Doctor Whooves: A Thief at the Gala

by Simon Woodington

Brazen Heart’s short reddish tail bobbed as he trotted anxiously through the halls to the Princess’ chambers. Two ponies stood outside her door, one light tan colt with burgundy mane, the second a light blue colt with a bubbly deep navy mane. He wanted to know why they were here, but …

  “… Widget Dreamer’s new apple slicer? Oh I made the most wonderful apple pie with it!” chimed the former, who Blaze remembered was Lucent Acumen. He wore copper rimmed round lens glasses. Another of Dreamer’s designs, no doubt. The two were close friends. The other was Frazzle Spark, a scholar under the tutelage of Fire Wire the Grand.

  “Uh, what’d you do with all the cores,” asked his companion doubtfully.

  “That’s a silly question. I have a compost,” he replied, mildly testy. “It’s in my back yard.”

  “You’ve never shown it to me …” the younger of the pair protested. “I thought friends shared all that.”

  “How was I supposed to know you had an interest in gardening?”

  “Hey colts, ’sup?” Brazen introduced as he reached a polite distance. The while colt brightened immediately.

  “Brazen! ‘sup!” replied the white colt with a cheerful click of hoof. They raised their hooves in a familiar greeting and tapped them together.

  “How can we help you?” Lucent requested amicably.

  “You can’t. Going to see the princess.”

  “Is it important?” Lucent had tweaked to the oddity of the visit, and wanted in.

  Brazen grinned knowingly. “Very. I’m going now.”

  “Yeah, door’s not locked …” Frazzle remarked with subtle sarcasm. Ah, of course, her open door policy. Brazen knocked, then nudged the door open. Celestia was, predictably, sipping tea. Brazen stooped on his forehooves.

  “Good morning, your majesty.”

  “Good morning, Brazen Heart. Where is my sister?” she uttered, alert to the irregularity of this appearance.

  “M’lady. I’ve been sent by Captain Nocturne to request your presence in Luna’s bedchamber.”

  She rose from her pillow, determination narrowing her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  Twilight Sparkle had never before known such pain. Unless she counted the events of the Usra Minor, Rarity’s wing spell … which she had not until the black vacuum between her eyes brought forth the recollection. Light pierced the darkness, but the aura and accompanying shadow wasn’t one she recognized. A voice as gentle as the hoof at her mane consulted with regards to her condition:

  “How do you feel?”

  Twilight moaned, tossing slightly on the bed. “Who are you? Ooh, I’ve got to get back to Ponyville …”

  “Doctor John Trotson. Ah, good. Back to coherence. You’re a talkative filly, in your sleep. Do you know that? Does your head hurt? You’re still very pale.”

  “But … Ponyville …” The tornado of events made her head spin, and the world with it. She gulped and swallowed, nausea turning her face green. She groaned again, wriggling her forehooves.

  “Shush now. Still a touch queasy, I see. You’re in no condition to travel now. You had a high fever, but it has broken. Tell me, have you ever performed magic of that sort before?”

  “Oooh …” she groaned. “No. It was, different.”

  “Never you mind that for now. You’re looking much better, lie back down. Nurse!” he called. A white gowned unicorn, Twilight’s attendant, trotted soundlessly over and applied her healing horn. Her mane and tail swirled in a yellow-white candy cane flow, pale eyes streaming calm and assurance. John wondered if she might also have been a doula.

  “She’s out of danger now, Cotton … Gauze, was it?” Dr. Trotson said, measuring the regularity of Twilight’s breathing pattern. “Won’t be going anywhere for the day, at best. Could be sooner, she’s recovering much more quickly than I thought she would. You’ll keep an eye on her, will you?”

  “Doctor Stickerbrush is the palace physician. He’s been assigned to her care,” she half-whispered in reply. “I must thank you for taking such fine care of her.”

  “Oh, not at all,” John whinnied softly. “Repaying a debt, you might say.”

  “So the sleeper wakes,” rumbled a pleasing baritone. Unphased, Trotson did not avert his attention from his patient, yet the micro-expression of ire at his timing could not be missed. Twilight in particular blushed. “What do you remember about last night?”

  “Forelock, she’s only just awoken,” John rose to his hooves and faced his friend. “You’ll not pester her. I won’t have it.”

  Forelock snorted and began to turn away. “Fine then. I’ll eat, if I must.”

  “Wait.” Twilight had begun to rise from her bed when Cotton pressed her back down. Unable to resist, she relented. “I just want to talk. I’ll rest, I promise.”

