“Sure.” The mare dug a somewhat wrinkled certificate out of her saddlebags and laid it in front of Bitterroot. Bitterroot skimmed it, taking in everything she needed to know. Artemis (that was what the paper said her name was) had been licensed by the Royal Guard in Canterlot (check one), complete with wax seal (check two), and the license expired in a few years (check three). When she examined some of the finer details — the thickness of the lines in the border, the phrasing, all that jazz — it all checked out.