There was a bar not far from the door, a grand-looking stone fireplace set in one wall, thankfully unlit and very few patrons, and the ones who were there seemed to be occupied in the few booths being attended by one of the mares. Oh right, the mares. There were a lot of them. All of them were dressed in the frilliest clothes Handy had ever seen, saddles made of cloth and silk, socks, tiny bows in their manes and garters. It was bewildering. Sure enough, since he had been brought out of the coffin back in Fishermare’s Hook, he learned Blackporters at least seemed a lot more partial to clothing than most ponies he knew of, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why they were all dressed that way. Must be a uniform policy or something.