The Enforcer and Her Blackmailers (Enhanced & Augmented)

by scifipony

Chapter 16: Night Hauler

5011Camel Caravan turned out to be one of the roads terraced into the mountainside, in an area called Canterlot Heights. You could tell by the lamplighter, dressed in a smart white jacket with black piping who made his rounds in the dusk, that the neighborhood was actually a good part of town, which made me suspicious about whether "guard duty" might be some strange euphemism for something I would refuse to do, like kidnapping. The suburban vibe made me feel exposed and unwilling to change into Grimoire, lest Fellows had posted a description of me with the local constabularies.

My hooves echoed on well-maintained even cobblestones as I entered a strip of old houses, painted in greens, blues, and yellows, and converted to businesses each with signs swinging on posts or displayed in front windows. A common lawn area had been paved with gravel to provide parking for wagons. A plebeian-groomed Streak flew from a doorway to a large deep carryall wagon. It might have been used for carting ore had it had rail wheels instead of oddly small cart wheels that allowed it to roll on the street. It stood before a white-washed establishment with the right address. She hovered with a dozen paper-wrapped packages tied with string, and carefully deposited them in the wagon before looking my direction. Innocuously enough, she said, "Hi."

Plenty of other ponies trotted by; many were salaryponies in suits with loosened ties returning home, but I saw a mother pulling a fancy blue wagonette with young foals in billed caps and blue and gold sports uniforms. Canterlot Heights was a nice neighborhood.

I approached and gazed into the wagon.

It contained few packages for its size, and a number of bales of leaves and sticks. I smelled something faintly like rosemary, maybe something like burnt cinnamon. A few crates lay pushed up in a corner, beside clay canisters in a wine carrier box, each labeled with names I didn't recognize. I did recognize some cut flowers wrapped with wet paper from my potions class: Hearts Desire. None of it looked illegal, though hearts was particularly rare.

The sign in the window read, Prime Number, Herbalist.

Streak said to me, "I knew you'd be a pal and help out."

I stood blinking as an old pink mare with a white mane and very blue rheumy eyes walked out with vials of colored liquid. Extracts of some kind. She placed the basket containing them in the wagon and accepted a purse in return. She took out some glasses and checked the contents. "Exactly right to the last copper bit, child. Next time the clinic needs supplies, be sure to tell me a week ahead so I can get everything you asked for."

"I will Miss Number."

She laughed. As she climbed the steps to her porch, I whispered to Streak, "What's this all about?"

Streak considered me with her indigo eyes. Her mane was brushed back such that the streaks blended. Without her jewelry, she looked maybe twenty and possibly respectable, though not quite middle-class. Streak answered loudly enough that the herbalist could hear from where she waved at us, "I asked for a favor, girl, and you're it. Go ahead. Hitch up."

My mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Hitch up. You're being paid for this. Besides which, have you ever seen a pegasus pulling a wagon down the street?"

I might have, but certainly not in Canterlot where there were few feathered ponies. With my withers still tender, I didn't like the idea, but as I examined the half-barrel hitch, I saw plush padding and sewn felt that would prevent chaffing. I'd certainly pulled my share of wagons in the last three years; before that, ponies had pulled for me.

I nosed under it, and with Streak alternately flying above and trotting beside me, we took the meandering road down the mountain until it met up with Ponyville Way. We followed it through the diminishing business traffic and soon past ponies on their way for a night on the town. We continued all the way down to Cliffside, and when we turned onto the Strand, Streak directed me onto a dirt path into Palisade Park, a green belt a number of miles long with scattered trees. It was thirty pony lengths to the fence that guarded the precipice. After five more minutes, we stopped at a section of fence where the trees colluded to hide the street from view.

A cool breeze blew up from a half-mile below. Southeast, I could see the lights of Ponyville, and beside it a dark gulf which had to be the dense forest beside which the hamlet had been founded. Stars filled the sky and twinkled, magnificent with the lights of the city masked behind us. Meanwhile, Streak dug out a lantern with a large bobèche designed to be bitten to allow earth and pegasus ponies to carry it, hung it on a peg, and flicked her head. A match hissed into spitting flame. I smelled kerosene, sulfur, and soot. As she repositioned it by hovering over the wagon to an interior peg, I offered no assistance. There were certain things you didn't offer the other tribes unless asked, or unless you wanted to insult a pony.

"It's kind of romantic," I said drolly.

"Not my type," she retorted with a snort.

"But that isn't why we're here?"

"No, Grimoire," she said, alighting in the wagon and digging something out. "Time ta change places."

"I thought you didn't pull!?"

"Ya believe everything I say? I guess you're dumber than you look. T'was for the herbalist's benefit. Boss'll probably use her again. Anyway. Switch out."

She fluttered down beside me with an elaborate pile of lustrous black gum straps, strengthened with twine, and matching traces. As I unharnessed myself, she brought out a large collar with a cushy, though sweat-stained, red fabric lining. With deft use of the frogs of her hooves and her teeth, she threaded the parts together with ingenious metal rings. She removed the harness on the wagon, stowing it, and attached her tack to the wagon poles. Soon she shrugged herself into the gear, which by stretching her neck, she wrapped around her loins, docking a loop under her tail. She cinched a girth under her forelegs that, when connected to the pulling collar, left her wings unencumbered. Even the eight livery stallions pulling metro buses wore less complex tack.

After she pulled the last lead tight with her teeth, she said, "Climb in."

I had been so fascinated by the process, I blinked at what seemed a non sequitur. With my forelegs over the railing, I stopped and said, "You know, I can walk beside you."

She had a delicate sweet laugh for a street punk. "No you can't. Get in. Time's a-wastin'."

I did and she immediately pulled, jerking the wagon so I had to squirm to fight for balance as she went to a trot and then to a canter. On the dirt, albeit straight, road, this caused the wagon with its tiny wheels to bump and sway precariously. I put my forelegs over the rail to steady myself, but my protest got stuck in my throat. And me with no teleport spell queued...

Streak galloped toward the fence, directly at Ponyville—five leagues distant and over a tenth-league straight down.