  “You’ve a sentence, my dear. Nothing more,” Cotton’s paternal authority was definitive.

  “Thank you. You. You, yes. I need to say something to you.”

  Reading her air of challenge, the dark haired colt made direct eye contact. This is not a filly who lies or cheats. Nor does she abandon those in need. Even among her friends she is of rare self-sacrifice. Her power will one day rival the Princesses, if she can summon John and I from Londun, he thought, tugging at the knot of his scarf.

  “Are you … Forelock Holmes?” she panted.

  “I am.” He stooped slightly. John had a momentary flash of surprise.

  Twilight’s eyes fluttered, and she drifted back to sleep. “Yay …”

  “Sister, do you believe the threat is serious?” Dark eyes scrutinized a parchment half unrolled upon a small reading table, as though it had begun to spark and sizzle.

  “I would not risk a hair on your beautiful mane, my sister,” murmured passionate, glorious voice of Princess Celestia. She lowered her head comfortingly over her sister and for a while like this they remained, until a knock at the chamber door shattered their silence.

  “Princess, they have arrived,” announced a throaty, feminine voice.

  “Thank you, Azure Nocturne. Permit them entry.”

  The double doors parted, opened by the practiced spells of Luna’s personal guard. Two colts were admitted. A light-blue colt attired in a long grey-black scarf with gleaming blue eyes was followed by a chestnut coated fellow of a salt-and-pepper mane and genial bearing. He wore a grey sweater and black, shiny shoulder-and-elbow patched jacket. Celestia wanted to smile at the sight of him.

  “We’re going to see the Princesses, dressed like this?” whispered the second heatedly.

  “Her ladyship needs to know about the events of last night,” the dark maned colt retorted.

  “Yes, that would only be appropriate. It is nice to have a choice, now.”

  “I agree. You’re not used to such esteem,” Forelock remarked.

  “What’s that supposed to-ah …” he began crossly and ended just as quickly, the proximity of the royal sisters pricking his gentlecoltly manners. The stopped and stooped deeply at the foreleg.

  “Forelock Holmes, Doctor John Trotson, we are pleased by your punctuality. Welcome to Canterlot.”

  “It’s our honor to be here, even under the unusual circumstances,” Forelock grinned.

  “Yes, I had been told about that. How is Twilight, Dr. Trotson?” Celestia requested, gaze steadily upon the pony she addressed. Luna seemed quite fixated on the answer.

  “I’m afraid the erratic energy of the teleportation has had a lasting impact on her body. Thankfully her fever has broken, but she’s still quite weak.”

  “Oh, my …” gasped the Princess. “Will she recover? Do I need to see her now?”

  The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he was certain of the answer. “No. She was conscious for a few minutes, and lucid. I don’t believe there will be any permanent side effects as a consequence. No one can have known this would happen. She is a young mare, and I have every confidence she will recover swiftly.”

  “Yes,” Forelock agreed by way of interruption. “On that note, may I
suggest that we have some tea?”

  Luna’s eyes widened, angered. “Tea?!”

  Celestia wordlessly interposed her sister’s temper by stepping forward and requesting that the guests needs be attended.

  “Tea? At a time like this?” sighed John. “Weren’t you just lecturing me about urgency?”

  “Steel yourself. The tension in this room is quite high. Princess Luna is of a highly precarious temperament. We should be grateful that you had good news for her,” he cautioned, speaking in a private tone at John’s ear. He curtly about faced to Princess Celestia, hooves clicking in an evenly timed clip-clop clip-clop. “Tell me about the threat against your sister, Princess.”

  Luna was aghast once again. “How did he know? We haven’t—”

  “My sister, please be patient. Understand that there are no secrets before this stallion.”

  “Of course. Secrets are only unobserved facts. We discovered that very letter last night, and now you are avoiding all possible contact from anypony who might share your woe or provide you aid? You are a solitary mare, Princess Luna, but dreadfully transparent,” Forelock explained quickly. “I am afraid you will only understand demonstrations.”

  Luna regarded the none-too-subtle examination as the utmost arrogance. She measured Celestia’s response, and found with surprise that she was not offended by his attitude.

