Shay blinks a few times, confused, then flattered, then teetering, like she could fall right into that look of devotion she thinks she sees in his eyes. But the Morchidat's admonition about their “relationship” comes back to her like a cold splash of water. It's bad enough that she's already involving Khawla in her affairs; she can't entangle Shadi in them, too. “I'm sure you have more important things to do, like, you know, rebellion things.”
“But this mission aligns with the Sisterhood's objectives,” Khawla posits. “After all, if Hind was able to acquire one of the hjabats, it stands to reason that she may know where the other three are. If we can narrow them down to even a general location, I can use my affinity to home in on them.”
“What she said.” Shadi crosses his arms.
“More importantly, we're your friends now. Like it or not.” Khawla grabs her hand. She stares at Shay, her brown eyes rich with light, the kind that can either make someone feel warm and cozy inside or set their soul on fire.
They emerge to find the cobblestoned streets glistening wetly, a coolness in the air that smells fresh. Everything looks softer in a way that makes Shay realize she really has missed her medina of blue-painted walls and steep, winding alleys. But does she love it enough to join the fight for its future? A fight that extends to the whole of Mekchaouen? She's not entirely convinced such a fight can be won, but she's starting to think that isn't a good enough reason not to try.
The kasbah lies at the heart of Nezjar, a short walk from the medina's square, and is fortified by high adobe walls topped with barbed crenellations. About a block out, Khawla hands Shadi a pair of field glasses from her hip bag, and he climbs to the highest branch of a twilight oak. The device is impressive. Such specialized equipment isn't easy to come by.
After shimmying back to the ground, he gives them the rundown of his observations. “Two Moulays pass the front gate every thirty beakers. Thecomplex consists of four residential buildings, likely one for each mukhtar and the fourth used for staff, arranged around a central courtyard. There was also a slightly smaller building, not far from the back gate. Not sure what that one is for.”
“The touched ones could be anywhere.” Khawla nibbles her thumbnail, the stairwell they're hunkered behind swathing her face in shadow. “If we can get inside the central courtyard, I can use my affinity to create a mental map of the complex. Once I do that, I'll be able to sense irregularities, like the heat of human bodies, or the shimmer of Shawafa, in the vicinity and pinpoint their location. If there really is a whole entourage of touched ones in there, their combined Shawafa should be easy to pick up on.”
“Really?” Shay asks, immediately thinking Khawla must have sensed where the monsters were in Ard Al-Ghul and thus avoided them. Khawla has downplayed her capabilities, much like she once kept her drawings tucked away. And Shay doesn't think it's because she's self-conscious or anything like that; it's more like she has little interest in showing off. “You're amazing, you know that?”
“Thanks,” Khawla says modestly. “But it requires us getting past the locked gate and armed guards first.”
“Luckily, I have a plan,” Shadi says. The afternoon lapsed while they waited in the prayer room for the rain to clear, snacking on the meat and biscuits Khawla had packed. Now his brown eyes shimmer with the pomegranate shades of dusk. He gingerly removes a bundle wrapped in clover bean leaves from a pouch tied around his waist. “Any guesses what this is?”
“Cookies?” Khawla raises a jaunty eyebrow. “Are we to bribe the soldiers?”
Shadi unfolds the leaves, revealing a tater sponge. Shay sucks in a breath. The trick worked when she tried it on a touched one who'd just given birth, but would it be effective on two healthy young men armed with deadly weapons? The same weapons that took Ghita's life?
Khawla's lips upturn, her smile growing wider as Shadi reveals his plan, a probable sign that her stomach, unlike Shay's, is not currently gnawing itself over the plethora of ways this could go wrong. Shay breathes like it's her newoccupation, pushing air in and out to expel her nerves. She must either accept the risks, to herself, to the friends she has not had nearly enough time to enjoy the pleasure of knowing, or she can walk away and leave Hind's fate in the hands of Mukhtar Jawad.
She's not doing that. Not after that bastard turned his soldiers on Ghita and let them kill her.
The trio creeps up to the main gate, its solid wood doors carved with ornate and intricate designs, so beautiful that people often walk out of their way just to look upon them. Here, they wait quietly for the Moulays making their rounds to march by. After the metronome of their heavy boots first approaches and then passes the gate and continues on around the perimeter, Shadi employs a couple of special pins and a turning tool to pick the lock. The efficiency of his work, the speed with which the mechanism yields a satisfyingclick, speaks either to an issue of faulty hardware or of Shadi's hidden expertise in the art of burglary.
Thirty beakers later, the guards return. When the bobbing shaft of light from their lantern peeks over the edge of the high walls, Khawla hefts the tater sponge to the other side, where it hits the ground with, hopefully, enough force to burst on impact. The guards march forward, unaware they could be headed into an unseen curtain of poisonous fumes.
Two quick thuds. The lantern light swerves and stills, shining up from a crooked angle. Shadi slowly pushes the door open. Covering their mouths and noses with the leaves, they slip inside.
Khawla and Shay help Shadi drag the limp bodies behind a band of thick hedges to conceal them. Shay averts her eyes while he undresses one of the unconscious Moulays and switches the guard's clothing with his own. With a snarl of fabric, Khawla rips one shoulder of her tunic. She bends and digs her fingers into the earth, looking half-feral in the rising moonlight, and rubs soil in a cool, musty smear across Shay's cheek.
“Ready?” she asks.
Shay nods. After all, it's too late to do much else. She must hide what doubts fester inside her well enough, because Khawla nods back in satisfaction.
Khawla takes up the guards’ lantern while Shadi holds a confiscated musket at their backs. He pretends to be marching the girls, who pretend to be his prisoners in an attempt to make it look like Khawla isn't the one they're following. She guides them toward the courtyard at the center of the complex.
Shay's heart pounds. With each pair of Moulays they pass, her fear surges. No one gives them a second look until they come to a garden with an extravagant fountain, one that could rightly be called a pond, burbling at its core. What appear to be lava rocks glow from the bottom and create a blue shimmer that reflects off the surrounding walls and tiles.
A Moulay, who seems to be taking a break from his duties, sits at the edge of the fountain with his back to them. He looks incredibly young, a boy who should be kicking balls with friends or catching salamanders in the creek. Khawla leads them past, quickening their pace to avoid his notice. As they're about to cut right around a screen of assorted shrubs, the boy calls out to them.
Shay isn't sure what he says because he says it in Waheeli, the language of the Hazmaggi tribe. Shadi must understand the words, though, because they bring him to a sudden stop. He doesn't turn around at first, not until the boy calls out again, this time a name: “Yassine?”
Shadi turns. The musket he's holding clatters to the tiles below. “Walid?”
The boy and Shadi stare at each other, both their faces sliding from shock to a much deeper emotion. Then, to Shay's confusion, the boy leaps up and runs toward Shadi at the same time Shadi runs toward him. They meet, or more accurately crash into each other, and cling in a tight embrace.
Shay doesn't know who Yassine is, but it's clear the two know each other in some meaningful way. If she had to guess, she'd say they're family. The boy wriggles from Shadi's arms and looks around furtively. When he speaks again, it is in Mekanch. “What are you doing here?”
Shadi lays his hands on the boy's shoulders and drops his voice to a hush. “We need to find someone in the entourage, someone who may be key to the Sisterhood's success. Can you help us?”
“The entourage is kept in a secret chamber of Mukhtar Jawad's residence,” the boy says, speaking quickly. The look of concern on his face edges towardterror with each passing moment. “But you should leave while you can. The chamber is inaccessible to all but the mukhtars and the Snow Queen.”
