Author's Notes:

Talib and Old Sim finally deliver the report, but the Council do not react to Old Sim's liking.

“Drat,” said Talib, “empty again.”

On a cool, unsettled autumn day before market, Talib was watering the elegantly-arranged bonsai as Old Sim had shown him, but couldn’t seem to get the dosage quite right. He kept running out of water just before he reached the final miniature tree; a relatively young – only about a decade old – juniper set back towards the cottage, away from the Forest pool where Talib filled the watering can, behind the sauna. It was only a couple of minutes’ work to walk over, fill up and walk back, but today it seemed irksome and unnecessary. The gusty weather was, for some reason, making him irritable and he glared angrily at the blameless, pretty little tree, casting around for some alternative.

Success: Talib’s eyes came to rest on Old Sim’s solar still, which he used for purifying water. The simple contraption contained a wide, shallow reservoir, with a bucket suspended above. The whole thing was enclosed in glass, the roof an inverted cone, so that as the sun evaporated water from the reservoir, condensation ran down the cone into the bucket. Old Sim would take the distilled water and repeat the procedure a few times, ensuring no impurities remained to interfere with the delicate alchemy of a lacquer, or with the temperamental natural fermentation of birch sap. Talib removed the bucket and tipped a little into the juniper’s electric-blue glazed pot. He hung up the watering can and went inside.

Old Sim was there, frying up some thick circles of potato. Talib had never seen anypony fry potatoes like that, but though he enjoyed good food Old Sim had precious little patience for cooking. Everything he ate seemed to be consumed either raw or just roughly chopped and fried, then usually smothered with cheese. Without his physically demanding work Talib was pretty sure he’d quickly find himself getting stuck in doorframes. The old pony, also made restless by the weather, looked up sharply and Talib felt a flush of guilt chase away the undignified but amusing image, worrying for an illogical moment that his employer had heard him thinking.

“That’s you done, then,” said Old Sim, rhetorically.

“Yep,” responded Talib, “I’ll finish off some woodworking pieces for market tomorrow and head off.”

Old Sim nodded, looking back at his pan and tossing the potatoes around expertly. Talib could see a large hunk of cheese on the chopping board next to him, ready.

“So the report’s done, then?”

“All the calculations and arguments put forward, arranged, explained, summarized, concluded and signed,” said Talib. “The Ponyville Council would have to be wilfully negligent, dishonest or ignorant to dismiss it.”

“Hah!” scoffed Old Sim, “you describe them perfectly. ‘It’s difficult to get a pony to understand something when their livelihood depends upon them not understanding it’.” He shook his head and the potatoes, making them spit in the pan, perhaps because he couldn't himself spit on the floor. “Then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. We couldn’t very well have done otherwise.”

“There’s also an appendix covering the displaced species.”

“Good. That’s unlikely to be as convincing but it’s good to be thorough. Well, we’ll drop it in their laps after market tomorrow and see if it makes them jump.”

Talib grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Old Sim looked at him crookedly, but then broke into a small smirk of his own. “So am I, colt, so am I. Get along now.”

Later that evening, Talib found himself halfway up a ladder against his nascent cabin, trying to ponyhandle roofing joists into place. Even with the Everfree weather’s unpredictable behaviour he knew the autumn rains could not be far away, and the thought was a near-constant pressure at the back of his mind. Now the grey clouds, delinquent cousins to summer’s blameless white fluff, came more often to hover threateningly, as they did this evening. They further reduced his already-shortened working light, and Talib was going through a lot of lamp oil these days.

Having just awkwardly wrestled a beam into its seating, Talib wiped his sweating brow and morosely contemplated the remaining pile, evidence of his slow progress. He got off the ladder, wandered over and half-heartedly kicked one. A familiar voice from the edge of his little glade made him jump guiltily.

“Finally found a manageable foe, I see.”

He looked up and saw Hayfa walking towards him, the usual faint amusement evident on her face. She finds me quite entertaining, it seems, he thought, a little bitterly. Good for her.

“I’m just thinking about how long this is going to take me,” he said out loud, too intimidated to goad her. “I’m worried about the rains.”

Hayfa reached the little stream, which was almost icy this time of year. She coiled up on all fours and leapt nimbly across, landing with fluid grace. Talib hadn’t seen her for a few days, since their difficult first meeting, and as he watched her approach he marvelled at the perfect control she seemed to have in every action – a sharp contrast with his ungainly movements. She examined the cabin and pile of beams critically, arms crossed and head tilted.

“I could lend a claw, if you like,” she offered, easily.

“Uh… sure,” said Talib, surprised, “I’d appreciate that, actually.”

He quickly ascertained that although she claimed to have fashioned innumerable rough shelters and animal traps, Hayfa had no experience with proper carpentry. But the work wasn’t complicated and her intuitive physicality made her a quick study, and soon they were lifting beams and securing them into place with passable coordination, things going immeasurably quicker now that Talib didn’t have to manoeuvre each length one end at a time. For a while they spoke only of the task at hand, but as they settled into a rhythm Hayfa was able to spare some attention for other matters.

