sand. They would sleep during the day and travel at night.
But she knew this had to be the desert. There couldn’t be anywhere hotter than this.
“When you get to the capital,” Banreh said, sitting still as if the heat and his leg did not pain him, “they will give you silks to keep you cool, and there will be tiled baths where you can soothe your feet.”
“I don’t want to get my feet wet,” Mesema said, annoyed he’d used the formal tone.
Banreh smiled.
And she heard it, off in the distance, the bright jingle of little bells. She leaned forwards, listening, as Banreh’s smile froze on his face and his eyes grew sharp and wary. He reminded Mesema of the god-statues up on the Great Plateau: still, but sharp. Hooves sounded on faraway rock, faded, sounded again. They were coming closer. She tried to count the bells. Six, a dozen, riders.
“Red Hooves,” she whispered, putting a hand on the door.
Banreh grabbed her wrist. “They won’t attack the Cerani. That’s why you’re in here.”
Mesema paused. She could feel her pulse against Banreh’s fingers. Those fingers belonged to her father.
“Wait,” he said.
She nodded. The horses drew close now, so close she could hear their neighing and the murmurs of their riders. The coarse accents left no doubt: they were surrounded by Red Hooves, the least worthy of the Felting tribes, hardly of the People at all. She didn’t dare look out of the window; instead she flattened herself against the wood, hoping no one would look in. Banreh’s hand slipped from her wrist and wrapped itself around her shaking fingers.
“Listen,” he said, “you are a Windreader. Windreader spears are coated with the blood of Red Hooves. You have nothing to fear.”
His soft words gave her confidence. How strange that Banreh, who sometimes seemed so alien with his languages and his writing, knew exactly what to say in this moment.
“My brother was avenged a dozen times ten. His sacrifice made us ever victorious.”
“Ever so.” Banreh was not afraid. He looked her straight in the eye.
Mesema listened. She heard no clash of metal on metal, nor the shouts of injured men. The Cerani spoke to the Red Hooves. Their discussion sounded relaxed, almost casual. She could make out only a few words, but the ones she did hear made her shiver again.
“They’re talking about a girl. Someone is going to give up a girl. Banreh, it’s me!”
Banreh shook his head and slipped into the intimate tone.
“No, I don’t think so.”
She clutched his hand. She couldn’t stop thinking about the Red Hoof thralls in her father’s camp, their resentment, their unspoken fury. She’d felt it every time one of them was near. It was they who frightened her. She could easily imagine herself in the same position, abused and hateful, in disgrace.
The talking came to an end and bells tinkled as the Red horses drew away. Somebody shouted, “Don’t bring her back unless she’s proven!” and someone, another man, laughed. A horse neighed, excited, ready to run. And then the Red Hooves departed in a clatter.
Mesema fell to her knees and threw her arms around Banreh’s middle. He was solid, not soft as she’d expected, and he smelled of ink and sweat.
He patted her hair. “When you are married, you will be safe. No one will dare harm you.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking: I am safe now.
At that moment the Cerani named Arigu stuck his head through the carriage window. He sneered at their embrace before turning to Banreh and speaking to him in his guttural language. Mesema recognised two Cerantic words, but she politely waited for Banreh to translate.
As she settled back on the bench, straightening her hair, he told her, “A Red Hoof woman has joined our caravan.”
At sunset, Mesema walked along the stony ground to where two Felting horses stood side by side. One wore brightly coloured wool braided into its mane; the other showed hooves dyed deep red. The Red Hooves said their horses’ feet were stained with the blood of their enemies, but Mesema knew it was only the dye from shelac berries—the Windreaders used the same dye to color their winter felt. She examined the Red horse. It was docile, so not a warhorse like Arigu’s.
She ran a hand over her Tumble’s flank. How he must hate this heat! Perhaps it was a cruelty to bring him to Nooria. She checked to make sure he had plenty of water. There was nothing else to do; the soldiers fed