Chapter 9
The idea of climbing down into the cistern had seemed less terrifying in Aicha’s imagination. She hadn’t recalled ever being scared the first time Baba had taken her out of the citadel in the dead of night, training herself to tread lightly and hide within shadows.
The darkness below was almost pitch black, and her cloak had been soaked by the torrential rain.
The moon was hidden behind the darkened clouds.
It made it difficult to see through the storm, or hear anyone’s footsteps.
So slipping inside and descending with a rope had felt easy, almost too easy.
Rachid’s prayers that the rain would keep them hidden throughout the night had been successful.
Yet, despite that, panic had wrapped its hand around Aicha’s throat as she was lowered down.
Her damp clothes, and the chill it induced, souring her mood.
“Rachid, do not dare!” she hissed.
“Just release the rope!” he countered, as hushed as he could be in the face of Aicha’s reluctance to let go.
Feeling him shake at the rope, she looked back up at him.
The shape of his head was only just visible, a silhouette against the small flicker of lightning between the dark clouds above.
Heights did not scare her, but the ground beneath was dark and obscured her ability to see how close she was, despite Rachid’s insistence that it was not far beneath.
Or the fact Samira had gone down first, and appeared fine.
With a final shake, Aicha lost her grip and fell to the ground, back colliding with the stone.
The impact wasn’t as painful as she had feared it would be, but enough for her to remain irritated that she had been forced to let go.
Holding her tongue, she lay there for several moments, letting Rachid simmer in marginal concern until Samira’s head popped into her view.
Her brow rose, before she smirked and reached out her hand to Aicha.
As she helped her up, Aicha heard the breath of amusement escape her nostrils. She pulled at the oil torch strapped to her belt and lit it. The fire slowly came to life, spreading across the damp oil cloth as Aicha held it out, gradually illuminating the room.
Barely ten paces from her, Aicha could make out the limp bodies of two soldiers.
One on top of the other, white uniform stained with blood.
Samira had got to them faster than Aicha had anticipated.
Rachid had been right to advise that Samira go down before Aicha; she would never have been able to act as quickly as Samira.
The floor was damp, small puddles of rain engulfing the old stone bricks beneath her feet. Pointing the torch up and towards the rest of the group, she waved it, indicating that she and Samira were fine.
Aicha moved further into the room, and deeper into the corners, raising the torch to take in the sculpted arches in awe.
She had never been inside the cistern—nor had any other Maghrebi who lived in the citadel; it had been built by their invaders.
She noticed, with a deep resentment, that the stone they had cut had been moulded into a beautiful sight, each arch curving into another pillar, the ceilings dividing into squares.
She imagined that with sunlight streaming through the central opening, it was beautiful. Bastards.
Moving onto the crates and barrels that were stacked along the walls, she marked how many there were in her head.
Significantly fewer than Naima had told her, but Aicha surmised that her number was from days ago.
Quickly, Aicha handed the torch to her sister, then she began to pull off the lid of a few crates, confirming what they had been hoping for.
Gunpowder in the barrels. Lots of it. Too much for the soldiers to need, considering so many had begun to leave their shores. Hoarding this much felt… off.
These were the supplies of an army readying for war, and it reminded Aicha of what her father had been saying. Of how Duarte would never surrender nor flee in defeat.
These were the supplies of an army ready to burn the city to the ground.
Something curdled in her stomach, eliciting nausea. It made Aicha’s head swim. Nervousness clutched her throat, tightening until she forced it away with a hard swallow. She didn’t want to think of the damage that could be inflicted on her home with this much gunpowder. She couldn’t.
“What is it?” Samira said from behind her, not edging too close while holding the torch.
“Gunpowder,” she said tightly, placing the lid back on and stepping away from it. “Lots of gunpowder.”
Pulling out her dagger, she stabbed at the sealed wood nailed into one of the crates, the sound of splintering wood grated on her ears, making the hair on her skin stand to attention.
Eventually, the wood gave way, and Aicha tried not to cringe over how loud the noise had been.
When she pushed up to her tiptoes, peeking over the rim of the crate to find the contents inside, she smiled.
