Chapter 8
By midnight, the skies had opened and rain descended on the citadel.
Heavy, relentless and eliciting a sticky heat that Aicha despised.
It did benefit them, though, for the study she occupied with Rachid, Samira and the few members of their group that she had recruited now had something to drown out their voices.
“If it continues to rain, then we have the advantage of more cover,” Rachid remarked, sitting opposite Aicha. “If not, then we must proceed without light until reaching the cistern.”
Once Fouad had been briefed of their plan, Aicha had gone over it, twice, with each person involved.
Yet Rachid’s insistence on revising every minute detail took them well into the night.
Just before dawn, Aicha and Samira would approach and climb down into the cistern.
Rachid, Mounir and Said would be awaiting entry from the iron trapdoors across the yard, ready to pack and carry any supplies that they stole.
That was the short version, which hoped for few set-backs. “And Mounir will—”
“Keep watch should our spotters signal any oncoming patrols,” Mounir drawled, “and if so, shut the doors and lock you in. I will leave the rope hanging from the other entrance in order for you to escape, and will draw the patrols away before meeting back here.” He stifled a yawn as he leaned against the table that sat between their group and received a glare from Rachid for the interruption.
Aicha rubbed at her face, eyelids heavy and irritation sitting between her ribs as Rachid’s tone continued to grate on her.
He seemed dissatisfied, and the blank look Samira directed towards him as he poured over the citadel’s maps indicated that she felt the same.
Putting the glass cup of tea to her lips, Aicha drank slowly, the liquid hot on her tongue and burning her slightly.
Her mind strayed, thinking of the chores her baba had assigned her for the following morning.
Mundane tasks such as heating the steel in the smithy that he had collated the night before, sharpening the scythes that would be sold off or smuggled, and cleaning.
So much cleaning. All of which fell to her by default, because she was the youngest. It was a rite of passage, he claimed.
Aicha had called him a liar, and he had responded by assigning her floor-scrubbing for the rest of the evening.
“Aicha…” Rachid’s tone left little room for patience, and his nostrils flared in a way that usually amused her. “Are you paying attention?”
This time, it made her long to fracture his nose.
“Of course I am.”
“This is not a plan we have spent a moon cycle planning, so we must be alert and able to memorise every single detail of it to ensure success. It will not be easy.”
The irritation that had lingered in her chest flared, his words a match to the flame. “I am aware of the magnitude of this mission, it was my plan. Do you think I am a child that needs repeated instructions?”
Rachid pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing momentarily as he released a long breath. The action infuriated Aicha even more, noting the similarities to when her father reprimanded her. It insulted her.
It brought her right back to the last time they were alone, to the tentative way he suggested Samira go first into the cistern.
Because—if it came down to it—he didn’t think Aicha would be able to kill anyone.
She hated that it was true. She hated that, even without saying it, he had exhibited a lack of faith in her, and it had come from a place of tender care.
It made her feel… bitter, despondent. Because if her baba never had faith in her, or her sister, she thought she could at least rely on Rachid.
But he was right. They were all, always, right.
Aicha hated that most.
“Aicha—”
“This was my plan, which I have spent countless hours reworking. You come in and dissect it with the intention of making it your own—”
“Aicha—” His voice was low, palms spread and facing her in an attempt to calm her.
But his words, and the way he had said them, had struck a nerve. She barrelled on.
“Then scolding me as if I were a child! You would never talk to Samira or Mounir or Said this way, so do not do it to me.”
“Aicha!” His voice had not risen, evidently used to her outbursts and equipped enough to know that yelling back would only fuel her anger.
“I did not intend to undermine you. Fouad trusted me to help. We have spent months detailing the siege; this has been planned in a short period.” His voice was quiet enough for Aicha to be still and watch him carefully.
He fixed her gaze with his own. “I have to be sure that this plan leaves no room for errors. If you ended up hurt, Fouad would never forgive me.”
Silence hung between the group, awkward and spilling with tension.
Samira, Mounir and Said averted their gazes as Aicha listened to what Rachid hadn’t said.
What he could not say unless they were alone.
Her anger was doused out with guilt and shame.
Replaced with a small flicker of warmth as she realised his intent had been born from his own fears.
He needed to know that he had prepared for every possible outcome, for his own peace of mind, Aicha realised.
Not because he didn’t believe she was capable of leading or being successful.
Embarrassment flooded into her, because she had been so quick to jump to conclusions.
So quick to believe that the one person who had always believed her capable would doubt her.
Clearing her throat, she reclined in her seat, nodding to Rachid as she looked away with discomfort.
“Please, continue.” It was the only apology she could offer at that moment.
His eyes brightened by a fraction, enough that only she would recognise it for what it was: acceptance.