“So, Talib Cane,” she pronounced it ta-leeb, like Mujeer, “tomorrow you submit the report, yes?”

He grunted as they lifted a heavy beam in concert, then nodded. “Yup.” They carefully lowered it into the pre-cut join. “Actually,” he said when it was placed, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Hayfa quirked an eyebrow.

“You’ve seen some disturbances in the Forest. I’d like to add your observations to the appendix we’ve written on displaced animals.”

Hayfa shrugged. “As you wish.”

“The thing is,” Talib continued, “this is an official statement. You’d need to sign it, and be willing to affirm it in person, if asked. Would you do that?”

The usually lithe griffoness tensed slightly, giving Talib a suspicious look. “Is it really necessary?”

Talib returned her disconcerting gaze, somehow. “It may be,” he said. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but you could provide testimony which nopony else can – not even Zecora has been as deep into the Everfree Forest as you seem to have, recently. The report would be much weaker without it.”

“The Ponyville ponies would never accept the word of a griffon,” she returned, clearly reticent.

“I think they would,” he said, “some of them. And anyway, that doesn’t absolve you of your responsibilities.” He remembered Old Sim’s dressing-down, feeling slightly hypocritical about now being on the other end of the harangue. I said yes though, didn’t I? he thought. You can wrestle with personal integrity later. The Forest needs her. “You said you want to help. Well, this is how.”

Hayfa tilted her head and donned her detached, slightly amused impression once more. Talib realized suddenly that it was a kind of mask – her concern had been a glimpse through briefly clear waters, right to the bottom, but now something in there had flicked its tail and muddied them once more. She was opaque.

“You sound like a griffon,” she said, “such as the poet described: ‘craving the cold embrace of duty’s chains.’ But duty is a selfish mistress, young Talib, as I have learned.”

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just waited.

Eventually she laughed, light but mocking. “I see my cynicism has confused you. You’re quite the innocent, aren’t you? A precious rarity. Very well,” she said ironically, grandly, “I will join you in bondage. Pass me my chains! But not too tight: I have some conditions.”

Her performance rang of the theatre to Talib, and sat strangely alongside what he guessed of her military training. He put the enigma to one side for the moment. “What conditions?” he asked.

“I will sign, and if necessary speak and be known, under a different name.”

Talib knew better, by now, than to ask why. He shrugged. “What name?”

She thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Yes. How fitting. Jahel will do rather nicely."

“Hey!” Talib and Old Sim ignored the distant shouting, indistinct among the general noise of market stalls being dismantled, until it was repeated a few yards closer. “Hey, uh… excuse me!”

Now Talib looked up, a display shelf in his teeth, ears swivelling to find the noise as Old Sim worked on unheeding beside him. The crowds had mostly cleared away but the air was even more full of noise than at the height of market sales; the clattering of carts, wood and metal on Ponyville’s smooth cobbles made difficult the task of triangulating the source. Eventually, some way off, a hoof was stuck in the air and waved at him; following the pale grey-white limb, Talib found it attached to a unicorn mare with a fuchsia-red mane with lavender streaks, looking right at him. She smiled and came closer, picking her way carefully through the scattered flotsam and jetsam of commerce.

“Hey! You’re new here, right?” she asked, without preamble, when close enough for conversation.

“Uh, sure,” replied Talib uncertainly, “I mean, I’ve only been working here with Sim for a few weeks.” The stallion in question merely grunted, ignoring their visitor, and kept working. Talib looked at her again. Her hair was huge, smooth and glossy, swept in a single wave down past her shoulder where it ended in a single luscious curl. Her tail was similar, tied at the base with a sky-blue bow, and her cutie mark was of a silver crescent moon with three black stars around its lower curve.

“That’s great!” she said, happily.

“It, uh… it is?” replied Talib.

“Sure! We’re always looking to meet new friends. A few of us from the market are going for hayshakes at the café afterwards – why don’t you come along? It’s a regular thing.”

“Oh,” said Talib. Automatically, he started thinking of excuses to dodge the social situation, before realizing he didn’t have to. “I actually have a couple of errands to run this afternoon,” he said, “Sim and I are going to talk to Ponyville Council about something.”

“No problem,” said the unicorn, “we’ll be there for a while. It’s a standing offer, just drop by if you get time.” She looked at Talib, then over to Old Sim – busy lifting planks into the back of their cart, as if the other two ponies didn’t exist – then back at Talib with a knowing, sly expression.

“You two. Peas in a pod, huh?”

Talib gave her a confused look. She turned to face Old Sim, still glancing mischievously at Talib out of the corner of her eyes.

