princess did not so much smile as show her teeth. “... then we are quite certain that other, more personal matters, may be reserved until after the vote two weeks from this evening. From the throne, I request that we do not turn our backs upon ponies that need our help.” * * * “I think we might need help.” The fight had been hilariously one-sided. Once the magic suppression field had failed, Hot Streak's elemental magic had proved nearly as decisive as Sticky Wings' less-than-decorous under-hoofed moves. Although there had been no serious injuries among the assailants, the dumpsters – and the contents thereof – had been used to humorous effect. All the more humorous if you didn't have to stand to close to the now malodorous thugs. Sticky had just been beginning a run-up to give the diamond dog that had pulled a machete another kick where it would not show, when the Canterlot watch had showed up. Conveniently late to the scene, Hot Streak reflected. Sticky and Hot Streak had both told the simple truth – that they had been the victims of an attack, and moreover, were a part of Princess Luna's task group – but either word of the Night Watch's existence had yet to permeate the layers of the Canterlot PD, or quite possibly, someone had been on the take. The Night Watch ponies had been placed in one cell, their assailants (many of whom still bore hold-out weapons, on or about their persons) in other facilities. “Well,” Sticky mused, “it's a good thing we just hired a lawyer. Timing worked out pretty well, for that.” * * * “The timing has worked out pretty well.” Zorada said, taking a sip of a murky liquid as she sat across from someone in one of Canterlot's less reputable dive bars. “The team is coming together, and I think they are starting down the right track. Whether or not it will be decisive depends on what is yet to come, of course.” The interviewer nodded, thoughtfully. “There's been pressure in parliament for Luna to disavow them.” The two shared a smirk. “That's unlikely to happen, to say the least. People think that the princess is untested in matters of politics, but they haven't been doing their history readings. She was a force to be reckoned with centuries before most of their great-grandparents were twinkles in their great-great grandparents eyes.” Zorada looked briefly concerned. “Would you like me to bring some examples of the artifacts we have found in for your experts to take a look at?” The interviewer made a dismissive gesture. “We'll be fine without it. Right now, it's important that Luna's mob get some real victories under their belt. They need to build up confidence. Just keep reporting in regularly. We wouldn't want things to get out from under us. “There's just too much at stake.” 15: Or at least, no flies that still possessed anything valuable in their pockets. They had, after all, bumped into her. 16: Not classically how it was spelled, but Luna had always wondered why not, given the Equestrian propensity for pony puns. 17: With an underlying note of 'not as well as I would, but who has time for that sort of thing'. Equestrian citizens had, as a whole, a much higher esteem for their understanding of civics than was truly warranted, as well as an argumentative nature. Some, of course, would disagree.