  What a presumptive and arrogant stallion! How uncivil he is to us, Luna determined. He is not to be trusted. Not. Yet. “Yes, that letter. We have reviewed the contents, Mr Holmes, and we cannot discern any portent. Perhaps it would be wise for you to consult-”

  “Oh, may I?” muttered Forelock absently, ignoring her further protest, one hoof pressing the lower part of the parchment open as his eyes ravenously consumed the contents portrayed by scrawled characters. Celestia’s aides were among the swiftest in the land, and just as it appeared that Forelock had finished pondering the letter, tea was served.

  Forelock helped himself, pacing the room, eyes flicking to specific points – Luna, Celestia, the letter, the bed, the table, and briefly at the tea. The repast was refreshing and eased his nerves, clearing his mind and reinvigorating his thoughts. Celestia also had procured a cup and sipped modestly at it, while Luna and John refrained.

  Ever the balm of the restless mind, Forelock half-grinned at the appreciation that he shared with Celestia of tea. Celestia is a mare of many labours, and conceals the anger at this threat against her sister. Tread carefully, very, carefully.

  “Tense as the height of a crescendo,” Forelock stated of Luna, at length. He deliberately entered her personal space, impugning the dull lucidity of her mindset. Celestia, with glowing horn, set her tea down while smiling eyes hinted her amusement. “You are suspended in the contrivances of your perception. Princess Luna, this letter is far more serious than you imagine. I will read it:

  ‘Scant escape the peddler of woe

  Great loss this numbers foe

  Askance glimmer of yore

  ‘The Gala’s horn entrances shore

  Brave heart to fail anew

  When have I you.’ ”

  When he finished he rounded and beheld Luna, eyes wide and flaring with excitement. Luna was nearly startled and surprised by this reaction. Holmes then declared: “This colt claims to have right to your crown.”

  Luna’s eyes bespoke royal vengeance amidst insurmountable torrents of righteous indignation. Celestia keenly observed her agitated canter, curious when the questions would begin. John was unshaken and more than accustomed to—No, she recanted, his confidence in Forelock was absolute.

  “How dare he! What right has he to our throne? What claim can he lay to our crown? Forelock, who is this pony?!” As she bore down on him the room itself began to darken, shadows grasping for any light source as if to snuff them all out. “I demand to know!”

  Forelock’s portrayed a stormless repose, eyes matching hers in an embrace of icy detachment. John was unnerved to realize how alike the two were. Luna’s challenge met and matched by the peerless detective? Dr. Trotson began to wonder how long they could carry on.

  “Sister!”

  Celestia’s ivory coat gleamed, a radiant contrast to the smaller embattled, ebony-gripped frame. Luna inhaled, the light of trust abating the terror from within. She bowed her head at her sister. The cool invasion of night receded, replaced by the unflinching sun.

  “We are sorry, sister.” Luna huffed, distress clear in her typically malevolent tones. “We do not understand this colt’s reasoning. We do not understand your trust!”

  Celestia ‘tsked’. “You have been away one thousand years, my beloved sister. In that time I have accrued many allies. Forelock has assisted the Kingdom before, though never the throne, directly. Has it not occurred to you that your mode of speech tells of such changes?”

  “Our mode of speech? We will not abandon what is our right. How can you…?”

  “Luna,” Celestia intoned.

  Luna’s eyes flicked up to her sister’s, then to the floor and back again. “Yes sister. We understand; your desire is to protect us, but please! You must elucidate us. How can he be trusted?”

  “Forelock is very a cold colt, that much is true, and you are much disillusioned by his words,” she said. Forelock nodded, in no way slightly, discerning her intent long before. John marveled at his display of respect. “I suggest a demonstration is in order.”

  “If it is your wish, and it would be our pleasure, Princess Luna,” Forelock interposed, mimicry of her royal pedantry in no way mocking. “You felt a threat to your life. Anypony may have noticed that Princess Celestia threw all manner to the winds, welcoming us instead of having us do so. To their credit, your guards know you so keenly that they made no introduction at all. Rarely have they seen you so upset.”

  Celestia gave a little gasp. “Wh-why, yes, that is so. I had not noticed. Please continue.”

  “Does he always speak in paragraphs?” Luna groaned tersely.

  “Be grateful. You’ve got his attention,” John stated by way of consolation. With a huff from her lean frame, which had returned once again to its fairer baby blue tone, she conceded. Forelock turned to John Trotson and eyed him significantly.

  “Tell me what you make of the letter, Doctor Trotson?”

  John was stymied by the request. “Me …? Surely you don’t mean me.”

  “Oh don’t think so poorly of yourself, John!”

