Urban Wilds

by Rambling Writer

6 - Threads to Follow

The uses of “shady” to mean dishonorable and probably illegal and “underbelly” to refer to a hidden, seedy, corrupt part of something had sprung up from the darker sides of Canterlot for one simple reason: Canterlot’s shady underbelly was literal for both terms.

It had first originated with batponies and caves. And, no, that wasn’t some crazy tribalist accusation-slash-conspiracy-theory, the involvement of batponies in the growth of the Roost was very well-documented. Batponies often lived in the more mapped-out portions of Canterlot’s labyrinthine cave system, not far into the mountain. Why didn’t they go further in? Oh, nothing much, just rumors and occasional evidence of bloodthirsty monsters lurking just out of sight. Hence why not all of the cave system was mapped. Guards (batponies themselves, most of the time) patrolled the inhabited parts, keeping at bay whatever beasties might crawl from the dark. Even when the monsters learned to stay away from ponies, still the guards patrolled. The name might’ve made them sound like a nightmare, but the Granite Wards were easily among the safest regions in Canterlot.

Which was a bit of a problem for criminals. It’s no good trying to smuggle restricted goods or perform that old black magic or just have a nice, illegal punch-up competition if there is, almost literally, a guard around every corner. They began taking their business outside. But they couldn’t go up. Straight into the heart of Canterlot? Yeah, no. So they went down. Being batponies, flight was an option. So they started congregating on the vertiginous slopes of Canter Mount, right beneath the city’s infamous platform. Over time, little structures, then big ones, began slowly springing up to accommodate the needs of the unlawful as Canterlot’s population grew and more crooks gathered. Bars, stores, houses, apothecaries, even a smithy or two, you name it, you could probably find it if you didn’t have a fear of heights. When building on the cliffs became impossible due to a lack of space, they started hanging establishments right from the marble cladding, making some thousand-year-old mason spin like a dynamo in his grave. Semi-scrupulous mages with an eye for elegance began pooling their skills to cast illusions that hid the ramshackle array from a distance, keeping the city looking pristine and perfect and letting ponies ignore it. And thus was born the Roost, a literal underworld and an invisible island of nigh-lawlessness in Equestria’s capital.

By the time of the Reunion, the Roost was a bit of a public secret. Sure, everypony knew about it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed in Polite Company, and Canterlot was nothing if not ponies pretending to be Polite Company. Plenty of rumors flitted about as to why Celestia didn’t do anything about it. Too expensive, too risky, some secret brother of hers was hiding out there, everything. Bitterroot’s personal theory was that, because of the way the Roost attracted the criminal element, keeping it alive gave Celestia (Twilight, now) an easily-monitored heart for organized crime. Destroying the Roost — or worse, properly zoning it — would force every bad guy in it to disperse throughout Canterlot proper, making them far harder to track. If you couldn’t control it, you could at least corral it. Sometimes, Bitterroot wondered just how many ponies she passed on the catwalks were undercover guards keeping their hoof on the pulse.

Bitterroot didn’t spend much time in the Roost. Professionally, the sorts of ponies she searched for either never went there or only briefly stopped there before fleeing Canterlot entirely. Leisurely, the Roost offered very little useful for her that she couldn’t get topside, and with better quality guarantees, too. Topside costs had added taxes, but that was a small price to pay. Still, every now and then, she swooped around Canterlot’s lip to see if there was anything she’d missed under the rock.

Today was one of the few times she’d ever done it with a specific idea in mind. Bitterroot glided to the edge of Canterlot’s platform, took a brief moment to admire the view, then casually looped over, hugging the bottom edge and tracing it with a hoof. When contact with the rock suddenly vanished in spite of her hoof still touching it, Bitterroot flew on a dozen yards more, then pulled up, straight into the marble.

And straight through. The illusion buzzed slightly as it passed around her and her wings discharged tiny lightning bolts as they shed excess magic. In front of Bitterroot was, essentially, a small village, with buildings and services and roads, only dangling from an overhang rather than sitting on the ground. Cables kept it all firmly anchored, each one a foot in diameter at the minimum. When you flew over the roofs of the buildings, it looked like a metal forest from all the connections burrowing into the cladding with varying levels of expertise. With the place in the literal shadow of Canterlot, light gems dotted every possible location to give some semblance of illumination. The illusion was invisible from this side, so Bitterroot had a clear view allllllllll the way to the ground.

