Eshara and Arwa left their lodgings. They stepped into the light, into air that swarmed with fear and heat, that lay heavy on Arwa’s shoulders, and held her fast.
Eshara rolled her shoulders. Cracked her neck, and gave Arwa a level look.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s go to die.”
Together, they crossed the courtyard. The soldiers were encamped, largely, near the main gate. They’d commandeered some of the largest buildings and stalls, which had been stripped of their signs and wares. Despite the dangers—the man who had been struck down for confronting the guards, and the palmful of fools who had followed his example—there were people begging for escape. Many women, a number clutching small children, begging for mercy. Arwa’s heart twisted at the sight of them.
“I’m looking for someone in particular,” she murmured, searching the guards for the man Diya had described to her. “Do you see a soldier—bald, tall?”
“They’re wearing helms.”
“Not all of them,” said Arwa. “And… ah. There.”
Two soldiers were standing in the shade before an elegant storefront. They weren’t mobbed—the shade provided them cover, and their lack of helmets and lighter clothing made them resemble the pilgrims more closely than their fellow soldiers. Arwa, at least, recognized their clothing and knew their bare heads were a sign of their status. They were still green recruits, perhaps no more than a palmful of years in service, barely full-grown men with thin limbs and awkward faces that weren’t quite yet honed by time. One was bald, the other round-faced and softer looking for it.
She approached them, Eshara at her side. Stopped and waited, head lowered deferentially but eyes still fixed on them both, as they straightened up at the sight of her.
“I am sorry to disturb you, my lords,” she said. “But I am looking for Sohal.”
The bald one shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Uneasy.
“That’s me,” he said. “What do you want?”
“A friend gave me your name,” said Arwa. “I was hoping for your help.”
Sohal and his friend exchanged a look.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sohal said finally. “Go on now.”
“Lords,” Arwa murmured, tilting her head down demurely, drawing her veil carefully over her face, without concealing the short cut of her hair. “I was told that you’re… not unkind.”
“I’m sorry,” said the round-faced one, voice very soft, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “You—the other widows. We can’t help you. We have our orders. Our captain has been very clear. No one may leave.”
“He’s not—he. Wouldn’t respond well. If we were to help.” The bald one—Sohal’s—gaze flickered to the crowd of pleading people, then back to Arwa once more.
Arwa heard Eshara exhale, felt Eshara’s hand touch her arm.
“As you say, my lords,” said Eshara. “We’ll go.”
But of course, they couldn’t go. Not yet.
Arwa raised her head and looked at them properly, tracing their faces with her eyes.
There was no evil living in them, not that she could see. Nothing unnatural rooted inside them, nothing like what had haunted Darez Fort. Their eyes were clear, their faces burnished by the sun; Sohal’s nose was faintly peeling. They were just boys. No more.
But the nightmare was here.
There was a trick to this: to being soft enough to arouse sympathy, sweet enough to reel them in. But Arwa used none of it, only stared at them, demureness forgotten, and said, “Darez Fort.”
Eshara hissed through gritted teeth.
The men stared at her with wide eyes. She’d spoken the name of a tragedy and pinned them with it. Good.
“My lords, in Darez Fort a commander serving the Governor of Chand and all his men and all their servants perished. Behind barred doors a curse consumed them, and they died, to the last man.” A slow inhalation. The two men waited, silent before her. “Some say the Empire is cursed. That our crops die and our people sicken. But in Darez Fort, the curse wore a face. It made them murder one another. Every one.”
She took a step closer.
“I am afraid something similar will happen here. Don’t you feel it? The fear? Don’t you feel something terrible growing within your skull with no way to leave it?”
She drew the memory of the dream close around her. The storm. The face of white bone. Kamran’s dust—and all the memories his death brought with it—hovering half-formed in the air before her.
“I know you do,” she said, letting her voice soften not with the gentleness expected of a noblewoman, but with the rasp Zahir’s voice sometimes held when he showed the sharp edge of his curiosity. “Please, my lords, you must help us.”
Sohal leaned forward. Like a tree swayed by a great wind.
“Your eyes,” he whispered.
Her eyes. Panic clamored up within her. Had she reached for the ash? Were her eyes full of gray-white light? She blinked, breathed, hoping it would fade away.
Sohal cleared his throat, and turned away. “By the Maha’s blessing,” he said, “you believe we need to warn our captain? That everyone will die?”
“I know it.”
“You can’t,” said the soft-faced guard. He lowered his voice. “That’s heresy.”
“I’m no heretic,” Arwa said, even though it was a lie. She stared at him full in the face, holding her knowledge around herself like a fierce armor all of her own. “I know it.”
Sohal shook his head. Took a step back. The spell was shattered.
“Go,” Sohal said abruptly. “Go now, lady. And keep your foolish thoughts to yourself.”
“Come on, sister. Let’s obey,” Eshara said tightly. Arwa could hear the fear tucked in her voice.
She felt Eshara grip her tight and knew her time had run out.
“Sohal.” A voice, deep from within the storefront. “He heard voices. He’s asked for you to bring him the women at the door.”
Sohal closed his eyes. Opened them. There was sweat on his forehead.
“My apologies, young widow,” he said. “You have your wish after all.”
They stepped into the store. Arwa assumed it must have been used for selling medicine, once. The air smelled of spices and herbs; jars of turmeric and honey and stoppered clay containers lined the walls, on cramped shelves. Some of the jars were broken, their contents spilled across the floor. Seated slumped against the wall, surrounded by shattered jars, a carafe of wine before him, sat the captain.
His helm was on the floor, but he wore his status in the fine fabric of his tunic, visible through his half-assembled armor, and the bands of decorated metal encircling his wrists. He had a cluster of men with him. One, old and grizzled, helm still on his head, was kneeling and speaking to the captain in a low voice. The older soldier rose when Eshara and Arwa entered, gave them a grim look, and stepped back into the shadows, where the captain’s other palmful of men stood in uneasy silence.
Captain Argeb raised his head. He gave them a smile that was unexpected in its openness: mouth curling, teeth faintly bared, eyes crinkling with joy.
“So much useless chattering,” he said by way of greeting. There was a faint slur to his voice. “Ladies, come and sit.”