Chapter 1
“How much?” the fishing merchant spat, flecks of saliva landing on Aicha’s cheeks. She wiped it off, feigning nonchalance and concealing disgust. Customers were always so dramatic.
Wealthy merchants were not rare in the citadel, the port was one of the last held by the invaders under the banner of King Joseph I of Portugal. A sea of faces wearing the King’s insignia had been a presence long before Aicha had been born.
“You know the price. I will not repeat myself.” Aicha’s tone was flat, and she occupied herself with the cleaning of a Portuguese blade behind the counter.
Fouad, her father, was a skilled blacksmith, one that many of the imperial army were fond of employing.
Theirs was a family business that spanned two centuries.
His side business, however, had become more fruitful for the family: selling and trading weaponry to the highest bidder both inside and beyond the walls.
The Maghrebis of the city were prohibited from carrying weapons, and to be caught was a crime punishable by hanging.
It left a particularly large gap in the black market, which had made Fouad’s family infamously wealthy—a wealth that Fouad had not kept for himself, but instead used to fund the rebellion that simmered inside the citadel walls.
Talks of the Sultan reclaiming land in Maghrib had incited a thirst for war.
Fouad had always taught his daughters that the less attentive they looked, the more a customer was prone to desperation. Aicha noted from the corner of her eye that the merchant’s face now exuded distress. It revitalised her more than coffee ever would.
His nose and forehead were already tinged with sunburn.
Merchants who burned easily came from the north of the seas; enough money meant less time spent in the sun working.
His burnt skin fuelled her desire to set a higher price, which she knew he would relent to.
Aicha wouldn’t ever think twice about ripping off invaders.
“Bu-but everyone knows the citadel is on the verge of battle!” He placed both hands on her station, leaning forward. “To leave me vulnerable would be unbecoming of a Muslim.”
“I’m not Muslim,” she countered.
Aicha was lying, of course. As if she were stupid enough to admit her faith to a man whose king had eradicated their places of worship.
Had forbidden any and all practices of Islam throughout almost four centuries.
Any text containing their prayers was either burned or hidden away where none could find it.
It was an act of sedition, according to their ruler.
The man bristled, and Aicha fought a smirk.
She loved it when they bristled, indignant and insulted to be simply told no. Her own tiny act of rebellion.
“Do you know who I am, girl?”
Sweat had formed patches in the customer’s green tunic, the colour darkening around his neck and chest. It trickled down his bald head and across his face.
He had travelled for some time, having visited three previous blacksmiths, but her father’s was deep in the belly of their Maghrebi sector.
Their people populated the south, cramped up against the walls.
A messenger, barely the age of ten, had stopped in mere hours before to notify her of a settler haggling for cheaper prices.
It was laughable, because as anyone familiar with Fouad would know, the forge Aicha worked in was one of three all owned by her baba.
“I do not care.” Her dark eyes flickered towards him, watching his lip curl in anger as he stood there.
“Take the price or leave,” she finalised. “Badar will give you the exact same price in the south-west, maybe even higher if I tell him how bihkil you’ve been.”
The merchant blanched, spluttering over the accusation that he was stingy.
While he stood and seethed, deliberating on whether to surrender the fee, Aicha busied herself with a dagger, sharpening it. She hadn’t needed to, but she had learned—from Fouad—that it would make a difficult customer squirm. And that was extremely enjoyable.
The darkness of her father’s store was only mildly lit up by the sun streaming through one small window.
The stone building was kept without light as much as possible, for it to remain cool.
Their home was two floors, one of the original buildings before the Portuguese had erected walls around the port citadel.
Dark red in colour, the iron front door opened up into what would have been an opening sidari room anywhere else, but Fouad’s family had converted it into a showroom.
Swords and daggers lined the walls, hung there as if it were art to be only admired.
His best work remained behind the workstation that Aicha occupied, always manned by either her or her elder sister Samira.
The station extended from one end of the room to the other, and the door that led upstairs and to their private quarters lay behind it.
Her baba’s study was at the end of the hall.
When she had finished sharpening, Aicha sliced the dagger through the air in front of her. Samira disliked her theatrics. According to her, it was embarrassing and unnecessary.