The Roost was not for the squeamish. Then again, neither was criminality.

Bitterroot alighted on one of the supported streets. It was probably technically a catwalk, but, being able to hold five good-sized ponies abreast, it seemed too wide to qualify as a “catwalk”. The road itself was guardrailed and held up nice and firm beneath the hoofbeats of its travelers; besides the usual strengthening enchantments on the road, Canterlot itself shielded the Roost from the worst weather. After a few moments of refamiliarizing herself with the area, Bitterroot set off. Luckily, the Hangnail wasn’t far. She inconspicuously scooted away from every creature, pony or otherwise, she saw. Another reason she didn’t go to the Roost much? Criminals didn’t make for the best company.

It wasn’t long before Bitterroot got lost, reoriented herself, and strode into what would’ve been an ordinary dive on the edge of town if it’d been on the ground. Its façade was worn down and falling apart while the inside wasn’t much better, but the floor was solid as a rock. Even in the absence of safety inspections, having prospective customers plummet screaming to their deaths miles below when the floor collapsed beneath them was bad for business. There weren’t many customers this early, which suited Bitterroot just fine.

She scooted onto a stool at the bar and was immediately greeted by a smiling bartender (and so quickly that, considering the bartender was a unicorn, Bitterroot wasn’t totally sure she hadn’t just teleported in). “Hello, good pony,” burbled the bartender, “and welcome to the Hangnail, where your drinks will never have any illegal ingredients you don’t want! Unless you order the Potpourri Potion, in which case you’re literally asking for it.”

The funny thing was, the Roost being the Roost, that wasn’t a preemptive claim meant to imply something about other bars in the vein of “asbestos-free cereal”, but an entirely legitimate assurance. Two decades ago, the Hangnail’s previous proprietor sometimes slipped dangerous magical substances into the drinks for laughs. When she was found out as the source of the arcane maladies, her patrons broke her wings and tossed her off the catwalks. (Well, most of them. Some were disappointed, at least until the Potpourri Potion reached the menu.)

“Hey,” said Bitterroot. She tried to downplay herself, keep from standing out too much. While she’d been to the Hangnail once or twice before, she was unfamiliar to the usuals, and if her token thief/possible Mearhwolf was still hanging around, the last thing she wanted to be was a memorable newcomer. But she still needed information, and one of the quickest ways to ingratiate yourself to a stranger was: “Thanks for coming so quickly… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Swizzle Stick.”

Bitterroot immediately winced. “I am so sorry.”

Swizzle chuckled, not a trace of sardonicism in her. “Don’t be, ’cause it’s my name and I like it.”

In other words, Swizzle was somepony you did not mess with. Not when she went flaunting a name like that in a place like this. Bitterroot wanted to jump right into the questions, but she didn’t frequent the Hangnail enough for that. She needed to butter Swizzle up a bit with some business, and so ordered a beer. This early in the day, ponies would judge her topside (and for understandable reasons), but this was the Roost; once somepony started judging somepony else, one thing would lead to another and the entire place would collapse (not literally).

Fortunately, Bitterroot could hold her liquor if she really wanted to and felt absolutely no buzz by the time she was licking up the last dregs. Swizzle was right in front of her the instant her empty glass hit the bartop. “Need anything more, like a refill?” she asked.

“No, thank you.” Bitterroot coughed a little to clear her throat. “Although, I’m curious… One of this bar’s token’s was just found near one of the Mearhwolf’s victims-”

Immediately, Swizzle tightened. It was subtle, but just about every muscle of hers tensed up; her smile became fixed, her eyes narrowed slightly, veins stood out on her legs. She looked less like a talkative bartender and more like somepony who wouldn’t think twice about pounding your face in if it came to blows. But of course she was; this was the Roost. “Yeah, I know,” she said in the voice of an approaching train, “because just yesterday, a group of guards spent a sunblasted hour badgering me about that exact topic and left me mighty peeved.” Still smiling that statue’s smile, she tilted her head. “Are you a guard? Because my answer to you is the same as to them: I don’t know anything.”

Bitterroot didn’t flinch (much); she’d been expecting a reaction like that. Honesty was the best policy, at least according to Applejack, and she seemed like the most level-headed of the Elements, so… “Bounty hunter, actually.” (Swizzle immediately relaxed a little.) “There’s a lot of money in catching the Mearhwolf. Plus, y’know, stopping a spree killer.” She pulled out the picture of the token and set it on the bar between them. “So you can’t help me with this?”

