Chapter 7
Aicha was vexed.
The maps of the cistern were partially accurate, at best. Pieced together like uneven parts of a puzzle in the hopes that they would make some sense when one looked at them.
The cistern went deeper than Aicha had anticipated—since it was formerly a barracks—and forbidden to all but the Portuguese.
So she could only estimate its size within.
The sketches showed various hallways, storerooms and only one actual door that led outside, and the gaping hole in the ceiling that allowed sunlight and rain to stream in.
It had been built almost two hundred years ago—the two centuries before that had been dedicated to erecting the citadel walls, and to the dispossession of Maghrebi homes. According to her father.
Its creation predated even her juddi, but Aicha remembered that once the armies had grown large enough to build a more extensive, ground-level barracks, the cistern had effectively become defunct.
Until they realised it was useful for the collection of water, and storage.
From the little Naima had given her, Aicha knew there was a reduced roster of night guards. Four, to be exact.
“How long have you been staring at those maps?”
The softness in Rachid’s voice gently disrupted the silence in his living quarters.
On afternoons she wished to be left alone, there was solace in the stah that belonged to him.
By day, Rachid tended to be either out on various errands that were “top secret”—though she assumed during those times he was off extorting information from soldiers in exchange for gold—or on smuggling trips with her sister.
Considering her baba’s ban on needless attention, she assumed talking to a guard was far more conspicuous than smuggling out of the citadel.
The rooftop had been bare of his presence when she arrived shortly after dhurh prayer, stomach protesting at the fact she had only had a small piece of stale harsha for lunch.
From her position on the floor, bent over the low coffee table, she could see Rachid’s feet from the corner of her eye. He hadn’t been quiet when ascending the steps, though he could have been if he’d truly wanted to.
“I’m trying to devise a plan strong enough in both group formation and a guaranteed low fatality that Baba will have no choice but to let me lead it…” she paused,—“or at least go with you.”
Rachid crouched down to rest one knee on the ground, draping a forearm over the other, and Aicha counted two deep breaths until she felt his palm wrap around the back of her neck.
Squeezing in a way that she had always found soothing, the pads of his fingers pressed into her skin, massaging the stiffness out of her.
If Aicha were a cat, she was certain she would purr at the sensation.
In fact, the only reason she hadn’t purred right that second was because she was fighting to remain focused on the map before her.
“Show me what you have,” he said, voice low and lips ghosting across the shell of her ear.
A shiver racked her spine, and she pushed away the urge to turn her head and plant her lips on his.
She flicked through the loose parchments until she found the poorly drawn sketches, littered with small notes and arrows indicating which direction she would like each team to go in.
“I was debating whether Zubair’s twins could spot?” She hated how uncertain she sounded.
Her confidence ceased to exist when she actually had to present her ideas to people she respected, people who had done this their whole life. Aicha’s certainty in herself waned because—despite his affectionate intentions—Fouad had eviscerated any belief that she might just be able to succeed.
“They’ve never been out this late, but Zayn has been eager for more responsibility,” Rachid said softly, and she saw him nod in encouragement out of the corner of her eye.
Zayn was the eldest by mere minutes, according to Zubair.
He wasn’t as ambitious as his sister, Muna, but he was louder.
So, to Aicha, it was no surprise that he had demanded more serious responsibility from Rachid.
He was the type of twelve-year-old that loudly stated children’s games were no longer of interest, with a stupidly wide smile that was simultaneously endearing and obnoxious.
Aicha adored him, because he reminded her so much of herself.
Muna, on the other hand, constantly reminded her of Samira: studious, calculating and almost regal in how well she controlled her emotions.
“I will speak to Zubair this evening, then,” Aicha suggested, and when Rachid didn’t protest, she took it as a sign of approval.
“I don’t think having a large team will be beneficial, but without knowing just how much gunpowder and food supplies are down there, it’s impossible to correctly assign members to the job.” Aicha let out a huff of frustration as she spoke, burying her face in her hands. She was so tired.
Her stiff spine was coaxed into relaxing, as Rachid’s hand moved to the curve between her neck and shoulder.
“I tried gathering some information about what was down there today, but every informant has been very quiet. They’re all on edge.”
“Coins are no longer a good enough incentive?” Aicha joked, and Rachid shook his head.
“I believe a ship home within the hour is the only payment they’re looking for,” he said, and it was followed by a snort of amusement.
“They spent so long forcing us out of our homes, and making it their own, only to immediately want to flee the moment their comfort is in peril.”
Aicha did not feel sorry for any of them. In her eyes, the fear and uncertainty of their futures was merely a fraction of what they subjected her to for her entire life, and her ancestors before her. Perhaps a little fear was what they needed.
Rachid spoke no further as Aicha detailed her initial list of members she thought would be best. Two groups, with one consisting of Said, Mounir and Rachid, who would ideally hang back, keep watch on the immediate vicinity of patrols, and stay within listening distance of Zayn and Muna should they spot oncoming soldiers.
They would be ready for the extraction of supplies, while Samira and herself snuck into the cistern.
Soldiers on watch inside locked the only entrance doors from within, so that none could enter until morning.
Samira had initially suggested they climb in through the cistern hole, because who was stupid enough to jump down a big, dark hole in the middle of the night?
It would decrease their chances of getting caught.
“Naima was told four soldiers are on watch inside. Two at the door, and another two patrolling inside.”
“What if one of them happens to be closer to the cistern?” Rachid enquired.
“The soldier she spoke to is supposed to be on watch inside, it’s his only responsibility now. He told her it’s a tedious watch and that they tend to sleep instead. Inshallah we are fortunate that he’s true to his word.”
Her words barely soothed her own thoughts, so she couldn’t imagine he felt any more settled. Rachid hummed in thought, scratching at his chin.
“Perhaps a diversion? Something to drive them away?” Aicha suggested, though it sounded flimsy to her.
“Or we kill them,” Rachid said, and his brevity took Aicha by surprise.
She knew he was no stranger to murder, nor was it something he took lightly.
Yet, at that moment, he had suggested it as a simple solution.
Easy and quick, which she supposed it was.
Aicha wondered if she would ever become that way, detached and pragmatic about the necessity of killing.
In theory, it sounded simple. Was it troubling if she were to say that she hoped so?
Perhaps. But nothing about her life had ever been normal.
“It’ll have to be done quickly, and quietly.”
Rachid nodded. “Perhaps it’s best if Samira goes first, and you follow shortly after.”
He said it gently, and despite him not actually saying so, Aicha knew he suggested it because Samira wouldn’t hesitate.
She could kill easily, had done so enough times that something like this would be as simple as dressing in the morning.
Aicha didn’t want to admit it, but it was true.
She couldn’t promise that she would act quickly.
That she could stick a blade in a soldier’s chest and not be afraid of what their eyes would look like in the moment.
That despite how much she loathed them, fantasised about slitting their throats, a fear churned in her gut at what it would be like to witness life leave their eyes.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said quietly, and she felt his callused thumb caress the back of her neck softly.
A comfort she leaned into, unwilling to acknowledge the kernel of sadness alighting inside her at the thought that even Rachid held little faith in her.
The smithy was dark, illuminated only by the fire in the forge, the burning flames causing a suffocating heat that could dry out Aicha’s tongue almost immediately after entering. Fouad stood by it, soot from the coal staining his face and neck as he watched it melt iron.
“Baba.” Aicha’s voice roused Fouad from his task, and he looked up at her. “I want to lead the cistern theft.”
A scoff escaped Fouad, one not meant to be an insult but that still came across to Aicha as such.