Chapter 4 #2
She was alert and ready, should she hear it again.
Fouad led their group of three a few paces ahead then leaned into the shadow of a building, concealed in darkness.
He gestured silently, his dagger glinting in the last tresses of moonlight.
The dirt beneath her boots was damp, moist with the rain that a storm had brought in early in the night.
Along with the first high tide, it meant the tunnels would be flooded.
Not a complete disaster to Aicha, but endlessly annoying.
She would have to swim, and she hated training with damp feet in her boots.
She watched as her father bent to dig his fingers into the dirt, pressing it between his fingertips.
Undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion as she had.
They would be sneaking out through the docks, a marginally more complicated route.
Because it depended on timing and how lazy the gate guard was.
Lazy ones tended to perch on a stool beside the open iron gates, unwilling to routinely leave their post to briefly patrol the row of ships docked there.
Otherwise, they were more vigilant, their timing as predictable as the rising sun each morning.
A lazy guard meant devising a plan to draw them away—one that could never be the same as the last lest it became obvious what was happening.
A vigilant and dedicated guard made it significantly easier to slip past the gates, between ships and into the water.
Because why would a guard need to be wary of a citizen jumping into the ocean?
They were looking out for smugglers docking or thieves departing with a boat.
Relief lightened her shoulders when they reached the gates: empty.
Maybe Allah favoured them more than others.
Aicha breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth.
Her body tensed in an effort to keep her footwork light, the sound of boots on wooden bastions—amid silence—would echo across the entire footway that led out to the ships.
She followed her father as he weaved between empty barrels and crates, shoulders hunched and crouched low to avoid being spotted.
Like an intrusive thought, Aicha saw the flicker of a dark shadow from the corner of her eye. Lurking by the merchant ships. The fear from her previous nightmare reawakened as that same, dark smoky shadow lingered for several seconds, before disappearing between blinks.
“Now,” her father breathed out, low. Startling her, and unfreezing her to urge her back into moving.
Worry etched itself deeply into her skin. It was becoming too frequent, she was sure that her sanity was unravelling.
Her baba remained rooted where he was, eyes darting around them. The sound of soft lapping beneath their feet was her indicator. He wouldn’t wait until reaching the larger ships. Aicha dropped down first over the edge, entering the water as softly as she could.
The water was freezing. Freezing! Not that Aicha expected any different. It pierced her skin and she kicked with vigour, desperate to warm up as quickly as she could, and not drown.
At night, when blackness cloaked the sea and sky, swimming by the citadel walls to reach the unmanned shores on the other side could lead to death.
Aicha always recalled her first time, when her father had stopped allowing her to cling to his back, and instead made her find her way on her own.
Her nimble fingers had slipped from the slightly eroded rocks on the wall, and her head had dipped below the water.
Panic had enveloped her with the same swiftness as the water, filling her nostrils until she was choking and yanked back up.
She had been temporarily unable to breathe through hacking coughs, salt burning the back of her throat and making her eyes sting.
It was brutal. Samira’s grip on her collar had been stiff and reassuring, and the frown that settled between her sister’s brows had barely been visible in the darkness.
Aicha was almost certain Samira had at least contemplated killing their baba for that.
Now, Aicha swam the path with the confidence and ease of someone who had done so for years.
There were nights when the waves were particularly unforgiving, throwing her body violently into the walls, but Fouad had taught her how to hold her breath, and to swim beneath the surface for as long as possible on those nights.
She stopped swimming when she began to feel the sand beneath her feet, pushing through the water at a slower pace. Reaching the shoreline, Aicha placed her hands on her knees, catching her breath.
“Not yet, shanewla.” Her father breathed out, and the way he patted her back and pushed her forward had her almost scowling.
When she looked back at him, mirth simmered in the glint of his eye. “We’re still too close to the walls.”