Widely enough that when she looked back to her sister, Samira chuckled softly.
“Enough to feed the neighbourhood?” she asked.
“More than enough,” Aicha said.
It would help keep the hunger at bay a little longer.
Taking it all would infuriate Duarte, and Aicha considered that a victory in itself.
Samira handed back Aicha’s torch, pulling out her own from her belt and sparking another fire.
When Aicha pulled it away, she thought of how the orange flames reflected in her sister’s eyes.
The shade of brown was dark, but in the light of the flame it created a ring around her pupil so light it could have been mistaken for melted gold, as if she held the sun there.
“The trapdoors are up through that passage,” Aicha said, voice low as her torch pointed behind her, despite her only seeing darkness. “I’ll let the others in.”
Samira nodded. “Try to unlock it silently.”
“Obviously.” Aicha almost scoffed. Instead, she made sure her steps were heavy footed, splashing into the puddles as she passed Samira.
She left her to circle the room, turning into a passageway, down the darkly lit hall, up the short steps and towards the locked trapdoors that Rachid and his men stood by, where they waited to begin to transport the supplies.
They had to move quickly, Samira had insisted, so that they would be far enough from the town square to not raise suspicion when the fire they would start began to blaze.
Rachid’s shoulders were hunched as he crouched by the doors, Said and Mounir not far behind him as Aicha used a pickaxe to hack at the loose lock, until it broke and fell away, and she pushed the doors open.
Rachid’s eyes quickly scanned over Aicha’s body, as if confirming she was all right, before turning back to Mounir and Said. “Bring the bodies in.”
Both men shuffled in after Rachid, each one holding the limp body of a guard by the armpits as they hauled them through the doors.
Their boots dragged across the wet floor, and they deposited them in the entrance.
Said followed Aicha through the darkened passageway—Mounir and Rachid would keep watch, and await the others’ return with supplies.
The same apprehension that tied itself into knots in Aicha’s stomach earlier had returned, as if her body were several steps ahead of her in knowing how the night would unfold.
“Drop your sword!”
Aicha froze at the malevolent voice that rang out. Unfamiliar, menacing and with a tinge of panic. It jarred her ears the same way a screeching blade against another did. Abruptly, her palm pressed into Said’s chest. Halting him.
It came from within the cistern, and it could only have belonged to a guard.
Dread sparked beneath her ribs. Samira was on her own.
Passing the torch to Said, she motioned for him to remain where they stood before she withdrew the dagger that rested in the hilt of her thigh belt, and disappeared into the darkness.
Sticking close to the walls and using the darkened corners as a cloak, Aicha’s gaze focused on the small spark of light that burned from Samira’s torch.
Now discarded on the floor, its flames no longer as bright as they had once been.
Aicha watched as her sister stood still.
Her sword was at her feet, and her hands at her sides.
“Breaking into the cistern is incredibly bold.” The guard laughed. “I am almost impressed. That audacity could only ever come from a Sanhaji.”
Aicha couldn’t see the face of the soldier that spoke, but she heard the glee that emanated from his voice.
His uniform appeared dishevelled, and the lingering sparks of flames only just managed to highlight his dark hair.
With sleeves rolled up, and no uniformed overcoat in sight, Aicha guessed he had been sleeping.
Naima had said there would be four guards. He made it five.
She should have accounted for that. She should have done one larger sweep with her sister before letting in Rachid and the others.
She’d relied too much on the intel that Duarte was running on too few men these days.
That they couldn’t spare any more guards to be on watch, when they were already stretched so thin. A fool’s error.
His sword stretched out before him, the tip resting against Samira’s chest, where her heart lay. “What would you rather, the gallows or beheading?”
A feral anger ignited in the pit of Aicha’s stomach; it leapt and clawed for her attention, demanding she do something. Anything.
Gut him.
Her heart stuttered at the intrusion in her head.
Grab him by the throat, and slit it open.
It was the first time its words had been truly tempting.
Stamping down the panic that had previously made itself comfortable, and utilising her training, she treaded as softly as she could, mindful of the haphazard puddles that her boots had previously splashed into.
Cut him open and spill out his insides!