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the farmlands.
    How would the very first Councilmen, who had sworn not to follow in the steps of the Beforetimers, view the sprawling city? I wondered. Surely all their fears that humans might tread the same doomed path of progress would be realized at the sight of it. In my mind’s eye, I saw for a moment the shadowy, half-drowned city beneath Tor.
    Thunder sounded again, and as if it were some heavenly signal, Gahltha emerged like a shadow from a thick copse of Ara trees a little way down the slope. He waited, a dark shape against the pale speckled trunks and tremulous clouds of foliage, until Jaygar brought us close.
    “The way to the funaga-li barud is not watched by danger,” the black equine sent in his stringent mental voice.“Funaga” was the closest rendering of the beast thought symbol for human. The form used by Gahltha was subtly derogatory, for though the old acid bitterness had vanished from his nature, there were still traces of it when he considered humans outside of Obernewtyn.
    “It would be wise for ElspethInnle to ride this equine,” Gahltha sent. “Only the funaga walk without shackles/burdens in this place.”
    “Wait a moment,” I sent, and climbed into the back of the cart to change my skirt for trousers. Coming out again, I stood up on the wagon’s bench seat, and the black horse came alongside, allowing me to transfer smoothly to his bare back.
    Sensing his approval at the ease of my mounting, I felt smug. Gahltha had taught me to ride as gypsies did. And there had been many times during his painful lessons that I had felt certain they were simply a sadistic way to murder me. Yet I had survived, and there were few now at Obernewtyn who could match my skill. In fairness, that was because few rode as frequently. None among us rode a horse except at its invitation, since all thinking beasts were regarded as equal to human-folk. I would as soon ask Matthew to carry me as ask one of the equines. Horses took part in expeditions at their own choosing, masquerading as beasts of burden. They never carried humans otherwise, except at great need.
    Gahltha was the exception.
    After bringing me from the high mountains, he had insisted on going back into them often; whether out of nostalgia or to remind himself of his promises, I never knew. Each time he went, he asked that I ride on his back. At first I had refused, disliking the way it increased the mystique my activities had already woven about me, but his determination had worn me down. And like him, I had come to love the headlong gallopsover the whispering grasses, flattened to his back and feeling as if the two of us were, in those moments, a single wild spirit.
    This had the unexpected result of causing the proud Obernewtyn equines to question whether carrying humans must always be a sign of slavery. More than one of the beasts had suggested that a time might come when it would be useful to have Misfits who rode well. The matter was still under discussion among their kind.
    “We must be nearin’ th’ outer gate,” Matthew sent as we reached the first shingled dwellings at the outer edge of the sprawling city. He got into the back to cover the woman’s face, and I concentrated on summoning the mental focus I would need to coerce the soldierguards at the city gates if there was any difficulty.
    I reached out to take Gahltha’s reins in my fingers as Matthew returned to his seat. My hands and body, like his, were stained a light gypsy tan. Brydda Llewellyn’s mother, Katlyn, who had come to live at Obernewtyn, was a skilled herb lorist, and to aid our most common disguise, she had perfected a dye that simulated gypsy skin tone and that would not wash off easily. Despite prevailing prejudices, it was far safer to move about the Land as homeless gypsies than to pretend to be normal Landfolk, for they rarely traveled.
    I concentrated on the disguise, enhancing it slightly with coercion so that people would see a boy in the gypsy clothes—just