But it snapped the merchant’s attention back to her, his expression shifting into one of resigned frustration.
Not so unnecessary, after all.
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ll send one of my page boys within the week. He’ll deliver my payment.”
Aicha’s fingers wove through the roots of her dark hair, pushing the curled strands out of her face in the humidity.
“Your order will be ready for collection by then.”
He blinked for a few moments, eyes alight with fury. “You mean to tell me I cannot take them now?”
She raised a brow, placing the dagger on the workstation, holding back from laughing in the merchant’s face.
“You believed you’d be able to take a trunk of weaponry—without payment—and that I would trust your word to bring it to me later?” She finally laughed, leaning against the wooden counter. “Enta hamak.”
The merchant’s pudgy fingers gripped her forearm tightly, pulling her forward and almost over the counter. He squeezed her arm; an attempt to inflict pain, but Aicha simply stared at him.
“You dare to mock me? And call me crazy! Women like you should show some respect, especially desert firans!”
She laughed again, louder this time, and dug the fingers of her free hand into a pressure point at the corner of his collarbone, where it met his left shoulder blade. He let go, yelling out in pain and protest, collapsing onto the counter.
“Oh, do not be so dramatic. This is not that painful.” She dug her two fingers in deeper to emphasise her point, ignoring his cries. “Also, desert rat? I have never even seen the dune seas.”
Aicha leaned down so that she was at eye level with the merchant, letting him see the large grin that spread across her lips, showing her teeth. His face scrunched up in pain, eyes glistening with fury. It spiked Aicha’s irritation.
Use the blade. Cut him open, watch his insides spill out.
Aicha blinked, shaking her head as a means to push the rogue thought away.
It was not her voice, nor her thoughts, yet had been there for what felt like decades. Aicha did what she always needed to do. Ignored it, no matter how tempting it felt.
She found the merchant’s eyes again. “The next time you believe you can walk into one of Fouad Sanhaji’s armouries and speak to his daughter like this you will turn and make your way back to the filthy invaders’ country that you came from, understand?”
Her baba would administer a slap to the back of her neck for being so brazen, but oh well. She’d deal with that later. The merchant nodded vigorously, and just as Aicha began to lessen her grip, she changed her mind. Tightening it once again, the merchant released another yell of surprise.
“Apologise.”
“Wha-what?”
“You know,” she drawled, leaning on her left elbow as she watched him squirm. “An apology? Something which is said when you’ve caused great offence. I believe the occasion calls for one.”
“All right, all right, I apologise!”
She let go, a smile dancing across her brown features as the merchant propelled himself backwards, towards her iron front door, rubbing his shoulder.
Fouad was fond of high security, since his secret source of income was both forbidden and expensive.
The door helped keep his secret, and both daughters were equipped to defend the shop, and themselves, when need be.
“So, will payment be made within the week?”
The glint in Aicha’s eye insinuated that this was not a question, rather a demand.
The merchant nodded.
“Within the week,” he said softly, turning to leave at a faster pace than he had entered.
He left the door open, allowing sunlight and a soft breeze to filter in. Apparently, he was suddenly overcome with bravery. Screamed insults greeted Aicha’s ears from beyond the door, and she laughed as she imagined his large feet stomping towards his cart.
She rolled her eyes, circling her father’s workstation and barrier to move towards the front door, the sounds of the neighbourhood children playing outside reaching her ears.
Gripping the metal handle, she hauled the heavy door back to seal it.
Aicha was halted by the slender, brown hand that landed on the door, a body wedging itself in the gap. Familiar dark-brown eyes met her own.
Samira huffed, dragging her gaze from her younger sister to briefly look behind her, at what Aicha assumed was the disgruntled merchant.
Samira’s brow raised in an accusatory manner.
Her hair was pulled away from her face, and no sweat marks lined her features—a trait that Aicha had always been envious of.
She tended to self-consciously smell her armpits before meeting Rachid.
“Are you not able to go a day without angering a customer?” Samira said, forcing herself through the door regardless of the fact Aicha had not made room to welcome her in.