“So, Mr. Timbers, invitation’s still open. We ever going to convince you to come hang out with us?”

“Sim,” he said, laconically.

“Right, sorry, Old Sim,” she said with a teasing smile. He looked up sharply at the gentle mockery. “You should bring your apprentice here. I know it sounds crazy, but you two might even have fun.”

“We’re busy, Moondancer.” So that’s her name. “Some other time.”

She rolled her eyes, despairing. “Sure, sure,” she said skeptically, disappointment evident in her voice. A change came over her; she’d been excited, playful, but now her eyes were downcast and her shoulders drooped as she slowly turned away.

Talib felt bad for her. She’d just been trying to be welcoming, and, he realized suddenly, they’d given her nothing but distance.

“Moondancer,” he called. She turned around.

“It was nice to meet you. I’m Talib Cane.” He held out a hoof and Moondancer took it, brightening.

“Oh, I know! Didn’t I do the proper introductions? Typical. I’m Moondancer,” she said, mock-formal. She was smiling again, and Talib returned it.

“I can’t haul both carts, Talib,” said Old Sim gruffly, behind him. Talib started and hastily went to harness up. Moondancer stifled a giggle, but the mirth spilled through in her expression. Talib himself grinned foolishly as she waved goodbye and wandered off.

Blam!

Old Sim slammed shut the door to the Ponyville Council offices as they left, making Talib jump and several ponies look over in curiosity as they crossed the town square. The look on the old stallion’s chestnut-brown face as he turned back to the town square was a potent mixture of contempt and anger, and though Talib desperately wanted to break the fuming silence, he could tell it was better than whatever Old Sim would replace it with. The day had turned quickly cool, the first real cold spell of early autumn, and a sharp, fresh wind blew over their coats, chilling Talib’s nostrils but utterly failing to cool Old Sim’s rage. Rather, the hard grey sky and sudden deterioration in the weather gave a sense of approaching calamity. They stood there in silence for a while, Talib unsure of what to say or do. The whispering of the cold wind was the only sound, though Talib could swear that every now and then he could hear the grinding of Old Sim’s teeth. He desperately wanted to get away.

“I think I’ll go home,” he finally said, looking up at the clouds so as to avoid Old Sim’s gaze. But there was no response, not even the ferocious muttering which had followed behind Talib down the stairs from the Ponyville Council Chambers as they’d been leaving, after delivering the report.

Now Talib looked at his mentor, who had also lifted his head to glare at the sky. There was no indication Talib had been heard. He cleared his throat carefully, causing Old Sim to look down sharply.

“Eh?” was the lumberpony’s snappish response. Before Talib could reply, he continued, more softly. “Mmm. You do that. You can bring back the cart after rest day.” He sounded preoccupied.

Talib hesitated. He’d seen Old Sim angry, cranky, grumpy, even sarcastic. It was just his nature. And quiet, of course. But not this kind of quiet. Frustration, anger, hopelessness and defeat were playing merry but subtle hell with Old Sim’s expressions. Although it was frightening, Talib wasn’t sure he should just leave the old pony alone.

“Well now, look at you two.” Talib looked over at the wrinkled old earth pony who had just walked out of the shadow cast by the flyway behind them. It was Pa Walnut, a wry expression on his black-brown face, looking at them measuredly as they turned to face him. “I ain’t never realized the fellin’ business was so bad. Whatsa matter boys, trees started standin’ back up?”

“Mr. Walnut”, said Talib, glad of the distraction. “What brings you in to town after market?”

“Knockin’ heads,” replied Pa Walnut, tilting his own head towards the offices, “gotta clear up some to-do about our stallholder’s license. Council says our fees are late, but I paid ‘em a ways back. Probably they just lost the paperwork, like always.” He shook his head, a brief moment of silence as he drew breath mid-rant. “I told ‘em, but they ain’t believed me. Welp, I’ll make ‘em dance a different dance when I shows ‘em my receipt. Time-wasters, all of ‘em.”

Talib nodded, sighing in shared frustration. “We hear you.”

Pa Walnut’s expression lightened from grumbling into commiseration. “Oh, I get it. You too, eh? What’s the council gone and done to you this time, Sim?”

Talib winced.

They’d arrived at the offices five minutes before their appointment, as was Old Sim’s habit, and parked their carts outside just as the weather had begun to turn. At the time, Talib had felt the excitement he always did when rain was approaching. He hadn’t realised it was an omen.

The council-ponies were busy, of course. A Meeting had gone over time, to nopony’s surprise. Sim’s expression was already tight at the prospect of dealing with the council, and this rudeness had not helped. Things were off to a bad start. Talib was too shy to talk to the electric-blue pegasus behind the counter, but her and Old Sim had seemed to dislike one another from previous acquaintance so Talib had been forced to do the talking. She suggested they leave the report for her to pass on but of course that was out of the question. No way were Talib and Old Sim going to risk it getting lost or forgotten, like so much other paperwork seemed to. He had said they would wait. Talib carefully removed the leather pannier carrying the precious report and sat with it cradled delicately in his lap.

