Shadi frowns. “Who is the Snow Queen?”
Khawla, who has picked the musket up from the ground, steps closer. “You've gotten bigger, Walood.” She smiles and reaches to tousle the boy's hair, but he ducks back shyly.
Shay joins them, sure to keep a watchful eye, scanning not only the lower courtyard, but the upper terrace that frames it. Though distant footsteps and voices echo, no one comes near enough to notice them.
“She grooms the young women who are brought into the entourage,” the boy explains to Shadi, his mouth twisting in distaste. “But it's like Mukhtar Jawad did something to her. Her powers are … extreme.”
“Yes.” Khawla gasps. Her eyes begin to flutter rapidly, opening and closing. “I can feel her. She gives off a strange energy. I've never felt another Shawafa like it.”
“Can you find her?” Shadi asks.
Khawla nods, blinking slowly as her eyes refocus. “I think so.”
“You're not listening.” Walid steps back, away from Shadi, shaking his head.
“Come with us,” Shadi says with an ache in his voice. “We will help you escape, too.”
“I can't,” Walid says with a melancholy unbefitting his tender age. “We must find a system we can use to communicate. People often talk in front of me, and because I'm young, they think I'm not listening or don't understand. I can be an informant.”
“It is dangerous,” Shadi argues, but the struggle in his eyes says he knows Walid's suggestion is not without merit. “Mmi misses you.”
“Yas …” Walid looks at the ground. He makes a sound like choking. “You don't understand the things they've made me do. I could never look her in the eyes again. You know her. The way sheseeseverything your soul tries to hide.”
A flash of red fabric alerts Shay to the approach of two Moulays. She elbow nudges Khawla, who quickly passes the weapon back to Shadi.
Shay hangs her head as the guards come closer, her hair falling over her face. Khawla picks at her arms and tugs strands of her hair, mimicking the behaviors Snow predisposes touched ones to.
“Salaams.” One of the Moulays steps forward and peers closely into Shadi's eyes. “Are you new to the kasbah, khoya? I have not seen you around.”
Shadi swallows, then lifts his chin. “It's my first day.”
The Moulay stares at Shadi for a moment longer before glancing at Walid, who nods in confirmation of Shadi's claim.
“They buddied you up with the tadpole? That figures.” The Moulay chuckles, slapping a hand to Shadi's chest. “Well, if you've brought these two in to join the entourage, you better get them to the Snow Queen promptly. And don't be tempted to have a little fun with them before delivery. The Queen doesn't take kindly to that. The last Moulay who tried it lost his manhood.”
“Frostbite.” His companion grabs his crotch, wincing in sympathy for the plight of the Moulay in question.
The first Moulay's eyes roam over Shay, lingering at her forearms and torso. He dusts the front of Shadi's uniform before dropping his hand and stepping aside. “No one would blame you if you wanted to swipe those leathers, though. They'd fetch a comely coin.”
“I—um—I'll be careful. Thanks.” Shadi prods Shay and Khawla forward with the musket barrel, and Khawla subtly guides them toward the residential building on the right side of the courtyard, presumably where Mukhtar Jawad resides.
The door to the building is locked, but Walid has a key, which is fortunate because it would be difficult for Shadi to pick the lock with the two Moulays they left in the courtyard boring holes into their backs. Inside, a long hallway stretches out, the length of it dim despite the combined effort of glittering sconces spaced along the wall and a large punched-brass lantern roped from the ceiling.
As they proceed toward a set of stairs at the end of the hall, the rooms they pass appear to be used for storing food, goods, and animals. They ascend to the second floor, dominated by a kitchen too large and too busy, even this late inthe evening, to have been designed for the dietary needs of one man, however holy he claims to be.
Continuing to the third floor, they embark down another hallway. The rooms here are painted ochre and white, with sections open to the terrace through a series of arches, revealing patches of starlight. They hold a mismatch of furnishings that could be arranged and rearranged to suit different purposes.
It is into one of these rooms that Khawla directs them.
The room contains several floor cushions, small shelves that hold books of scripture, and a chest of folded prayer rugs—and it is not empty. A mukhtar stands perfectly still in the corner, a viper in white robes and a red felt hat, poised to strike. Heart racing, Shay spins to escape, when Khawla places a staying hand on her shoulder.
Shadi struts up to the figure and angles the lantern inches from its face. That's when Shay understands what she's looking at. A statue. Mukhtar Jawad has had a life-size statue made of himself and placed it in a prayer room, of all places. Its marble eyes flip heavenward, a stone replica of the thick Book of Lineage clasped to its sculpted chest. The mockery is an insult to the Creator.
“They should be here.” Khawla peers around the indeed-empty room, distraught.
“Are you sure?” Shadi asks.
“Mukhtar Jawad does spend a lot of time in here with the door locked,” Walid offers. “I highly doubt he's performing extra prayers or reciting scriptures.”