  “But … well …”

  “Come on, you are a practical colt. So is our villain.”

  “Practical? What do you mean by that?”

  “Using royal stationary is not only convenient, but also reduces the volume of data we can obtain. Pragmatic, you see. We’re dealing with an impatient pony.”

  “But you just said that he was very patient and deliberate,” John noted caustically.

  “Yes, I did, but this pony is undoubtedly rushed for time, and in point of fact, believes he has won.”

  “Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Well, no, I don’t. Which kind is he?”

  Luna’s dark eyes narrowed with tangible menace. “Forelock Holmes, you try our patience.”

  “Patience is an excuse for brain to languish,” he remarked meaningfully, not concealing his sympathies. Luna was taken aback. “Princess, if my good stallion can allay your doubts, it is but a hint of what I can do. Let us waste not a moment more!”

  Luna’s head twisted toward her sister, who projected an air of all-consuming trust. She whinnied, dissatisfied. Far be it from her to mistrust her own sister. Arrogant colt! However, it is oddly comforting that he is so desirous to have results expediently.

  “Proceed,” she assented finally.

  Forelock inclined his head affirmatively at John Trotson, who inhaled in an effort to steady his nerves.

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat, and glanced upward thoughtfully. “Well … It doesn’t make sense that a colt with claim to your mareship’s crown would surrender so easily. Even if you sc
are him away. He is arrogant and confident in the authority of his claim.”

  A certain light eyed Alicorn set him with a curious regard and he harumphed with a pardoning half-smile. “I will have that researched immediately, Dr. Trotson.”

  “Excellent. Excellent,” noted Forelock flippantly, attention focused on something else entirely. “Let us know how that turns out. John, continue.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. May I see the letter?” Forelock passed the parchment to him. “Hmm … A ’peddler’ has many wares, and thus this is but one of his plans. We can surmise that while he is the mastermind, he has allies, hence ‘numbers’ and ‘foe’. ‘Askance’ and ‘glimmers’ implies that—as Forelock said—that he an accomplished criminal.”

  A sidelong glance to Forelock from John was not missed, and the agreement it portrayed. Assured, he carried on:

  “I don’t know about ‘Gala’s horn’, but ‘bravery failing anew’ seems obvious. Pardon my manners, Princess Luna, discussing such a matter, but I believe he is referring to the annual of your escape from the moon. I take the last line as bait to mislead you about his true intentions.”

  Celestia and Luna were simultaneously awed by his presentation. John realized how little they understood about deception and crime. Such knowledge was rudimentary in their trade. Canterlot must not see a lot of villainy. Celestia was a wise ruler, indeed. Ironically, he had only scratched the surface of what deduction could reveal. Forelock, as always, composed his summary:

  “Everypony would know about the annual of your escape, but nopony with a pint of sense in their head would dare bring it up. More than appearances, our fair Mares Princess, for Luna is the embodiment of the Moon’s incomparable influence. More the point; you were very dramatic,” Forelock observed brazenly. “Yes, well done John. You missed only the biggest pieces of the puzzle. However, fine work.”

  “Ah,” he flustered, “but that’s your job, isn’t it. To get … those … uh, pieces.”

  “Indeed.” A tilt of the head was his response. “From the condition of the parchment we can stipulate that the writer is not only in Canterlot, but serves the royal sisters in this very castle. It does not have the sulfur odor of a message sent by dragon and thus has not traveled far. It is made of the finest southern grown wheat Canterlot offers, not wood as most cheaper scroll materials employ. Only five parchment suppliers in Equestria use wheat, two of which operate in Canterlot. These are ‘Finer Press’ and ‘Kinder Leaflets’, which are the only two companies to use the southern grown wheat. It takes longer to process and prepare but lasts six times longer than average scroll material. Of the two, only Finer Press sells directly to the palace. Kinder Leaflets is a wholesale provider for print media. The ink is a rare oil base meant to wash off easily during recycling and was furbished to the crowns by PFABQ or Ponies For A Better Quill. Positively odious name, but the quality of their product is undeniable, for it is worth twenty-five bits an inkwell. Frankly they are to my preference. This message was hoof delivered. Ask your guards. Hurry!”

  “Yes, we will do that,” Celestia nodded, motioning for a slate blue coated colt to attend to the matter. “Frazzle Spark!”

  The young colt briskly joined the group with a slight bend of the foreleg. “You summoned, milady?”

  “I need to know who delivered scrolls by hoof to the palace in the last twelve hours. Please, now, with as much haste as you can muster.”