And wait they had. By the time half an hour had passed on the blue- and white-striped sofa, Talib felt he knew every visible inch of the square, smallish room. Old Sim, hogging the only available copy of the Ponyville Express and looking up at the clock every so often to huff pointedly, was clearly in no mood for conversation, as usual. The creamy-yellow pine walls, probably installed while Granny Smith was still a filly, held at most five minutes’ interest, even to a lumberpony; the ornate rug, a gift from Ponyville’s sister city in the Griffon Empire, only slightly more. If he weren’t so timid, Talib probably could have passed some time chatting with Philomena, the bored-looking young pegasus mare behind the desk; as it was, he only dared shoot occasional quick glances in her direction.

Finally, Old Sim had snapped. Getting up and sharply motioning Talib to follow, he stormed right past the protesting receptionist, Talib trailing behind giving her apologetic looks, and up the stairs to the Council chambers. The heavy, dark timber door was both decorative and functional: ornate designs covered its soundproof core. Old Sim had opened it directly, not deigning to knock, and strode right in. After the impressive door, the interior of the room was surprisingly plain; cream-painted plaster walls and simple, functional chairs surrounded a battle-worn but cheap rectangular table bearing multiple hoof-prints from heated discussions. The twelve council-ponies had been sitting around it, piles of paper scattered haphazardly in front of them, looking up in surprise at the intrusion.

“Mr. Timbers,” began Blythe Booke indignantly, “I thought we’d made ourselves clear after your rudeness last time. You cannot simply barge-”

“Sim,” he said, cutting the old mare off mid-chastisement. “I told you, call me Sim.” Blythe’s eyes narrowed and her clenching jaw was visible even through her aged jowls. Looks like she’s considering a few other names, thought Talib, lurking uncertainly against the rear wall. The receptionist hurried through the door and past him, cotton-candy pink mane streaming behind her.

“Sorry, councillors,” she said, “I had asked them to wait, but-”

“It’s alright, Ms. Buster,” said Filthy Rich, extending a calming hoof, “they had an appointment. We just ran a little over, here, and lost track of time.” Talib predicted Old Sim’s disparaging snort only an instant before the older pony obliged, with force. Philomena shot Talib a scornful look on her way back down to her post, but it was nothing compared to the look Blythe Booke was aiming at them.

“Well Sim, since you’re here,” continued Filthy Rich, “let’s have a look at this report.”

Talib had stepped forward and carefully placed the report on the table. Running into dozens of pages plus appendices, the product of their recent late-night hard work was carefully bound in serious grey canvas since it’d hopefully be getting a lot of use, and later stored in the Golden Oak Library archives. He was rather proud of it.

Filthy Rich hoofed through a few pages thoughtfully, then closed it and slid it down the table among the piles of paper.

“That looks quite thorough,” he said, adjusting his trademark red tie. “We’ll put it on the itinerary of upcoming items.”

Old Sim’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not going to look at it now?” he asked, carefully. Talib tensed.

“I’m afraid not. We’re already overtime so we’re pushing some things back to next meeting.”

“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Timbers,” Blythe had said, faintly gloating, “you’re in the queue. We’ll get to it.”

“Let me show you out,” said Filthy Rich hastily, gesturing towards the door.

That was when the muttering had started.

“Hoo boy,” crowed Pa Walnut, “I don’t envy you folks.”

Old Sim had calmed somewhat. While Talib had recounted the story, Old Sim had been free to huff and scoff and cuss to his heart’s content. Venting his frustration to an old comrade like Pa Walnut seemed to soothe him, and dispelled the dangerous quiet that had been worrying Talib.

“So…” continued Pa Walnut, thoughtfully, “this business with Progress Group – it’s the real deal, eh? You’re sure they’re over-loggin’?”

Old Sim just looked at his friend. “Would I be putting myself through this if I weren’t?”

“Well no, Sim,” Pa Walnut replied, “I don’t suppose you would be. Say, it won’t take me long to finish my business here,” he continued, nodding towards the council office, “why don’t we grab a bite after and you can loop me in? Seems like it’d be good to have some friends hitched up and pullin’ beside you.”

Old Sim shook his head. “I’ve wasted enough time jawin’ for today,” he said stonily, “I best head back and finish up my chores. Talib here can bring you up to speed, if you like. He’s got that darn report by memory. I’ve had a bellyful of it, for now.”

With this, he nodded his goodbyes and walked determinedly away. Pa Walnut watched him go, and spoke quietly to Talib, standing beside him.

“He’s a good pony, really,” said Pa Walnut, “and he weren’t always so standoffish. I just don’t think he really sees what he’s doin’, pushin’ everypony away all the time.”

“What… what happened to him?” asked Talib.

