(research on this topic sucked 'cos I'm not a big horse lover, and I've been working on this for days without getting anywhere, so a great deal of plaigerizing came from Robert Jordan's "Knife of Dreams")

"Meat pies, made from the finest beef to be found this side of Rhy'Din!"

He had had no breakfast yet, so he approached a wrinkled woman with a tray hung from a strap around her neck who was shouting about the meat pies. Beef would be rare this early in spring. He took her word for it and handed over the coppers she demanded. He had seen no cattle at any farms near Chachin's Folly, only sheep and goats, but it was best not to inquire too closely what was in a pie bought in the streets of any town.

There could be cows on nearby farms.

There could be.

In any case, the meat pie was tasty, and still hot despite the chill in the air that lingered with winter's clinging blows, and he walked on along the street juggling the pie and wiping greasy juice from his chin. This being a town on the path toward the Starport, there were a few more absurd elements to the town that Ayreg didn't care for. Holographic projectors made for interesting magic to the death knight, though he cast a wary eye at anyone strolling by with one of those `blasters` on their hips.

He passed a weapon's shop, though he noted it didn't have a forge attached to it. Most likely, any and all wares the man would have for sale would be ones he himself made at the Dragon's Breath in Rhy'Din City, and for twice the price that one could purchase it there. But he had not come for breakfast or a dagger any more than for the nice, long walk down the trade way. It was the stables of the farming town that interested him.

Stables always had a horse or three for sale, and if the price was right, they would usually sell one that had not been for sale. He wandered about, examining bays and roans, blue roans and piebalds, duns, sorrels, blacks, whites, grays, and dapples. Most of the horses seemed more fit for farm work, though there were a few who had the flanks for riding. Just not very far, or very fast, or very well for that matter.

The air in the last stable he entered smelled of hay and oats and horse dung, but not old dung. Three men with shovels were mucking out stalls. The owner kept his place clean -- that meant less chance of disease. Some stables he had walked out of after getting one whiff.

A black mare was still in her stall, and he took notice of the fact that the stall itself was surrounded with stout barred screens of wrought iron. The door to her stall was heavy, and seemed made solidly of iron as well. Half-pin barrel hinges were, perhaps, the wrong choice for a horse the likes of which he saw through the bars. She stood squarely, and with her ears perked forward to show alertness. About seventeen hands all, she was long in front, with a deep girth that promised endurance, and her legs were perfectly proportioned, with short cannons and a good angle to her fetlocks. Her shoulders were well sloped, and her croup dead level with her whithers. She had lines as good as any horse Ayreg had ever seen, or even better. More than that, she was a breed he had heard tell of but never thought to see.

A shadow.

No other breed would have that distinctive coloring. Her coat was blacker than pitch, and looked almost like a splotch of void standing in the stall. Her presence here was mystifying to him. He had always heard that such animals were reserved for use by the darkest of foul beings, and that shadows themselves were only bred in alternate dimensions where the world was ruined as a black husk.

He let his eyes sweep past her withot lingering, studying the other animals in their stalls. Perhaps he could catch a bargain by not showing too much interest.

A wiry man with only a fringe of graying hair remaining came forward, ducking his head over folded hands. "Benjamin Cothslon, my Lord," he started, "How can I be of service? My Lord wishes to rent a horse? Or to buy?"

"I wish to buy, Cothslon. If you have anything for sale. If I can find one that's halfway decent. I've had more spavined gluebaits offered to me today than I'd care to count."

"I have three for sale, my Lord, none of them spavined," the wiry man replied with another bow. He gestured. "One is here. Five years old if she's a day, and prime horseflesh, my Lord. And a steal at fifteen hundred crowns."

He added, blandly, "Gold."

Ayreg let his jaw drop. "For a mare? I know the winter has driven prices up, but that's ridiculous!"

"Oh, she's not your common horse, my Lord. A shadow is what she is. Bred offworld, you're not likely to find another in your entire life."

So much for catching a bargain. "So you say, so you say" Jodiah muttered, leaning against a nearby stall. Since Obsidian had given him that infuriating white bottle with the little pills, his knee seldom bothered him any longer except when he did a lot of walking. But he had done so this day, and he felt twinges of aches and pains. Bargain or no, he had to play out the game. There were rules to horse trading. "I've never heard of any horse called a shadow myself. What else do you have?"

"Geldings are all I have for sale except the shadow, my Lord."

When introduced to the other two horses the man had for sale, Ayreg nodded absently. Their conformation was not bad at all, but the bay was too small, and the gray kept his ears half laid back. A horse that wasn't alert got its rider killed in battle.

Rejecting the pair of them would have been easy even if he had not had his mind set on the shadow.

"Will my Lord take a look at my prize, since the others don't suit?"

"I suppose I could look at the mare, man," Ayreg said doubtfully. "But not for any fifteen hundred crowns."

"In gold," Cothslon droned. His voice was flat, and uninteresting, but Jodiah knew that particular tone well when it came to commoners. Those were the types that were serious, bland even, and found solace in their numbers.

The stablemaster withdrew a heavy, iron key and set it into the lock. He turned it sharply, opening it with a loud click and allowing Ayreg inside.