Swizzle sighed; her voice was already back to its original registers. “Look, we give out a lot of those tokens, I don’t keep track of who gets them, and even if I just narrowed it down to the suspicious-looking types… Well, you know where you are, right? Sorry.” She glanced at the paper briefly, then twitched and snatched it away. “Whoa, hold up.” She held it up to the light, as if she were examining it for fakery. “These ones haven’t been released yet.”

BItterroot got hit with a buzz right then, a little click that told her she was positively, absolutely on to something and needed to follow this at all costs. “Really?”

“Yeah, see, this-” With a spark of her horn, Swizzle flicked a token onto the bar in front of Bitterroot. “-is the style we have now, and take a look at the design, it’s nothing like this-” Indeed, the pattern on the non-denominational side was just a bubbly beer stein. “-but Gruit was about to release the new ones in a week.”

“Really.” Bitterroot craned her neck to look at the picture of the token again. “Huh. So why the change?”

“Princess Twilight, believe it or not,” Swizzle said as she passed the paper back to Bitterroot, “ ’cause she’s the Princess of Friendship, so she’s gonna start a whole bunch of outreach programs to the surrounding nations, and then suddenly we’ll have a bunch of vassal states ’cause every nation’ll want to join us.”

“You really think so?”

Swizzle snorted. “I don’t, but Gruit swears Griffonstone’s gonna join Equestria in like ten years and she wants to be welcoming, and I mean, I do, too, but we don’t need to waste money on new tokens when the old ones’re species-neutral already. Anyway, before you ask, yes, these tokens have been stolen recently, as in ‘just a few nights ago’ recently, when somepony broke into the storehouse and made off with a bunch of tokens, rye bread, and grape juice, of all things, but nopony saw anything, I mean, nopony who cared, anyway.”

Rye bread and grape juice. Huh. Something about that flickered through Bitterroot’s mind like a half-remembered thought. She filed that away for another time. “Weird. You know anything else about that?”

“Nope. Just that the Hangnail got broken into and our guards didn’t see a thing, or so they say, and it couldn’t’ve been Acrospire, since she never stabs you in the back — always does it face-to-face. The storehouse is at the corner of Second and Sea, if you want to take a look at it.”

The tips of Bitterroot’s feathers were buzzing. Honestly, as tenuous as this lead was, it was still miles ahead of what she’d been experiencing. Still, it was one of the most bizarre things she had ever seen, and she’d once seen somepony get paid for their own bounty. What did a spree killer want with grape juice? (Or rye bread or bar tokens, for that matter. Unless it was the victim’s…) Might be magic. Might not be. Hopefully, the truth would come out sooner or later.

“Can I keep this?” Bitterroot asked, holding up the token that Swizzle had put down. Evidence for the Guard; it’d be proof that the current token and the dropped token weren’t the same. There was still a reward for leads, after all.

“Not for free,” Swizzle said immediately.

“It’s just two bits, they won’t be missed.”

The uncaring look Swizzle gave Bitterroot was downright record-setting.

Stupid Roost. “Fine.” Bitterroot begrudgingly dropped two bits on the table in exchange for the token. Two of her own bits; self-employment let you set your own jobs, but it also meant a dearth of expense accounts.

“Thank you,” said Swizzle as she took the bits.

“And thank you,” said Bitterroot, pocketing the token. She stood up, arched her back, stretched her wings. “I’m off.”

So. Food robberies. Who would be the best pony to ask about that? The storehouse guards, maybe. Or maybe she should take a look at the storehouse itself? But what would she look for? It’d raise questions if she, a relative newcomer, started asking the guards about what happened that night.

She needed some time to think. Blood flow got her thinking. Once outside the Hangnail, she stepped to the edge of one of the streets and let herself fall. For a second, the wind pulled at her feathers, then she flared her wings and swooped away, out from under Canterlot. Flying was very much a high-blood-flow activity, excellent for-

“Excuse me? Bounty hunter.”