“Don’t rightly know,” replied Pa Walnut, absently, still staring after his friend, “but there was a mare, a long time ago, when we was young together…” he snapped back to himself, and looked sharply at Talib, who scrambled to replace his curious expression with nonchalance. “Not my place to say. Don’t you go askin’ him, either, or he’ll know I let slip.” Talib tried to look earnest and obliging as Pa Walnut looked back at Old Sim, just before he rounded a corner and disappeared.

“Just… just look after him, y’hear?”

Talib nodded, surprised. Me look after Old Sim? he thought. How exactly do you propose I do that? But out loud, he only said he’d do what he could.

Pa Walnut brightened. “Well now, young pony-me-colt, what are you up to this chilly afternoon? Goin’ somewhere to warm up with a very special somepony, I hope?” He elbowed Talib suggestively in the ribs.

Talib rolled his eyes. “Oh sure,” he said, sarcastically.

“Well,” said Pa Walnut, once again looking out after where Old Sim had vanished, “it’s a cold day. Best warmth is good company, they say.”

Unbidden, Moondancer’s cheeky smile played across Talib’s mind.

The three-lobed clover sign was brightly visible in the dimming afternoon, lit as it was by a lantern hung nearby. The clouds were deepening and maturing, bringing an early dusk. Talib walked towards the café, looking for a place to stow his cart. The café’s proprietor and maître d’, Savoir Fare, took his position as owner of Ponyville’s swankiest establishment seriously, and anypony parking their unsightly working cart outside L’Ash Tombée was likely to receive a decidedly cool welcome, customer or no.

None of the outdoor tables were in use on such a cool day, and the comfy piles of hay which served as seats had been raked up and put away somewhere in case of rain. Talib walked around the right hoof side of the cream, forest and pink-coloured building to its rear and parked the cart near the servants’ entrance.

Back around the front, he took a deep breath to steady his nerves before opening the door. A faint ding sounded from the small silver door-bell and Talib faced the dreaded moment, when entering a room, in which most ponies look up at the newcomer. Their expressions were all a blur as he tried not to be intimidated by the sudden attention and the sense of being judged. Awkwardly, he adjusted his posture and kept his expression neutral, so they wouldn’t know he was nervous. But then, his neutral expression, he thought, was a little too forced. Surely they could tell, they could see he was uncomfortable-

“Talib!” somepony shouted, “Hey, Talib! Back here!”

Talib, like most other ponies, looked over at the noise. Moondancer was standing up from a table with six or seven ponies at the rear of the café, gesturing him over. Savoir Fare, halfway over to Talib with a menu in his hoof, stopped and nodded, then returned to taking somepony’s order. The tense moment broke, and Talib headed down the back to Moondancer’s group. Now that everypony’s attention was elsewhere, he relaxed enough to take in the interior of the L’Ash Tombée, which he’d never seen. The ground floor was fairly packed with tables, some round, some long, but most empty. The threat of wet weather had sent most ponies home as soon as they finished their errands, and Savoir Fare was the only waiter weaving his way between the low wooden stools. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung on old, stout ropes from the ceiling, and their multitude of bright candles contrasted with the thickening grey outdoors and gave the room a warm, welcoming ambiance, made personal by the gentle hubbub of ponies talking.

“So glad you came!” said the lively unicorn when he got closer, while the others continued to chat among themselves. “I thought you were forever doomed to copy Old Sim’s antisocial ways.”

Talib shrugged and smiled drily. “Well, maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

“Maybe,” replied Moondancer, before clopping her hooves together loudly for attention. “Alright everypony, this here’s Talib.” A hearty chorus of welcome rose from the small group. A few were vaguely familiar; Talib recognized Barber Groomsby, with his carefully-maintained moustache, and received a familiar nod. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, Talib?” said Moondancer.

Talib swallowed, but the ring of easy smiles, plus Moondancer’s reassuring hoof on his shoulder, helped him on.

“I’m Talib Cane, from Sugarcane Farm out near the Forest. Moondancer saw me at market a few times and invited me along,” he finished, carefully proving his legitimacy. There followed a round of introductions which Talib, terrible with names and slightly overwhelmed, promptly forgot. A seat was found, a hay shake was ordered for him – ignoring his protests that he wasn’t thirsty – and the friendly ponies started questioning the new arrival.

“So, Talib,” said a pink pegasus with a blue mane, who Talib seemed to remember being introduced as Firefly, “you selling molasses and such at the markets?”

“Uh, nope,” said Talib, “actually I apprenticed with Old Sim a few weeks ago, I’m there with him.”

“Oh!” said a teal mare with wavy brown hair, “you’re the pony who does those wood carvings!”

Talib nodded. “That’s me,” he said, wondering how in Equestria anypony had heard about them.

