Zahir closed his eyes. Opened them.
“Arwa. I can’t even think.”
“I know. I’m sorry for it, Zahir.”
“For what it’s worth, two women will be considered less threat than even one man,” said Eshara. “I’ll go with her.”
“You’ll have to leave your blade behind,” said Zahir.
“Ah.” Eshara looked down. “I’ll still go with her.”
“Fine,” said Zahir. “But if you don’t return I will follow you both. I hope you understand that.”
“Zahir.”
“I have a right to risk my own life.”
“It isn’t fair to throw my own words back at me.”
“Ah. Well.” He smiled tightly. There was still fear in his eyes, still something tight and dark and blood bitter. “When is life fair?”
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.
