“There’s bound to be a fraying veil,” she said to her companion.
This was Kharuf now, I saw. They sold the wool to Qamih, and it didn’t come back as yarn or cloth. It came back as whole clothes: expensive, and good only for wearing. Spinning, I thought, showed its face in every corner of craft. I wondered where the candlemaker got his wicks and how carefully he guarded them.
“Can I help you, little one?” The candlemaker’s wife had finally noticed Arwa.
“I’ve never seen candles so fine!” Arwa said, her voice a delight to the ears. “You could light one in a castle and not feel it was out of place there, I think.”
The candlemaker’s wife smiled, an expression half remembrance and half longing.
“Aye, little one,” she said. “My father-in-law used to do just that. His candles were even finer than these ones, but there’s no call for such wares as that anymore.”
“You made candles for the castle?” Arwa asked.
“When first I was married nearly eight years ago, yes,” said the woman.
“Did you get to go inside the walls?” Arwa’s voice was breathless with childish excitement. “Did you see the gates? Did you get to wander the corridors looking for places that needed light?”
“No, little one,” said the woman. “We only went into the courtyard and met with the steward. But, ah, I tell you, even the courtyard was a marvelous place. It was so wide, and the stones were swept clean of any dirt that might get run in off the road. They cared about what the castle looked like in those days. The iron gate shone, and the guards around it stood straight up at attention the whole time.”
Iron and guards. That might be too much for us.
“And there was no lack of light, either,” she said. “Except for one tower, which I always thought was odd. The other three towers were always lit up, so you could find the castle in the night. But one of them never had so much as a spark.”
If it had a window that faced outwards, that could be our way in.
“Such a time you must have had!” said Arwa. She did not turn to look at me, but made a fist by her side to show she knew I had what I wanted.
“Aye, little one,” said the candlemaker’s wife. “Now run along, before my husband realizes you’re not going to buy anything.”
Arwa giggled and fled.
WE MET UP BACK WHERE Saoud had hidden our camp, just as the sun was setting. We pitched the tents before we did anything else, as that was difficult to do in the dark, and laid a fire to cook supper. At last, we were settled for the night, and while we waited for the lentils to cool, Arwa told Saoud what she had heard.
“The market is very poor,” she said. “Only the clothier has any money at all, and they all resent him for it. The clothes he sells are not particularly well-made, and often they must be pulled apart to fit the buyer, but the only way to get cloth is to walk to Qamih, so they must all buy from him.”
“It’s like they want us to starve,” Tariq said.
“The king and queen are just as hungry,” Arwa told him. “And nearly as poor.”
“Not the king and queen,” Tariq said. “Them.”
“I don’t understand,” said Arwa, but Tariq wouldn’t look at her, or talk any more.
It used to be straightforward, when we camped at the crossroads, but ever since we had come into Kharuf, and Tariq had all but coughed up a lung on the bank of the stream, I wasn’t sure who we were anymore or where we belonged. The way Tariq said them chilled my blood, though, and I did not like to think about it.
“How close are we to the castle?” Saoud asked.
“Half a day’s walk,” Arwa said. “We could be there by lunch tomorrow, which gives us plenty of time to scout for the tower.”
“What?” said Saoud, because Arwa had jumped ahead. She filled him in on what the candlemaker’s wife had told her, which reminded her of the fig. She peeled it for Tariq while she spoke, and passed it to him. He ate it in two bites and still said nothing to her.
“Yashaa, this is a terrible plan,” Saoud said when Arwa had finished talking.
“I know,” I told him. “Can you think of anything better? We can’t exactly enter the castle in disguise. We are clearly too young to be merchants, and they will recognize their own guards.”
“Climbing a tower, though,” Saoud said. “It’s like something out of an old story. Do you think you can do it?”
“I can do it!” said Arwa in her very best market voice. It didn’t fool us for a moment.
“No!” said Saoud and I together.
“No, Arwa.” This time Saoud’s voice was calmer, and he looked at her directly. “You are the best climber, it is true, but the climb is only half the work of this plan. What if the tower is full of guards? Or what if it is a prison? You can reach the top, we know it, but you may not be able to deal with what waits for you there. Yashaa will be an ugly climber, but he will be better prepared if he has to fight his way through the window.”