ahead and prepare for her journey to find Sky, while another part of her wants time to stop so she can hunker down with Honus and learn more.
“After the People had virtually perished from the earth, the hibes began to believe, for reasons I will save for another time, that what they had done—systematically destroying the People—was a fundamentally bad thing. They began to repent and to revere the memory of the People, their artifacts, their relics, their likeness, and the very brilliance that had enabled the People to create the hibes in the first place. The People, in death, were worshipped as martyrs, as gods. The centaurs alone—perhaps because they live in such isolation—never subscribed to this religion. They had their own rather more secular god in Kheiron. But the hibes of many of the other nations, those who throng the streets of Kahiro, almost all worship in the Church of the Latter Day Scienticians. If they were ever to lay eyes on a genuine, living, breathing human being, who is to say what they would do? Either kill youwith kindness or attempt to preserve you as a living relic in their temple. In either case, it would be a most unhappy fate for you. And that, my dear, is why we in Mount Kheiron know we must guard the secret of your existence and, when we bring you out into the world beyond Mount Kheiron, give you a most convincing disguise.”
Malora, who has previously only been humoring Honus and the centaurs by going along with this plan, is, by the time they reach Cylas’s shop, heartily in favor of it. Something new to fear, a bitter voice inside her head says.
“You will be happy to know that your order is nearly ready,” Cylas says when he sees her coming through the door.
“Thank you, Cylas,” Malora says. “But we are here on other business.”
Honus explains what they need. Cylas listens with his usual attentiveness. When Honus finishes, the cobbler says, “You wish me to appropriate the horns of a goat, approximately the same size and shape and color as your own quite distinguished pair?”
Honus nods. “Yes, and find a way of affixing them to a band—I am thinking one made of tortoiseshell—that fits over the crown of Malora’s head and can be well concealed beneath her hair,” he says.
“This would be a disguise,” Longshanks says softly, “for Malora to wear on the streets of Kahiro.”
Honus nods. “Just so. To the milling crowds it will appear as if she were a relative of mine. A faun maiden. My daughter.”
Always the daughter, Malora thinks. Thora, her mother, would think her in very good hands with Honus.
“An excellent notion,” says Cylas. “I go to Kahiro once a year, to study the fashions and derive aesthetic inspiration, and every time, I feel positively menaced. Hold on to your nubs, too, for I don’t know who’s cleverer or more bent on picking your pocket: the tradesfolk or the thieves! However,” he says, clearing his throat, “there is the not insignificant matter of her
uncloven
feet, not to mention her ankles.”
Malora glances down at Honus’s trouser-clad legs, which are differently jointed at the ankle and in this respect more horselike than human.
“I have thought of that,” says Honus, “which brings me to my second request. And that is a saruchi.”
“A saruchi?” Malora asks. “What is that?”
“Ah yes! The wildly popular sheKa fashion,” Longshanks says. “A wrap for the lower body of the female two-legger. It wraps around the waist and drapes to the ground.”
“But how am I to get around in such a garment, let alone ride a horse?” Malora says.
“You will learn, just as your lady forebears did so long ago,” Honus says. “You might even find it has its advantages.”
“But aren’t strangers bound to see my feet
beneath
this saruchi and notice that I have no cloven hooves?” Malora says doubtfully.
“The saruchi will cover your feet. Besides,” Honus adds, “staring at the feet of sheKa is considered
“After the People had virtually perished from the earth, the hibes began to believe, for reasons I will save for another time, that what they had done—systematically destroying the People—was a fundamentally bad thing. They began to repent and to revere the memory of the People, their artifacts, their relics, their likeness, and the very brilliance that had enabled the People to create the hibes in the first place. The People, in death, were worshipped as martyrs, as gods. The centaurs alone—perhaps because they live in such isolation—never subscribed to this religion. They had their own rather more secular god in Kheiron. But the hibes of many of the other nations, those who throng the streets of Kahiro, almost all worship in the Church of the Latter Day Scienticians. If they were ever to lay eyes on a genuine, living, breathing human being, who is to say what they would do? Either kill youwith kindness or attempt to preserve you as a living relic in their temple. In either case, it would be a most unhappy fate for you. And that, my dear, is why we in Mount Kheiron know we must guard the secret of your existence and, when we bring you out into the world beyond Mount Kheiron, give you a most convincing disguise.”
Malora, who has previously only been humoring Honus and the centaurs by going along with this plan, is, by the time they reach Cylas’s shop, heartily in favor of it. Something new to fear, a bitter voice inside her head says.
“You will be happy to know that your order is nearly ready,” Cylas says when he sees her coming through the door.
“Thank you, Cylas,” Malora says. “But we are here on other business.”
Honus explains what they need. Cylas listens with his usual attentiveness. When Honus finishes, the cobbler says, “You wish me to appropriate the horns of a goat, approximately the same size and shape and color as your own quite distinguished pair?”
Honus nods. “Yes, and find a way of affixing them to a band—I am thinking one made of tortoiseshell—that fits over the crown of Malora’s head and can be well concealed beneath her hair,” he says.
“This would be a disguise,” Longshanks says softly, “for Malora to wear on the streets of Kahiro.”
Honus nods. “Just so. To the milling crowds it will appear as if she were a relative of mine. A faun maiden. My daughter.”
Always the daughter, Malora thinks. Thora, her mother, would think her in very good hands with Honus.
“An excellent notion,” says Cylas. “I go to Kahiro once a year, to study the fashions and derive aesthetic inspiration, and every time, I feel positively menaced. Hold on to your nubs, too, for I don’t know who’s cleverer or more bent on picking your pocket: the tradesfolk or the thieves! However,” he says, clearing his throat, “there is the not insignificant matter of her
uncloven
feet, not to mention her ankles.”
Malora glances down at Honus’s trouser-clad legs, which are differently jointed at the ankle and in this respect more horselike than human.
“I have thought of that,” says Honus, “which brings me to my second request. And that is a saruchi.”
“A saruchi?” Malora asks. “What is that?”
“Ah yes! The wildly popular sheKa fashion,” Longshanks says. “A wrap for the lower body of the female two-legger. It wraps around the waist and drapes to the ground.”
“But how am I to get around in such a garment, let alone ride a horse?” Malora says.
“You will learn, just as your lady forebears did so long ago,” Honus says. “You might even find it has its advantages.”
“But aren’t strangers bound to see my feet
beneath
this saruchi and notice that I have no cloven hooves?” Malora says doubtfully.
“The saruchi will cover your feet. Besides,” Honus adds, “staring at the feet of sheKa is considered
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