Phaeda sets her spear down beside her, levels a long look at me until she’s convinced I won’t run off, and then takes a needle and a round disk out of a bag. She starts sharpening the needle against the stone, looking up frequently to check if I’m doing anything suspicious.

A man about my age walks by, and Phaeda flags him down. His forearm is bandaged, and she pulls the dressing away to reveal a burn wound in the shape of several wavy lines. She scrutinizes it, then wraps it up again. “Change the bandage.”

As she waves him off, I see a faint scar on the underside of her forearm, as well as on the others nearby. I’ve heard about how the traders brand themselves with the same irons they use on their horses, but it’s the first time I’ve seen them up close. It’s a rite of passage for them, apparently.

The smell of pungent stew wafts over from the campfires. My mouth waters, and I wonder how these people feel about feeding prisoners. I’m looking forlornly at the soup pot, when I see a shadow flitting just outside the light of the campfires. I freeze. Phaeda looks at me, and I do my best to pretend that nothing’s happened. She narrows her eyes, but in a few moments starts sharpening her needle again, and I sneak another look toward the shadow. Could that be…

A ruffle of black feathers, and the unmistakable profile of a very vain bird.

Preener. If he sticks around, he’s going to end up in the stew pot.

I turn my face so my guard can’t see me. “Go away,” I whisper. “Not now.”

But can the bird even hear me from this distance? I see the infuriating thing hopping around.

“Fly!” I whisper.

Preener takes a few tentative hops closer.

“No,” I bark, and then turn it into a cough when several heads swivel my way. “Have you no decency?” I say loudly. “Tying up a man simply for walking in the desert.”

The puzzled faces harden into annoyance, and everyone resumes their tasks. I breathe a sigh of relief and look at the edge of the fire again. That dratted bird is still there. If my hands weren’t tied behind my back, I’d throw them in the air.

“Fine,” I mutter. “If you want to be dinner, go ahead.” That must have been the invitation he was looking for, because he takes flight toward me.

Phaeda’s head snaps up. I steel myself for the worst.

Hooves sound in the distance, and Preener flies away as Nush and the five scouts return. People gather around the horsemen. I strain my ears but can’t make out what’s being said. Finally, the crowd parts and Nush comes up to me.

“We see no sign of your friends,” he says grudgingly.