  “Of course, Princess! Right away! You can count on me!”

  Forelock peered wittingly at the pony and his departure. “That will not find the culprit.”

  “But why have you had us search, then, Mr. Holmes?” Celestia posited.

  “Elimination. This letter was found the night previous in the dark of night, and delivered under our very noses. The more information we have, the better, you understand.”

  “The better?” Luna snarled, ardent fury flared once again. “Let us find the traitor immediately! We’ll rout—”

  Forelock’s deep, entrancing voice pricked up every ear in the room. “Consumed by the very idea of betrayal, are we? We’ve not even a hint of the writer’s cutie mark, and you propose to capture him straightaway? Princess Luna, how would you do it? He is a colt of extraordinary patience and deliberation, of that I promise you. Let us explore the character of this individual in greater detail.”

  “You are unfathomable, Mr. Holmes!” Luna railed.

  “Naturally,” he replied as if conducting the answer and introduction all at once. Trotson smirked, knowing he was indeed doing so. “As thieves strike in the dead of night, magicians seek to conceal their tricks with misdirection. A threat against your person will command a strong emotional response, drawing your attention away from that which he wishes to obscure or conceal. Shadows and threats, Princess. We know them well, do we not?”

  Luna was taken aback by his cunning, lancing gaze. “We do. It is our domain.”

  “Indubitably. Only someone so close to the throne can observe your royal habits. Moreover! He knew that you would retreat from all pony contact. You are a prideful, formidable pony.”

  Luna squinted at him. Was it another affront? Had he made any, really? He was such a quandary!

  “Princesses, he planned many things, but he cannot have suspected that Twilight would accidentally summon us. No, even I was caught by surprise.”

  “Psh,” Dr. Trotson hissed. “I’d say so. It surprised the ponyfeathers out of me.”

  Forelock eyed his companion cannily. “Surprise has limited effect, and we must have its every advantage. Princess Celestia has substantiated this letter’s threat, and it is well that she has. It may have gone unnoticed as a farce, otherwise.”

  Celestia’s reproach was doubly as fearsome as that of her sister’s. “You suggest we would not have honored our sister’s fear?”

  Forelock returned her gaze, unaffected. “Princess, I assert that the villain’s hand was forced by our arrival. The condition of the wax seal was poor, indicating that it was hastily applied and done so at the very last minute. I noticed that last night the wax was still warm. He substantiated the claim and threat upon your sister by means of our notoriety. Nonetheless it is serious, and a great puzzle of misinformation.”

  Doctor Trotson was pleased by the flattery of his friend, and was quite prepared for Celestia to apologize to Forelock, but she offered none. Either their understanding ran deep, or she simply did not feel he was entitled to it. Undisturbed and unruffled, Forelock continued:

  “An entrance, or to entrance? Gala’s horn – suggesting of course Princess Celestia’s very own. A gate made by some magic? A shore … but which shore?” There is a picture here greater than my mind alone can encompass. Something which I have seen before, but do not understand, Forelock thought, the depths of his genius stirred by the presentation of a puzzle from which too many pieces were missing. How I detest favours, but boredom is so much the worse!

  John was mystified by the outward demonstration of flattery on Forelock’s part. An implement with which he might pacify the Princess, perhaps? Luna stood before a roaring fire, built presumably by one of her aides. In fact, a buff representative in black plate armor snorted blue flame at Forelock, who confirmed his theory by the odor of the smoke.

  “Sable Thorn, lay off.”

  That was unexpectedly casual, John thought with a startled look at Luna, then at Sable Thorn, who puffed disapprovingly and sauntered away. The order drew the ever-scrutinizing gaze of Forelock, but for an instant. The shadow painted colt was intimidating, yet Luna held unmitigated authority over him. John recognized the fearsome power that her vulnerable visage belied.

  “Forelock, what will you have us do?” Luna demanded coolly. Her royal manner had returned. “We cannot allow this villain to achieve his goal.”

  “That is precisely what I mean to do.”

  “We do not understand!”

  A shrewd grin settled into Forelock’s face, and John felt that familiar dread excitement.

&n
bsp; “I will explain everything, Princess Luna.” John was impressed at the respect he displayed for her station, knowing his acquaintances’ superiority complex. “First I must ask of Princess Celestia a favor.”

  “Yes, Forelock?”

  “There is a guest I would have you invite to tomorrow’s Gala.”

  We Get Signal