I’ve about circled back to where I began when a great thundering vibrates through the ground. I run up the nearest hill to investigate, and what I see is a wonder to behold. A herd of horses runs across the desert, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Even from this distance I can tell that they’re beauties—long elegant strides, strength in every toss of their manes. The coming sunset bathes their coats in reddish gold. These are Rovenni horses, braver than most men, and I daresay more intelligent than a good portion as well. Our tribe used to fight on horses before we fled across the strait. I’ve fond memories of a chestnut mare I trained on day-to-day—not nearly as majestic as these creatures though.

I hike toward the herd to get a better look. Now that I’m closer, I can see the expert riders driving them. The Rovenni traders are master animal breeders. Sometimes they raise horses, sometimes sheep, goats, dogs, or birds. Their whole lives revolve around the care and training of their creatures.

Something sharp pokes me in the back. I freeze.

“Make no sudden movements,” says a gruff voice.

And one more thing about these breeders. They’re fiercely protective of their life’s work.

“Keep your hands away from your swords. Reach them straight out to the sides and don’t move.”

I inhale slowly through my teeth as rough hands pat me down. This seems to be happening more and more often these days.

“I was simply admiring your horses. That’s no crime, is it?” I say as someone lifts my pack off my back, and then my swords. The same hands confiscate my daggers a few moments later. I bite back several curses. Why don’t they just strip off my skin while they’re at it?

“Turn around.”

Slowly, I obey. There are two people in the welcoming party. A muscular man a few years older than me has his spear aimed at my heart. Next to him, also armed and eyeing me with equal venom, is a woman. Both of them are wearing dusty robes, trousers, and fine riding boots, and they hold their spears like they know how to use them.

“Is the army sending spies now?” says the man. “That’s low even for them. I’ve told you. The breeding stock is off the table.”

For a moment I think I’m found out, but then I realize he means the Amparan armies. “You’re mistaken,” I say. “I’m just a traveler.”

“You came out for a stroll, armed like that? Tell your masters we sell our geldings at a fair price. That’s all they’ll ever get.”

“I’m not from the army,” I say again.

He narrows his eyes. “A petty thief, then.”