The voice was some distance behind her. It was polite, but not in the double-entendric crime-boss “‘polite’ means you stay quiet while I break your legs” sort of way. More polite in the deliverymare way: quick and to the point. Bitterroot rolled onto her back and looked behind her. A slender, burnished-blue pegasus she’d never seen before (definitely not in the Hangnail) was following her at just the right distance for either of them jumping the other to be awkward. When Bitterroot brought herself into a hover, so did the other pegasus, keeping the same distance. The message was clear: she didn’t want to hurt Bitterroot (whether or not that was true remained to be seen). “Yeah?” asked Bitterroot.

“Interested in learning more about the robbery?” the pegasus asked.

Bitterroot’s wingbeats briefly faltered. “From whom?” she asked suspiciously. And how did she know Bitterroot had been asking about the robbery?

“Somebody working with the Royal Guard,” said the pegasus. “Come on. We can talk topside. Less chance of the wrong ponies listening in and we won’t be hovering until our wings fall off.” She nodded upwards and rose a few yards, keeping her eyes on Bitterroot.

Paranoia made Bitterroot think this was somepony sent to silence her (for whatever reason) before common sense beat it down. If the pegasus had wanted to kill her, she would’ve attacked by now. Shot in the wing with an arrow, smashed by a mace, something like that. She hadn’t noticed the pegasus until she spoke up, after all. Well, she didn’t have any better leads at the moment. Worth a shot as long as she kept her wits about her.

“Alright,” she said as she climbed. “Lead the way.”

---

It was so much cleaner than other necromancy.

Amanita’s old rituals had left behind… basically, thaumaturgical vomit. A sort of skin-crawling sensation most easily sensed by unicorns but that earth ponies or pegasi might be aware of. It was disgusting if you had any sort of empathy, feeling like you were forcing someone to wade through rotting flesh, not that that had stopped her from using them. Circe had said it couldn’t be helped, but Amanita suspected she either didn’t care or she liked the feeling of domination it gave her.

This, though? This was just like finding bits of mold on a piece of bread you were about to use for a sandwich: somewhat icky, but fine once you got the icky stuff away, and at least it didn’t cling to you. Honestly, plumbers went through worse just about every job.

Of course, Amanita could only think that because she’d raised the dead before. Code and Escharia were dumbstruck, watching as what had once been a corpse stretched and yawned.

Cobalt groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and sat up. She stared at her hoof, turning it over and over like she was examining a new limb. She rubbed her face, licked her lips, bit her tongue, winced. She turned to the assembled ponies and asked quietly, “Why am I alive? I… died, right?” She made a few motions that looked like she was nibbling the inside of her cheek. “But I… I’m definitely alive now.”

“Ehhfaaaahhhhh…” said Escharia sagely.

“You’re… in the morgue at Canterlot Castle,” Code said distantly. “We’re with the Royal Guard. You were resurrected after being killed by the Mearhwolf.”

“Really? Huh.” Cobalt looked away at nothing in particular and muttered, “So where… Where was I? I…” She rapped herself on the head a few times. “I was somewhere, I know it. Somewhere nice.”

“Elysium,” said Amanita simply. It had to be. Where else would she have gone? Code twitched and stared at Amanita, then her head snapped to Cobalt. One of her ears was folded back and she was flicking her tail constantly.

Cobalt waved a hoof in Amanita’s direction without looking at her. “Yeah. That’s part of it, but… Grfh, stupid brain.”

Code suddenly cleared her throat and pulled herself up. She looked every bit the professional; you’d’ve never guessed that she was gawking a mere moment ago. “So you don’t remember the afterlife?”

Cobalt was silent for a long time, only clicking her tongue as she thought. She rubbed one of her legs with another, apparently just to feel the ruffle of hair. Eventually, she said, “Okay, I’m probably gonna sound pretentious, but this… body isn’t me any more than your… uniform is you. It’s what I’m in, but it’s not me. And your uniform, it can restrict your movements, right? That’s what it’s like for me. It’s…” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “My soul remembers it, but my brain doesn’t. It’s that thing where you’ve only half-forgotten something, and you know that if you could just get the right jolt, you’d remember enough to fill an encyclopedia, but that jolt never comes.”

Code and Escharia looked at each other for a moment before Escharia bolted to her office. She was back moments later, putting a pen and paper in front of Code, who immediately started jotting things down.

“But I can still remember some things.” Cobalt was still talking. “It’s all just… feelings and… impressions. Like how you can remember having a good time at the theater without remembering a thing about the play you just watched. I…” She rubbed her forehead. “I… liked it. A lot. And-”

The words spilled out before Amanita could stop them. “D-do you want to go back?”

