“If you have any ideas, Arwa, tell us,” said Eshara impatiently. “Or simply stare at one another, if you prefer.”
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…”
