Zahir blinked. Looked away.
“Go on, Arwa,” he said. “Please.”
She looked at Zahir. The flush of his cheekbones, the curl of his hands. She was not sure if she was angry at him or… something else. She swallowed, and looked away from him.
“I do think I know where we might get some information,” Arwa admitted. “But I’ll need to go alone.”
The walk to the House of Tears was tense and silent. There were pilgrims hiding in the stores that lined the courtyard, peering nervously through windows, and huddled under awnings and in shade, trying desperately to vanish from sight. Walking across the courtyard made Arwa feel horribly exposed, her skin hot with sweat, as she skirted close to market stalls and tried to ignore the fear pressing down on her skull.
There was a young widow outside the House of Tears, weaving a grave-token, her shoulders hunched and tense. She wore her shawl low over her face, but when she raised her head it tipped back, revealing a line of smooth hair and sharp eyes.
“I am sorry to disturb you, sister,” Arwa said.
“I know you,” said the woman slowly. “You’re the widow that Aunt Madhu offered a place here.”
“She did.”
“You gave her an offering of food. But we could have bought better on our own.”
“It was all I had,” Arwa said.
“Well.” The young widow shrugged. “Are you here to beg a place after all?”
Arwa shook her head.
“My name is Arwa, sister. And what is yours?”
“Diya,” the widow said shortly. “What do you want?”
“I was hoping for information. Please. For the sake of my kin. We’re… afraid.”
“Aren’t we all,” said Diya. “And what do you think a few old widows know?”
More than I do, thought Arwa. And that will have to be enough.
“Can the guards be bribed?” Arwa asked.
“You think we widows have the money to bribe guards?” Diya laughed. “Don’t be foolish.”
“I’m not speaking of money only, sister,” Arwa said, trying to keep her voice even, trying to think only of necessity. “So: Can the guards be bribed?”
Diya’s eyes narrowed.
“Aunt Madhu told you. We aren’t whores.”
The silence grew. Then Diya huffed out a breath.
“No. They can’t be bribed. They’re too afraid of their captain.”
“Captain?”
“Capitan Argeb. He serves under the commander at Demet Fort, to the northeast,” Diya said, picking at the edge of the grave-token until it frayed. “He’s good at dealing with rebels, the commander keeps him busy, traveling the pilgrim roads, plucking out the worst heretics like weeds.”
Arwa did not ask how Diya knew such things. The widow was not looking at her, shoulders tense and defiant, head bowed.
“If I wanted to meet this captain…”
“You don’t.”
“If I did,” Arwa went on, “how would I arrange to do so?”
Diya stared at the ground in stony silence. Arwa took a step closer. The caravanserai was far too quiet around them. It was a waiting silence, tense, breath held.
“Please,” Arwa whispered. “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer. But I’m desperate. I can’t stay here.”
“You think any of the other pilgrims want to be trapped here either?” Diya shook her head. “No, sister. Go and hide with your kin. This will be over soon enough, I’m sure.”
There was a firmness to Diya’s voice and to the line of her mouth that suggested she would not easily be swayed. And Arwa did not have ease with honeyed words. She had nothing to bribe the widow with. Nothing, in fact, to offer at all.
What could Arwa say? What could she do?
She closed her eyes. She could feel the heat of the sun on her face. Hear the silence around her, a painful stillness born from fear. She sucked in a breath. Released it.
Spoke.
“I dreamed last night of a monster. It had a face like bone that had never known flesh, and when I looked at it I felt fear. Nothing but fear, pure and uncomplicated and… terrible. I dreamed that it placed its hands on the back of my neck. And then I couldn’t breathe, sister, through the fear. A fear that sat in my skull. Just so.”
“You had a nightmare,” Diya said. Her voice was shaking faintly. “That’s all.”
“Yes,” Arwa agreed. “Perhaps. But I am still afraid, sister. I can feel its head, even though I am awake. And I am afraid…”
She placed her own fingertips lightly to the back of her neck. She saw Diya’s fingers, still upon the edge of the grave-token, twitch.
Arwa had her. And oh, how she wished she didn’t. Darez Fort was close, far too close.
“I am afraid that something worse than heresy waits within this caravanserai. And if we cannot leave…”
Arwa allowed her words to trail off.
Diya swallowed. Laid the grave-token down on the ground.
“Come closer,” she said, and Arwa did, crossing the dust of the courtyard and kneeling down by her.
“There are soldiers you can speak to,” said Diya. “If they’re here, they’ll take you to him. If you can convince them, of course.”
“Convince…?”
“They’re nice boys,” snapped Diya. “A tall one. Bald. The other will be with him. They’re called Aran and Sohal. Their patrol comes here often. They always bring offerings, they know the way things should be. But they know their captain, they won’t want to take you.”
Arwa’s stomach roiled. They knew their captain.
“Their captain,” she murmured. “What is wrong with him?”
“He does what his commander tells him.”
“Some would say that is positive.”
“Well,” Diya said, “It isn’t. He enjoys it. The capturing of heretics; the killing of them. We’re lucky Demet’s commander usually sends his other patrols around here. Most soldiers can be bribed to leave pilgrims alone, if you know their price. But him…” Diya leaned forward. “Once, he caught a man who claimed the Maha spoke to him in his dreams. Oh, lots of men claim foolish things, sister, and soldiers know when to ignore the sick. But Argeb—he didn’t ignore it. He had the man’s tongue out, and then had his head staked outside the caravanserai. It was a blessing when an animal finally took it.”
Arwa shuddered. Drew her shawl tighter around herself, despite the heat of the day.
She thought of the men who had served under Kamran, at Darez Fort. She had only ever seen them through the lattice of her quarters’ windows. They hadn’t been quite real to her. Only Kamran’s stories had given them flesh. But he’d told her of one patrol captain who had committed crimes against the women of a local village. He had only alluded to the crimes, of course—he would not have dreamed of soiling her ears with the full, unvarnished truth—but Arwa had understood.
The fool. What can I do with him now? Kamran had said, gruff and irritated.
It had not been a real question, of course. Arwa had known what was expected of her. To soothe him. Eyes lowered. Demure. Whatever my husband wills, will be for the best.