“We are here for water, not battle,” said the large Minotaur, remaining astride his steed if steed was the right word for a domesticated rhinoceros.
The small band said nothing as the dust settled. Syd counted six mounted warriors, each carrying massive hammers and spears strapped across their backs.
“Syd,” Fig said flatly, “this is where you come in.”
She shot him a sidelong look. The fact that she used his name was not lost on him.
Syd searched his memory for anything he’d ever read about the Marr nomads. All he could recall was that they were guardians of the desert, protectors of the caravans that moved between the two desert nations.
“Water and rest is what we seek,” he said, enunciating carefully.
The Marr laughed. The one who had spoken dismounted and approached them at an unhurried pace. Renwick tensed, while Fig shifted closer behind Syd, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Relax, Malbrin,” the Minotaur said. “We are warriors, not raiders. And we speak the Standard.”
He glanced at Renwick. “You can lower your weapons. Desert law, there is no bloodshed at the water.”
He extended a hand. “Caldin, Guardian of the Marr.”
Syd clasped the Minotaur’s forearm. “Syd, from Castlemere. And these are—”
“We know who you are,” Caldin interrupted. “And you are not simply Syd from Castlemere. You are Sydney Calderwyn, Magi of the Rubicon, heir to House Calderwyn.”
Syd closed his eyes and released a slow, measured breath.
Behind him, he could already feel the weight of Renwick’s and Fig’s stares burning into his back.
Renwick let out a slow breath, blades lowering inch by inch until their tips rested against the sand. His eyes never left Syd’s back.
“Well,” he said at last, voice dry, “that explains the tailoring.”