She looked beyond his shoulders, and he was right. If they lit a fire this close, they’d risk being spotted by the guards on the walls. They might not have enough men any more to send a scouting party to investigate, but it would make sneaking back in a fraction more bothersome.
Wordlessly, she turned away, pushing herself forward and ignoring the discomforting squelching sounds of her feet inside her boots.
Her baba started humming softly, an old rhyme he used to sing to both Aicha and Samira when they were children.
It softened her shoulders, easing into comfort as his voice weaved between the overlapping waves.
Fouad led them to a small cove further up the shoreline, the rocks high enough to shield everything inside from the walls of the citadel behind them.
Pockets of caves and tunnels littered the cove, and Fouad led both daughters through the darkness of one while Aicha reached out to grip the back of his tunic.
Even at twenty, she still sought out the comfort of his presence.
The darkness surrounding them was as unwelcome as Duarte’s presence.
It brought back the uneasiness she had felt in her dreams, and the reminder of her baba walking in front of her helped stave off the feeling of foreboding.
When they emerged on the other side, she noticed that the stiffness in her baba’s shoulders had eased, as if travelling through the tunnel had caused a shift in his being, and she could understand why.
The surrounding rocks of the cove felt like a layer of protection from what was beyond.
A sanctuary granted to them personally. Safe, private and—most importantly—untainted by the touch of their invaders.
As Aicha and Samira peeled off their wet cloaks, Fouad lit the torch lanterns, sticking the rear end into the sands to illuminate a circular fighting ground.
With a scowl—and by virtue of being the youngest—Aicha set out towards the large, clustered rock pools to retrieve the swords and scythes, wrapped in large leather satchels, that lay between them in the sand.
A discreet hiding place, ready for those who wished to train.
She held a fire torch in one hand, boots sinking into the damp sand as the wind blew softly at her hair.
With her cloak and scarf now shed, she momentarily closed her eyes, feeling the salty air kiss her skin, as if welcoming her home.
When Aicha returned, a hefty load of swords wrapped together and balanced between her chest and free arm, she dropped it at Fouad’s feet.
“It’s incredibly selfish of you to not remarry and have another child,” Aicha said, placing the torch into the sand, and cocking a hip as she folded her arms. “Am I supposed to do all the worst chores as the youngest until death?”
“As always, your dramatics are disproportionate,” Fouad deadpanned as he reached down to begin sharpening a sword with his whetstone.
“It is not my fault I was born second.”
“But it is your fault that you behave ten years younger than your age,” Samira interjected, moving into the circle to begin practising strokes of her sword. Metal sliced audibly through the air, fast and expert in its movement.
“Samira, it is too early in the morning for an assassination of my character.”
Her sister rolled her eyes, turning away from her to continue her warm-up.
“Defeat me in a duel,” Fouad challenged, rising to his full height, “and I will free you from your chores for the rest of the day.”
“For the next two days,” Aicha countered, unsurprised when he shook his head in amusement and conceded.
It was here that the sisters had learned the art of battle.
The first time Fouad had placed a sword in Aicha’s hand had been when she reached her fifth nameday.
It had been made of wood, an exciting present for a child who had witnessed her father use a real one.
Much like her sister, she had been eager to swing one around.
Fighting imaginary foes; men who believed the land was their own, or at least free for the taking.
Mirroring Samira’s strikes, she adjusted her footing on the sand before she and Samira began sparring. No real power was behind either attack, their movement was practised, readjusting formations as they did so.
“Good,” Samira commended, her eyes focused on Aicha’s wrist and where her sword moved. “Don’t lock your elbow.”
Aicha did as she was told; their training had edged out of competition and into companionable in their later years.
She began to feel encouraged by Samira, and no longer felt criticised for what she lacked.
Instead, Aicha saw it for what it had always truly been: advice, and a desire for the elder to see her baby sister prosper.
Sometimes, though, resentment visited her thoughts.
Because the truth was—to Aicha’s frustrations—she would never be as ruthless in combat as her sister. It was to Aicha’s detriment.