Code’s head snapped up, the pen falling from her mouth, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. One of Escharia’s ears drooped. Cobalt simply looked at Amanita like she’d just proposed crossing the street. She tilted her head and asked, “How long has it been? Since I…” She drew a hoof across her throat.

“About a day and a half.”

Another pause from Cobalt. Then: “No, I don’t think so. Covert’ll miss me, and it’s not like Elysium’s going anywhere, right?” She laughed. Somehow, it wasn’t forced.

“Amanita,” Code suddenly said, “I’d like to talk to you outside.” She jerked her head towards the door.

“Right now?” Amanita asked. “Shouldn’t we-”

“Amanita,” Code said. Her tone of voice hadn’t changed, but her words now fell with the weight of an anvil. “I’d like to talk to you outside.”

Amanita immediately scurried outside, Code following. Escharia said, “Whoa, hold up,” but whatever came next was cut off by Code slamming the door shut.

Code whirled on Amanita before the echoes had fully faded away. “What are you doing?” she demanded, and for the first time, her voice was sharp. Coming from her, that sharpness had some extra bite.

Not like somepony else’s sharpness, bared at every point.

“Just what d’ye think yer DOIN’?” snapped Circe. “Are ye thinkin’ at all?”

When Amanita started dipping into practical necromancy, she didn’t make many mistakes. But whenever she did, Circe, once so open, pounced on them like a jackal would a dying foal. The slightest slip-up made her froth with rage, regardless of that slip-up. A rune not angled correctly. A slightly lopsided circle. A throat cut open an inch from where it should be. If it was wrong (or “wrong”), it was fair play.

“I-I’m sorry, master,” babbled Amanita, “I-”

Somehow, Amanita never thought ill of Circe. Her master wasn’t to blame; no, she herself was. Communication was a two-way street, yet by some miracle, all the fault lay with her. She applied herself harder and harder. Sometimes it worked and she learned. Sometimes it didn’t and she didn’t.

“If’n y’wanna kill ’er quickly, go DEEP. Y’don’t know ’xactly where th’arteries are.”

Technically, Circe never hit Amanita. But after too many mistakes, things started happening. Food slipped into the fire. A cloak was misplaced. A gash was torn in a tent. All accidents that never seemed to hit Circe. Between these utterly coincidental happenings and her own failures, Amanita was oh, so miserable. But Circe still gave her Zinnia. She couldn’t be all bad, right? And things were worse out there, where Zinnia wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time-”

Sometimes, Amanita did the right thing and felt revulsion at killing off ponies just to test necromancy. But she brushed those feelings away. This was one of those vocations where you were supposed to be disgusted the first few times you did it, right? Like a plumber or a mortician. These were bad ponies, they wouldn’t be missed. Circe assured her of that.

“You better. I take y’in, and y’repay me wi’ THIS half-assed excuse for studyin’? Pfeh.”

When it finally clicked, when Amanita could finally make a body stand on her accord, Circe started mellowing out. Praise came here and there. Sometimes she gave Amanita tips rather than reprimands. But she still reacted harshly to mistakes, no matter how quickly Amanita corrected them. Perfection was necessary and she’d accept nothing less.

“Remember: it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Y’gotta put yerself at the top o’the pile, and if y’ain’t willin’ t’do the work t’get rid o’ yer own death, y’might as well off yerself now.”

But Amanita forged on. Between Circe’s “scoldings” and her own work, she immersed herself. A tentative step by a corpse became a dance recital. Whispering shades became talkative spirits. Death turned from an infinite chasm, impossible to bridge, to a burbling river, something you could skip across easily with some small amount of effort.

“What do you mean by that, master?”

And so, far too quickly, Amanita became comfortable with performing necromancy.

“Let’s jus’ say we’re gettin’ there. ’Ssumin’ y’can learn this proper-like.”

“What in Celestia’s name are you doing?” snapped Code again, jarring Amanita out of her memories.

“W-what?” was all Amanita could stammer out. She’d done everything she’d been asked to do. She’d done everything right. She’d been comfortable with it. She instinctively pulled in a little and tensed up.