“My cousin loves them,” she said, “seems like every week now she’s gushing about some new bowl or such that you made. They must be very pretty. I haven’t had time to see them, myself, since I’m busy at my own stall.”

Talib wasn’t sure what to say, and there was an awkward pause. “Well, um,” he eventually ventured, “maybe I’ll come over and say hi next market day, and bring one of my carvings.”

“Oh,” the garrulous earth pony said, brightly, “would you? Sometimes it’s a shame not to be able to walk around enjoying the market.”

“Sure,” said Talib, warming up, “how can I find you?”

“Just look for Moondancer and I at the “Charms and Cures” stand. We’re usually somewhere near the centre.”

“What do you sell there?”

“Oh, this and that. I mainly sell herbal remedies and such. Moondancer sells these little trinkets she makes,” she said, holding up a small pendant from around her neck. It was simple, just a plain horizontal silver bar on a chain, and set in the centre was a raw chip of some kind of stone.

Moondancer, having heard her name, leaned over. “Topaz,” she said, her expression fey, “for luck.” Talib couldn’t tell if she was being serious.

After their initial interest in the newcomer, the group of friends eased back into relaxed, free-flowing conversation, forgetting the gathering cold and dark outside. Talib, absorbed in the general noise, was able to sit back and let the talk wash over him, keeping mostly out of it. And yet he didn’t feel excluded; he joined in quietly with the laughter, he leaned forward to hear somepony’s story better. The occasional friendly look or knowing wink thrown his way showed that he didn’t need to talk to be part of the moment.

Besides, Moondancer talked enough for three ponies. The exuberant unicorn babbled away happily, energetically, engaging in a nimble back-and-forth with various ponies around the table. Talib could only look on in amazement, unable to imagine taking that much unselfconscious delight in conversation.

“Oh hey,” she said, more suddenly than usual, “anypony want a good oak coffee table? I just got a new one, so I’m giving it away.”

Talib was surprised. “For free?” he asked, almost involuntarily. A coffee table, well-made and of solid timber, was not a cheap item.

“Sure, why not? It cost me a bunch, a few years ago, but the price of furniture has dropped so much recently it almost seems silly asking anything for it, when a pony could just go buy a new one so cheap.”

Nopony showed any interest, but just looked around the table at each other.

“Oh,” said Moondancer, crestfallen, “I guess… I guess I’ll just throw it out? Seems like a waste, but I can’t just hang onto it forever.”

Talib was faintly scandalized. He knew how much work went into something even as simple as a coffee table, if it was done right. He knew how many slow-growing oak trees there were in the Forest that could provide quality lumber for such furniture – it wasn’t all that many. Doing everything by hoof, he knew how much such a piece would be worth. The influx of cheap lumber from Progress Group must be having a stronger trickle-down effect than he’d realized.

“I’ll take it,” he said, “if you’re going to throw it out.”

“Oh, great!” said Moondancer. “You have your cart with you, right? We could go and get it this evening, if you’re free.”

“Sure,” said Talib. Where the heck am I going to put it? he wondered, privately.

Everypony started looking at the clock and making vague time-to-go noises, and the group broke up. At the entrance, a couple of them cornered him and extracted a promise that he would return. They ventured outdoors, now grown blustery and dim. Moondancer lived in a quiet alley not far from the café, and it didn’t take long to get there, their hooves and the iron-shod cart wheels clopping and clattering over the smooth cobbles, the noise bouncing off the deserted streets but somewhat lost in the groaning wind. Along the way, the two ponies chatted about nothing in particular.

“So what do you think of the Friends for Profit?” asked Moondancer.

Talib blinked. “The what?”

Moondancer gave a small, dismissive laugh. “That’s what we call ourselves. Pretentious, isn’t it? I forget where it came from. Before my time. The idea is that most of us are at the markets to make a profit, but that friendship profits us, too.” She rolled her eyes at the awkward attempt at humour. “I’ll bet whoever came up with it thought they were pretty clever. The whole thing smacks of some stiff, book-smart pony trying their hoof at being funny.”

Talib, trying to think of a way to build on the joke, suddenly stopped himself. Moondancer looked at him as they walked side-by-side through the greying, empty streets.

“So?” she pressed, “did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” said Talib quickly. He paused and realized it was more than a politeness; he actually had enjoyed himself. “Yes,” he said firmly, more considered. “I really did.”

“Good,” said Moondancer, “I told Firefly you did. She was worried, because you didn’t say much. But I figured anypony working with Old Sim for more than a day couldn’t be much of a talker.”

Talib nodded, appreciating.

“They’re a good bunch,” said Moondancer, earnestly, “they’ve helped me through some tough times. Especially Remedy.”

Talib looked at her quizzically.

“Remedy Petal,” explained Moondancer, “my partner at the stall?”

“Oh, of course,” said Talib, remembering the teal-and-brown earth pony mare with the floral cutie mark, “I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

“I’m hurt,” Moondancer said, pouting.

