Brick houses changed into brick storefronts, the main variation the signs that hung out front and big windows to display wares. They passed a grocery, a lens maker, a barber, a baker . . . The sidewalks were crowded with men and women intent on reaching their destinations. A couple of brawny men, with brands on their cheeks and ankles shackled, loaded heavy-looking crates into the back of a wagon. They were overseen by a stern-looking man holding a whip.
“More slaves?” Karigan asked quietly.
The professor nodded. “Some masters are crueler than others and brand their slaves as boldly as they would livestock. There are those who protest such treatment, but the majority believe, as they’ve been taught, that slaves are indeed the equivalent of livestock. Of course, few raise their voices in protest, as it draws unwanted attention from the Capital, and dissenters have a way of disappearing.”
They drew past the pedestal of a statue, but from Karigan’s vantage, she could see only the statue’s boots.
“Our emperor,” the professor said in a flat voice. “Statues of him are in every city, town, and village.”
The carriage slowed down and eventually came to a standstill, the street growing more congested with people and vehicles and horses. The professor swung open the door and leaned out. “What’s going on, Luke?”
Karigan could not hear the driver’s response.
“Well, then circle round, man,” the professor called, and he pulled himself back inside.
“What is it?” Karigan asked.
“Horse market,” he replied. “I’d seen it announced in the news, but forgot entirely. So Luke will take us by another route.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought you’d like to see what remains of the Old City, and get a feel for the new along the way.”
Karigan thought she already had a pretty good feel for the new city: hard, gloomy, heartless.
The carriage barely moved.
“We’d get farther along on foot,” the professor grumbled.
“Then why don’t we? Go on foot, I mean.”
The professor looked at her in surprise. “I—well—usually ladies don’t . . .”
“I’m not a lady,” she said.
“I know, I know,” he replied and then whispered, “you’re a Green Rider.”
“Is it improper for us to walk?”
“Er, not necessarily. It’s just most ladies of a certain status would not, is all.”
Karigan was darkly amused. She’d never been overly fond of the aristocracy, and here she was pretending to be part of the elite class that must pass for the aristocracy in this time.
The professor helped her out of the carriage, and she leaned on the bonewood cane while he gave instructions to the driver where to meet them. She took in the pigeons fluttering to rooftops, folk trying to make way through the crowds. Most fixed their gazes ahead, intent on where they were going. Many carriages, carts, and wagons stood immobile like the professor’s. Somewhere up ahead a horse screamed a challenge, sending a shiver through Karigan.
“Shall we?” the professor asked, and he extended his arm. Karigan smiled beneath her veil and slipped her arm through his.
“The horse market is ahead. Usually it does not cause such a back up.”
As they proceeded, men bowed their heads to them, and a few of the better dressed gentlemen greeted the professor, flicking curious glances at Karigan.
The professor leaned close. “Some word of your condition may have gotten around.”
“My madness, you mean.”
“Precisely, and usually those with such a condition are locked out of sight. I am flaunting what is generally considered unacceptable, but then, my eccentricities are well known.”
In Karigan’s own time, it was the same. The insane were either locked away or cast out to wander the streets dressed in rags and gabbling to themselves, left to survive as they could. No one wanted to be near them, as if their madness was catching, though some moon priests did try to help them.
As they continued, the crush grew worse, though some gave way to the professor and his niece. They were getting close to the source of the problem, when a horse reared up above the heads and hats of onlookers. A whip lashed out and the horse screamed again. The scream resonated all the way through Karigan’s body, to her very nerve endings, shaking her where she stood. The stallion called to her, drew her forth. She tore out of the professor’s grasp and rushed ahead, compelled to answer an urgent summons.
DR. SILK
Karigan pushed and squeezed past bystanders, fighting her way through the crowd to reach the horse.
“What is going on?” she heard the professor ask from behind.
A man laughed and replied, “Handler can’t control his horse and get it inside the market. He’s a wild one.”
Karigan stumbled free of the press and into a cleared space where horse and handler struggled with one another. The horse, a huge bay stallion, was so dark he was almost black with subtle ebon dappling on his hindquarters. He’d a star on his forehead and a chip of white on his nose, his mane long and full. He quivered in terror, or maybe defiance, showing the whites of his eyes. He tossed his head, the lather of sweat, mixed with blood, flying off his strong arched neck onto the cobbled street.
The handler’s assistant held a twitch, which he could have used to restrain the stallion, but he seemed afraid to draw near enough to the horse’s head and flailing hooves to make use of the device.