“You bring a pony back to life — mind and soul alike apparently intact — bring the Mearhwolf’s body count down by one, maybe give some hope back to a city that desperately needs it, and the first thing you do once the pony’s back is offer to kill her again? I-” Code rubbed her head and took a few deep breaths. When she spoke again, her professionalism was back. “I want to know,” she said technically calmly, “what your reasoning for that is.”

Ha. Reasoning. Circe never asked for that. “Okay, that, that mare, Cobalt,” Amanita said, pointing back into the morgue. “When she died, she went to Elysium, right? And she… had experiences there, even if she doesn’t remember them.”

“Yes,” Code said neutrally.

“Elysium is, I mean, it’s the afterlife. As far as we know, it’s where we’re going to spend eternity. What if it’s the kind of place you’d want to spend eternity? What if she reconnected with her family? Or what if- What if life just hurts and we don’t know it because we’ve never been dead? At first, she seemed… I don’t know, out of it. And if she’s seen the other side of death and wants to go back, I- I’m not sure I’d stop her. I couldn’t justify taking away eternal happiness from her.”

Code stared at Amanita even more intensely than usual, her tail rustling. Amanita felt her eyes watering, even as she blinked freely. None of these things had come up with Circe, but Amanita knew Code was drinking them in like a dehydrated seapony. Right before the silence became awkward, Code asked quietly, “You put all that together in a few minutes?”

“No, I put all that together across years,” Amanita snapped. “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

Ear flick, nod. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure I agree with you, but you’re right, this is new to me. Maybe it’ll change once I’ve thought about it.” Code bowed her head slightly. “I apologize. It’s been a while since I’ve philosophically engaged with a new field of ritualism.” Then her ears twitched up and she looked off into the distance. “…Huh. It is new,” she murmured to herself. A grin briefly flashed across her face, so quickly Amanita almost missed it. Then she shook her head and re-entered the morgue. Amanita tentatively followed her.

“-don’t know whether I forgot anything,” Cobalt was casually saying to a wide-eyed Escharia, “but it’s definitely hazy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Escharia dully.

“More like I had a-” Cobalt glanced over and noticed that Code and Amanita were back. “That was fast,” she said.

“It was a simpler matter than I anticipated,” said Code. “Cob-”

“Okay, so, seriously, why am I alive?” asked Cobalt, nearly demanding. “I remember my death. And being alive’s cool and all, but… how?”

Amanita and Code looked at each other. Code seemed ready to say something before Amanita blurted out, “I’m a necromancer.” It had to come out at some point.

Cobalt froze and stared at Amanita, her pupils shrinking. She inched a tiny ways away and pulled her legs in slightly. “Necromancer?” she asked quietly. “But- A-am I really-”

“You’re alive, not undead,” Amanita said. She pointed jerkily at her neck. “You- have a heartbeat.”

Immediately, Cobalt’s hoof went to her carotid. Her ears quivered as she held her breath, then drooped as she released it. “Oh, thank Celestia.” When she looked at Amanita again, her fear had been replaced with confusion. “I… Aren’t necromancers…?”

“Amanita came to us and offered her assistance,” said Code. “She did nothing without the Guard’s approval.”

“And I- couldn’t let you stay dead,” said Amanita. “It’s- I just- couldn’t. I, I mean, you get it, right?” She briefly flashed a nervous smile. They got it. Hopefully.

“As you can see,” said Code, “she’s broken the mold.”

“Oh.” Cobalt nibbled on her lip. “Um. Thanks. For… necromancing me.”

Amanita looked away so they couldn’t see her face redden. “You’re welcome.”

Code cleared her throat. “Now, Cobalt, if you don’t mind, I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About what?” Cobalt asked, tilting her head.

“Although I approved of the spell used, resurrection is a new procedure. I simply want to be sure it worked correctly. I’d rather not find out about any metaphysical ailments when it’s too late.”

“Alright,” Cobalt said, shrugging. “Shoot.”

“Um.” Amanita coughed quietly. “I’m gonna… wait outside, okay?”

Code didn’t say anything, but she nodded and waved Amanita to the door. “First question,” she said to Cobalt. “Do you notice any… changes in perception between before your death and after it?”

Once she was outside, Amanita slouched against the wall, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Okay. First hurdle done. One Court-approved resurrection, performed. And how did she feel?

Relieved, mostly. She’d done everything she’d been asked and had come out alright. Happy that she could save a murder victim. Maybe any future victims would get shipped to her. Overwhelmed that all this was happening at once. She’d only gotten out of jail yesterday and was performing necromancy again.

