The Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014 by Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower Read Free Book Online Page B

mending the lining of his best jacket; not his second best, the blue one which he wears to church, but the black one that he prefers for business.
    “You want to see me looking fine?” he asks, following the curve of my broad leaves with his fat maggot fingers.
    “If the actress is so fine to look at,” I say, “won’t you want to look even finer?”
    He pats my shoulder. “Pluto, you clever girl. You know me better than I know myself.”
    I, of course, will wear my tunic. It is the only article of clothing that I own.
    * * *
    All day, Mads laughs at my preparations—but all that means to me is that my Gartner is in a good mood, and that when the time comes for me to button him into his jacket, he lets me do so with hardly a word of protest.
    “You look so handsome,” I tell him. He checks his reflection in the hall mirror to make sure that I am right.
    The only thing Mads must do for himself is hitch the horse to the open buggy. We could perhaps be trusted with a horse, but horses cannot be trusted with us; it is as though they do not believe we are alive, and many turnips have been killed by horses, who bite at us indiscriminately, or tear into our greens and cause us to die of shock.
    The horse is in a foul mood today. He yanks his bridle from Mads’ grip, and screams his displeasure when Mads catches hold again. I am afraid Mads will think him not worth the trouble, so I jump out of the buggy to help.
    At once the horse lunges for me, snapping his terrible teeth at my greens, and only when I lift my hand to stay him does he finally calm.
    “That’s better,” says Mads, puzzled, as the horse settles and chomps at his bit.
    What Mads does not see is my hand, now missing a finger, or the moment when the horse accepts it from me. I fear that he would kill the horse for daring to taste me before Mads himself has had the chance, so I return to the buggy, fold my hands in my lap, and do not let my feelings show on my face. It hurts less to lose one small finger than to lose my first bud, anyway.
    We pass most of the ride in silence.
    * * *
    I have only been to town twice before. It is its own little world made of bricks, some of which have been plastered over and painted yellow; the whole place is the color of fire, like the ends of my matchsticks. We leave the horse and buggy with Sissel Peals’ Gartner, a round man who cannot afford to eat his turnips, and Mads hands him a few kroner in exchange. He is very careful not to touch the man’s grubby hand.
    It is not hard to guess where our visitor will be found. There is a cart set up in the main square, with dozens of steps folded out in all directions: a traveling theater. Perhaps a hundred Gartners, male and female, sit in folding chairs laid out around the plaza, their neeps standing at their sides. All the Gartners are enfolded in their finest clothes, and Mads puffs himself up when he sees them.
    One woman at the far left of the crowd, dressed in vibrant red and richest black, dips her head toward my Gartner and points her neep in our direction. The neep approaches us, face downturned with respect. I think it is called Mikkel, but I cannot recall if it styles itself male or female.
    “Greetings, Herre Poulson,” says the neep, bowing deeply. “My Gartner, Frue Holm, invites you to sit with her.”
    We follow neep Mikkel back to its mistress. Gartner Holm smiles at my master, but it is a cold smile; they are so like each other.
    “What a pleasant afternoon this will be,” says Gartner Holm in her mountain-peak voice. She offers Mads her hand, and he kisses it. I hide my own disfigured hand in my tunic pocket, feeling at the edges of my cigarette carton.
    The crowd chatters mildly, each and every Gartner being sure to look spectacularly unimpressed. We neeps keep our heads turned down. Still, my eyes sneak toward the stage.
    At first all I am aware of is a feeling. A rumble, which might as well be coming from the salt mine. But the rumbling gets louder, and