“I mean,” Talib said quickly, explaining himself, “I don’t go wandering around the markets much, so there’s a lot I haven’t seen. The crowds-”

“Hey, it was a joke” interrupted Moondancer, holding up her hooves, placating. Talib grinned sheepishly, hoping she would stop looking at him like he was simple. “We’re pretty small, and usually right in the middle,” Moondancer continued. She gestured grandly at an imaginary sign. “‘Charms and Cures’, we call it, rather inventively.”

Talib was reminded of Old Sim’s hideous tea, the one he got from Zecora which supposedly helped his joints. It helped Talib’s joints too – they moved a lot more easily, as long as it was away from the smell. He ventured this observation to Moondancer, who laughed low and clear.

“Oh, no. That’s Zecora’s stuff. It actually works. Remedy’s concoctions are the complete opposite – they just smell nice and cost a lot. And she never really claimed they give anypony more than a pleasantly relaxed feeling, but it seems like that’s all that the customers are looking for anyway.”

Talib nodded. “Seems like a waste of bits to me, but I guess I can see how some ponies would feel it was worth it.” Moondancer nodded agreement, her glossy lavender and fuchsia hair bouncing delicately. “So what about the other half – your charms?” Talib asked.

“I’m flattered you find that I have any,” replied Moondancer ironically, giving an ornate bow.

Talib flushed at the deliberate misinterpretation. “I mean…” he stammered, earning an amused flick of the mouth from Moondancer, “um, I mean, tell me more about the enchanted pendants you sell.”

“Objects of great power and danger, my young friend,” Moondancer said, theatrically, and Talib looked at her with eyebrows earnestly raised. “Nah,” she continued, “they’re not all Alicorn Amulets. I just make pretty little bits of jewellery and put a little magic in them.”

“What kind of magic?” asked Talib.

“Curses, hexes, spells, auras, charms, enchantments, whatever you want to call them. I’m a little bit of a witch, I suppose.”

“Do they, um…” began Talib, but trailed off.

“Go ahead, ask,” said Moondancer, smiling knowingly.

Talib paused, searching for polite phrasing. Finding none, he pushed on. “Do they work?”

He could see Moondancer preparing what was doubtless another mysterious ambiguity, but then she abruptly dropped the act and shrugged. “Sometimes, I think. So ponies say. I’m not sure.” She stopped in front of a narrow terrace-style house, outwardly identical to its neighbours. Dark, heavy old timber beams framed the whitewashed plaster, and a heavily-thatched roof completed the classic Ponyville style. No inner lights promised warmth on this cold, humourless evening. It seemed Moondancer lived alone.

Inside, Moondancer lit a lantern and skirted the narrow staircase on her way through to the living area, which seemed to double as a workshop. A thick woollen rug, dark brown and patchy, was laid out under an erstwhile workbench on which was heaped a disorganized multitude of tools and trinkets – hammers, pliers, files, wires of various metals and alloys, beads, stones, gems, glue – all the accoutrements of a small-scale jewellery workshop. Even the fireplace was modified into a miniature furnace for smelting, casting and shaping the soft precious metals. Opposite the bench, the room was further cramped by a large desk covered with feathers, bones, an infinite variety of containers, incense, dried mushrooms and many unidentifiable, vaguely organic-looking chunks. Talib assumed that was where the enchantments were concocted. In the still-dark room, with a howling wind outside, the room gave and eldritch and slightly sinister impression, totally at odds with Moondancer’s personality.

Moondancer herself, however, completely dispelled the gloom, drifting about and lighting candles while easy talk bubbled from her lips. She lit a small candelabrum and placed it on a plain, sturdy low table, of the exact style which Talib had imagined.

“So this is it,” she said, “still want it?”

Talib nodded. Maybe I can put it in my cabin.

You mean the one without a floor or a roof?

Shut up

“Alright. I’ll help you take it out to your cart – it’s quite heavy.”

He thanked Moondancer and they ponyhandled the solid old thing outside. The thick clouds had obscured the transition into night and the complete darkness had been allowed to grow in secret. It now took unopposed possession of Ponyville, and Talib stood quietly facing it, measuring it, while Moondancer wiped a hoof across her brow.

“It got dark fast, huh?” she said.

Though he knew what she meant, Talib didn’t quite agree. He’d been aware of the change taking place, as he always was; feeling the intensity of the moment, the flow of energy as one realm was passed off for another. He often wondered whether there was more to the Princesses’ involvement than just the shuffling of celestial bodies. Did they feel the change they wrought on Equestria? Did they themselves carry out the transmutation he felt, by which the whole nature of the world seemed altered?

“Do you have far to go?” asked Moondancer.

Talib shook free of his reverie, looking back at the self-proclaimed witch.

“Not really,” he said, “Sugarcane Farm’s pretty much on the closest edge of the Everfree Forest to Ponyville.”