Which. Um. Well. Being given oversight wasn’t helping much with the knowledge that she was doing what had gotten her in jail in the first place. And it felt…

It felt good. It was necromancy, and it felt good. She wanted to say it was saving Cobalt, but when she let go of her history or intent and acted, it… felt right. She had control. She was powerful. Death was nothing to her and she liked that feeling. And this? This was just a small part of what she knew. She knew how to enslave dead ponies, strip them of their free will. She wanted to say she wouldn’t do that, but she’d slipped down that slope before. And if this small part felt good, what if-

She jumped when the door to the morgue opened up and Escharia half-walked, half-stumbled out. She quickly shut the door behind her, then stared at Amanita, her lollipop stick twitching. “Please, oh great necromancer,” whispered Escharia, “don’t put me out of a job.”

Amanita winced and looked away. “I’m not great. I’m giving in to peer pressure.”

“Please, oh peer-pressured necromancer-”

“Could you not?”

“Pardon,” Escharia said quickly. “It’s just-” She swallowed and sat down opposite Amanita. “When Cobalt’s body came in, I led her autopsy. I cut her open. I handled her guts. Like, physically reached into her chest. And now she’s right. In there. Talking!” Each word was punctuated by a jab at the morgue. “My mare, you even flabbergasted the High Ritualist. That just ain’t somethin’ that happens! Never!” She squinted at Amanita. “And you’re real calm ’bout this, laughin’ in death’s face like that. You don’t get you, do you?”

“I’m a necromancer,” Amanita said. “It’s what I do.”

“…Don’t know what I expected, really. Guess I’m the one who doesn’t get you.”

Amanita shrugged.

It was quiet in the hall. No ponies were nearby and the door muffled Code’s and Cobalt’s conversation. Amanita glanced up and down the corridors. Where to from here? She’d probably be told. She’d been told what to do for most of the past few years of her life, after all.

“Y’know,” Escharia said, “for what’s it worth… thank you for doin’ this. I’m used to seein’ the dead, but my heart still goes out to those poor souls that get wheeled through my door. ’Specially these last few weeks, with the Mearhwolf. It’s strange to see one of ’em walk out, but… the good kinda strange. So, yeah. Thanks.”

A knot formed in Amanita’s throat. “You’re welcome,” she heard herself say.

“Guess I’d rather lose a job than have ponies like her stay dead.”

Amanita grunted noncommittally.

Several minutes passed in near-silence. Here, in the middle of Canterlot, Amanita suspected the morgue had probably gotten more traffic in the past few weeks than in the entire rest of the year. Then, suddenly, the door opened up, Code standing in the doorway, Cobalt right behind her. “As far as I can tell, Cobalt is both physically and metaphysically healthy.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” said Escharia.

“She’ll go through questioning about if she remembers anything about her death,” Code continued, “but once that’s complete, that leaves the matter of what, precisely, to do with her.”

Amanita sat up straight, her rear hooves scrabbling the linoleum as she tried to push herself higher. “What? Can’t she just go back ho-”

Cobalt nudged Code aside slightly. “I was dead,” she said flatly. “What do you think’ll happen if I just show up at home?”

“And necromancy is still… feared,” Code said delicately. “I was planning on sending her on her way with a guard, so her family could at least have the assurance of the Crown that she was safe, but… Amanita, would you be willing to accompany her as well?”

Amanita’s ears twitched and she began connecting the dots. “So they can… see who did it…” she said slowly, “and… connect necromancy with somepony who isn’t an obvious monster?” On the one hoof, it’d be great PR for her, but on the other, good gravy, did everyone need to know she was a necromancer? …Well, kinda, if she was going to continue doing this.

Code nodded. “Precisely. I understand if-”

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Amanita said quickly. This whole thing was a band-aid mid-pull. It was going to hurt, but it was already hurting, so what was the point in stopping? If she got it out now, she’d never need to get it out later.

Code looked blindsided for a quarter of an instant, only to collect herself again. “Excellent. Then we’re done here. Escharia, thank you for your time, your trust, and your room. Is the offer of lollipops still open?”

“Sure!” Escharia was on her feet in an instant. “You got a flavor you want?”

“The purple agglomeration claiming to be grape.”

“Alrighty,” Escharia said. “You want one, Amanita?”

