Brother Horse leaned in his saddle and the leather creaked loudly within the red walls of stone around them. “Hezhi,” he said. “Will you return with us now? It's too cold for an old man to be out searching for his niece.”
“Leave her to us, then,” Chuuzek grumbled, but he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, not willing to challenge the old man directly.
“No,” Brother Horse said. “My niece is shy around strangers. She is not very trusting.”
Was there more than common emphasis on the last word? Was he accusing her?
But why should she trust him?
“I am cold,” she said rather shortly. ”I would like to get back to Tsem now.”
“Climb up behind me, then.” Brother Horse grunted.
“She may share my horse,” Moss offered. “I would consider it an honor.”
Of course you would, Hezhi fumed. What do you want of me? To kill me, as Yen did? My skin, to hang in your yekt? Or merely sex, like Werft? She was unable to avert her eyes quickly enough to avoid shooting him a poisonous glance; she saw the venom mirror against his eyes, saw what appeared to be dismay.
Be hurt, Hezhi retorted in her mind. But you want something. You may be smart enough to hide it, but your cousin is not
“No, best she ride with me,” Brother Horse said good-naturedly. But there was a certainty in the way he said it, a gentle termination of the debate.
“Very well,” Moss replied, his voice betraying no ill feelings. “I only offered.”
“And I only refused you,” Hezhi replied, using the polite “you” to soften her words. To imply that at another time, under other circumstances, she might not refuse. Though she would, of course.
Climbing up behind Brother Horse, she felt more comfortable almost instantly. Safe from whatever unknown threat the young warriors represented. The feeling was so much against her will—she wanted to stay wary, alert, and angry—that she wondered if it might not be some form of enchantment. Brother Horse was, after all, a gaan, and she knew nothing of the powers he might wield. Still, nothing seemed amiss or odd about the old man. To the contrary, he was just as he had always been.
THEY rode back to the Ben'cheen all in a clump. The sun was westering, but not, as Moss had implied, particularly near setting. Hezhi kept her head pressed against Brother Horse's coat, thinking that perhaps she would hear a growl or some other strange sound from within his body. She did not, and so instead she focused on the conversation, idly noting the slight differences in their speech.
“Is it odd that you go about with your helmets so?” Brother Horse asked after a moment.
“It would be odd if we were not at war,” Moss replied softly, after a considered pause. “As things stand, it is not odd at all.”
“I see. And who are my western relatives at war with?”
“The Mang' Moss corrected, “are at war with the Cattle People.”
Hezhi felt the muscles of Brother Horse's back tighten.
“War? Not just raiding?” His voice sounded casual, but the tension Hezhi sensed remained. “Why have I not heard of this?”
“News travels slowly on the plains in winter. That is why Chuuzek and I have come; we bring the news that our people will not be at the Ben'cheen this year.”
“Tell me more of this,” Brother Horse demanded. He kept his horse carefully at a walk, and the younger men were obliged to maintain the same pace, though the colorful cluster of tents was visible in the distance, the sounds of celebration already audible.
Chuuzek spit over his left shoulder. “They have invaded our upland grazing lands, built fortresses to defend them. They sent men to ask for them first—very polite.”
“You told them no.”
“We sent their heads back. It is our pasture.”
Brother Horse sighed. “That is true,” he allowed. “It belongs to the western bands.”
It was only then that Hezhi understood, that she remembered who the “Cattle People” were: Perkar's people.
“Oh, no,” she muttered.
It was a small exclamation, not intended to be overheard, but Moss caught it, favored her with brief but intense scrutiny.
“Where is your niece from?” Moss asked quietly.
Hezhi understood, of course, that Moss did not for a moment believe that she was Brother Horse's niece. Though her appearance more resembled the Mang than it did Perkar's strange folk, there were still quite noticeable differences. And Moss had heard her speak, could not help but know her Mang was recently learned. “Niece” was merely the polite way for an older man to speak of a younger woman—particularly one under his protection.
“She is from Nhol,” Brother Horse told him in a tone that made it clear that the question, though it had been answered, was not a welcome one. “And she is my niece in all but blood.”
“Huh,” Chuuzek grunted, but Moss merely nodded acceptance.
“There are two more at my fire right now,” Brother Horse went on, “two more who also do not share the blood of the Horse Mother, who have no kin amongst the herds. But they are under my protection, as well. My clan and I would take it hard if anything should happen to them.”
Hes telling them about Perkar and Ngangata, she thought.
“Also from Nhol?” Moss asked.
“No, not at all,” Brother Horse replied.
There was a brief, restless silence, during which Chuuzek became more and more agitated, chewing his lip and bunching the reins in his hands.
“If they are Cattle People, I will kill them,” he suddenly blurted defiantly.
Brother Horse reined his mount to a full stop and turned in his saddle to face the young man squarely.
“If you kill a man—or a woman—under my protection, in my village, I will consider it murder,” he said. His tone remained placid, but the words somehow conveyed the most resolute finality imaginable. Chuuzek made to speak again, but Moss intervened.
“Of course we understand that,” he said. “We are Mang. Our mothers taught us well.”
“I would hope so,” Brother Horse returned. “I would hope it would take more than war to see our ancient ways set easily aside.”
“This is more than war,” Chuuzek growled, but then, at another glance from Moss, he lapsed into sullen silence.
Brother Horse moved his mount forward again, and the silence pooled around the horsemen, threatening to stay with them all until they reached the village. Still, Brother Horse made no move to quicken his pace.
What could Chuuzek have meant, this was more than war? Hezhi barely understood war at all—as the insulated daughter of the emperor, she had rarely had occasion to think about it—but how could a war be more than that?
“I see the pennant of the Seven Hoof People,” Moss remarked.
“They arrived yesterday,” Brother Horse told him.
“Is old Siinch'u with them this year?”
Hezhi felt the cords of her companion's back loosen a bit. He even uttered a little chuckle, and Hezhi was certain, though she could not see his face, that he was grinning. “Oh, yes. I caught him trying to sneak into my granddaughter's tent the other day.”
“Still the same then.”
“Of course. Gods help lecherous old men.”
“Yes,” Moss replied. “Didn't I hear that you spent several years on an island hiding from the Woodpecker Goddess because you and her daughter—”
“No need to repeat rumors like that,” Brother Horse snapped. But it was his mock anger now, a joking kind of disapproval, very different from the low, dangerous tension of a few moments before.
Had she seen that danger, that thing with claws and molten eyes?
“Tell me about your granduncle Snatch-the-Pony. I heard he—”
“Yes, it's true,” Moss nearly crowed, his face opening into a radiant smile. “He went over to the Fang Hills …”
So when they reached the Swollen Tents Brother Horse and Moss were laughing together. But Chuuzek, trailing a bit, kept his face flat and expressionless. Hezhi thought it to be a thin, translucent mask over murder—and perhaps more.