And the streets were bustling with . . . ponies.  Every color imaginable.  Near to his eyrie, he had a view of what he could only guess was a market: dozens of wooden stalls with signs above them and merchandise spread out on the counter could be nothing else.  Oddly, most of the signs simply had a painted picture, presumably of what the vendor sold.  He watched as a horned pony made a transaction: even at his distance, he could see a faint green glow around what he guessed must be some kind of money, followed by a pot being carefully removed from the counter and led down the street, much like Lyra had handled the tray with her breakfast dishes.  Other ponies were simply picking up items by mouth, or occasionally by hoof, a process just as inexplicable as the tractor beams all the horned ones seemed to be able to use at will.  Dale cautioned himself to not jump to conclusions.  Maybe they had little gripping claws on their feet.  Or suction cups.  Or magnets.