“Still,” she said, likewise looking up at the invisible, blackened clouds as they breathed a chill over her coat, “I wouldn’t want to be walking out tonight.” She paused, then suddenly told him to wait and rushed back into the house. Talib could hear her hooves clattering up the stairs – to the upstairs bedroom, he assumed – and then back down towards him, the low thump-thump turning abruptly into a clack as she exited onto the cobbles, her heavy, lush mane and tail barely displaced from their full-bodied hang. In her mouth she carefully gripped a necklace, one of her charms. She levitated it with her magic, a deep red-fuschia aura, and it floated towards Talib.

“You should take this, for protection.”

Talib examined the item. A simple, practical steel chain was passed through a ring of some bright metal – silver, presumably – which was unbroken except where it passed through a small sphere of green jade.

“I can’t take this,” he protested.

“But you must,” said Moondancer, “or I’ll worry. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Talib realized he was in the hoofs of a master manipulator. He battled on gamely, anyway.

“It looks far too valuable! I’ve got something free from you tonight already. At least let me pay for it.”

Moondancer looked offended. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Would you deny me the pleasure of giving a gift to a friend?”

Just like that? Talib thought, taken by surprise, She’s decided we’re friends? Do I have to decide now, as well?

Could it be that easy?

“Well,” he said shyly, hesitantly, “at least allow me the same pleasure. I’d like to give you a wood carving when I bring them to show Remedy.”

Moondancer’s face lit up in a smile, without a hint of her usual cheeky, teasing air. After a moment, however, it turned shrewd. “Hmm. Well, if you give it to Remedy instead, so she can pass it on to her adoring cousin, I’ll accept. Do we have a deal?”

Talib was confused, until he realized. Making Remedy’s cousin happy would make Remedy happy, which would make her friend Moondancer happy. And that, thought Talib, would make me happy. Accustomed to fragile solitary pleasures which could be shattered by company, it seemed a strange thing, this shared kind of happiness. It was greater when spread among more. Talib saw now that the bonds between ponies were not just gaps in armour. They were conduits. Strength ebbed and flowed through the web as ponies pushed and pulled, gave and took.

Moondancer was giving him an odd look, and Talib realized he hadn’t answered. “Deal,” he said, firmly, shaking her hoof and donning the necklace. He examined it again, holding it up to the light thrown out from Moondancer’s open doorframe.

“What does it do?” he asked.

“What do any of them do?” she replied cryptically, self-parodying. Talib rolled his eyes and laughed, and Moondancer joined in. The wave of laughter crested and retreated, beaching a strange expression on Moondancer’s face. “But… you’ll wear it?”

Talib nodded, still examining the item. He shrugged and hung it around his neck, then looked at Moondancer thoughtfully, opening his mouth, then pausing and closing it. She tilted her head, encouraging, and he re-started.

“So, I have a kind of project going on right now that involves magic,” he said, unwilling to volunteer more details, “and I was wondering… is it possible to measure magic?”

Moondancer’s eyes widened in surprise. Thankfully, she didn’t react like his schoolmates; no incredulous, vaguely horrified “But you’re an earth pony!”

“Well…” she said, looking up and away, “I actually have no idea. Strange, it’s such a basic notion. What exactly are you trying to do?”

Talib relented and explained about his experiments. “I need something, I don’t know, some mechanism or whatever, to put next to my plants and measure the ambient magic flow. I was going to ask Twilight, but then I thought about you enchanting those pendants…” he broke off and took a breath, not sure if he was making sense. Moondancer was looking at him, her face open and easy, so he pushed on. “I have this strong feeling that the Everfree Forest somehow… dampens, or changes, pony magic. But without putting numbers on it, it’ll always just be an idea. I’ll never know-” he stopped, throat tightened, strangely affected by the thought.

“Never know what?” asked Moondancer, gently.

Talib looked up at the invisible ceiling of cloud, and his mind seemed to populate the heavens with their soft, varied forms. But from here, he thought, it could just as well be a void.

“What I’m… what I’m for,” he said absently, still looking up.

Moondancer’s eyes softened. “Well, I wouldn’t bother going to see Twilight. She’s super-powerful, alright, but this isn’t her style. And I enchant objects, but not like this. This would require somepony with magic more intricate, mechanistic, someone used to working with devices…” she trailed off, thinking. “A shame the Flim-Flam brothers aren’t in town – but then, you’d never really know if they’d sold you a pup.” Suddenly, she struck the cobbles sharply with a hoof, as if a bolt of inspiration had caused a nerve to misfire. “Of course!” crowed Moondancer, “oh, dear. Oh, I’m not sure how that will go, but it’s really the only way.”

Talib was lost. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Moondancer’s gleeful, impish look had returned, and now it was directed at Talib. He dreaded to ask again, but she spared him the suspense.

“You need,” she said, “to talk to Trixie.”