“Eh… no, thanks,” Amanita said reflexively.

“Your loss. Cobalt?”

“Uh…” Cobalt glanced between Code and Amanita, her ears flopping. She licked her lips and twitched. “Why not, lemme see.”

Maybe it was peer pressure, maybe it was realizing how little she really cared, but Amanita heard herself saying, “Actually, um, yeah, I’ll have one.” Life was too short to give up free sweets, necromancer or not. “Uh…” She picked the first flavor that came to mind. “Bubblegum.”

“Is that actual bubblegum, bubblegum flavor, or blue flavor that’s misleadin’ly sold as bubblegum?”

Candy was weird.

Comments

[hehelover]

Anyway, before you ask, yes, these tokens have been stolen recently, as in ‘just a few nights ago’ recently, when somepony broke into the storehouse and made off with a bunch of tokens, rye bread, and grape juice, of all things, but nopony saw anything, I mean, nopony who cared, anyway.

And from Hinterlands:

You can only eat certain things that are metaphysically tied to death, like unleavened black bread or unfermented wine.

Shit's about to hit the fan.

[Level Dasher]

11086828

Oh f.

[Your resident Night Owl]

11086828
I did not notice that, I should’ve but didn’t.

[N4rwh41]

11086828
I caught that as well. This is gonna get interesting fast. Especially if her Highness gets informed. I also liked it the description of the lollypops. Candy is weird.

[Frustration in Excelsis]

Regarding Code's outburst at Amanita's offer to, ah, send Cobalt back -- it's worth noting that ponies may have to redefine how they view death in the coming future.

I mean, think about it. What is death from our perspective in real life? It's an ending -- a total cessation, the end of a person's life, activity and presence in the world. We can have faith that something exists beyond it, certainly, but it's specifically that -- faith. We can't know for certain until we die too, and once somebody dies they no longer have any presence in the world and we can no longer interact with them. Thus, death is seen as a terrible, fearful thing, and its spreading and causing as evil.

Now, for ponies this is mostly the same -- at a surface level. What I think has been made fairly clear in this chapter is that death simply isn't like this in this world. Death, very evidently, doesn't cause the end of a person's being, or any loss of memory, personality and personal continuity, or really of anything beyond incidental meat. As Cobalt put it, you are a soul, and after death you just... leave you body and go somewhere else. Death isn't an ending, but a transition, and not even an irreversible one -- even if the body can't be resurrected, you can very much still contact a deceased individual and talk with them as with a living person.

This has always been known to necromancers but would likely have remained unknown to most of society -- but for how long will that remain so going forward? Realistically, knowing this information, death loses a lot of its finality and fearsomeness. I think Equestria has some serious metaphysical adjustments to look forward to in its future.

(Also, this makes lichdom seem like a pretty stupid path, not just a cowardly one -- if you're a habitual necromancer, you must know that souls last forever, and that after your body gives out you just move into the afterlife and continue to exist there. Lichdom allows you to tether yourself to physicality, but it also dooms your soul to annihilation -- to actual death -- sooner or later. Even if you prevent your phylactery's destruction, lichdom still makes true death a possibility, whereas before it wasn't. It seems incredibly short-sighted to me.)

11086828
Oh, very good catch.

[MrMeows]

Cobalt seems remarkably calm and logical for somepony who was just dead. Given that Rambling's stories have historically been Chekhov's arsenal, I have a feeling that's relevant somehow.

[SIGAWESOME]

11087267

Regarding Code's outburst at Amanita's offer to, ah, send Cobalt back -- it's worth noting that ponies may have to redefine how they view death in the coming future.

Seeing that Tartarus is literally just down the road and around the corner, I could see their afterlife being something like this: (very tougue-in-cheek)
derpicdn.net/img/view/2016/6/21/1183200.jpg

More or less makes the same point as you about death's finality.

11086828

<Chekov's snacks>

Good catch!
Code's candy can be added as well perhaps?

[hehelover]

11068047
Also I just knew Amanita being the only necromancer in this is too good to be true.

[Shachza]

“Please, oh great necromancer,” whispered Escharia, “don’t put me out of a job.”

Amanita winced and looked away. “I’m not great. I’m giving in to peer pressure.”

“Please, oh peer-pressured necromancer-”

I absolutely lost it. Thanks for that!

[FridayPie]

11087624
Like Sith, there are always two