For the Mamluk Throne - COMING SOON

Prologue

Delhi, A.D. 1205

The narrow back alleys of Delhi were still littered with the debris of the revelry that had begun late last night. The celebrations would last the week and even now, at this late hour, the beat o drums and the cries of excited amusement floated down to this dark, forgotten corner.

There was, after all, good reason to celebrate. A daughter had been born to the Sultan! The entire palace was in a festive mood, with lamps shining from every crevice and the kitchens ordered to produce delicacies from all over the Empire. And what choice did the nobles have but to follow the whims of their ruler? The streets were festooned with banners and flowers and the people danced on the streets to welcome the daughter of their Sultan into the world.

But this street was a world away from the luxuries of the palace. The bare brick walls were stained with spit and urine. Rats ran on top of the rubbish heaps, searching for morsels to eat. A drunk staggered down the alley before collapsing in a doorway. Nobody really cared about the people who lived here. They were the poorest of the poor, the sweepers, the cleaners of the vast city. The untouchables. Even their shadows were considered impure by the rest of society.

No one noticed the dark figure as it slipped into the alley. It kept to the shadows as shaitans do, clinging to the darkness that is their breeding place. The figure was human, and not a spirit, although it was difficult to say whether it was a man or a woman. It was wrapped in dark clothes with a blanket drawn over its head. It stepped gingerly over the drunk in the doorway and began to ascend the narrow stairs to the rooms above.

The room was small, barely big enough to stand up in. The walls were stained and cracked and the floor was covered centuries of grime. A stack of rotten cane baskets stood in a corner, next to a bedroll and a pile of unwashed clothes and a small clay stove. A tiny window let in the noise and smell of the surrounding city. A single small lamp burned in the middle of the room, throwing most of it into darkness. A rat scurried across the floor and out of the window.

She was sitting in facing the door when he entered, her milky blind eyes staring at right through the doorway. Dressed in the white garb of a widow, she was a tiny wizened creature who had seen too many summers to count. She was hunched over and used a stick taller than she for support. Her fingers were bent out of shape and the wrinkles of her skin barely hid the scars of disease on her face. The last few wisps of silver hair on her head fell into her face and rose up and down as her puckered lips formed the words.

“I knew you would come, young one,” cackled the ancient crone. “I knew when I heard the drums. The stars told me so.”

The eunuch stared at her in disgust from where he stood on the threshold. He pulled away the strip of cloth covering from his turban that shrouded the lower half of his face and crinkled his nose at the smell of rot that permeated the entire room. “We both knew, you crone. So just tell me what the stars say for the future of the princess.”

“The Sultana sends you, does she not? She is worried for the future of her daughter, yes?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I wonder why she is asking me. I would have thought that she would have given up such superstitions when she married him. Her life is a luxury, far beyond my imaginations. And she remembers me only when she is in dire need. Otherwise, not a single thought is spared for a lonely old lady who…”

The eunuch growled in exasperation. “Enough talk, witch! Just tell me what the stars say!”

“Tsk. Patience, little one. It is a good skill to have, the skill of waiting…”

She was cut off by the sound of a money pouch landing at her feet. “Half now,” said the eunuch. “Half if what you tell me is worth repeating to the Queen.”

The crone bent slowly to pick up the pouch. She tugged the strings apart and the gold coins spilled into her hands. She lifted one coin to her nose and sniffed at it.

“This is gold. Pure gold.”

“Of course it is. What did you expect, witch? We at the palace can afford to pay you in full.”

She cackled. “Never think of yourself as one of them, eunuch. You are not. You never will be To them, you are worth less than the dust beneath their feet. Remember that and remember it well. One, two, three…”

“There are fifty pieces. You don’t have to count them.”

She looked at him with what seemed like pity and amusement. He was new to this game and he knew that she knew it. She could probably smell his fear and nervousness. The eunuch was glad of the charm that he wore enclosed in a silver cylinder on a black cord around his upper arm. It would protect him from her evil spells. 

“Of course I do, child. Now, I’ve lost my count and have to start again. One two, three…”

The eunuch sighed. He wanted desperately to return to the cool, perfumed halls of the zenana far away from the stench of gutters. He didn’t understand the game the crone was playing but she was enjoying herself and that was never a good sign. The eunuch took a few deep breaths and settled down to wait.

After an age, the crone finally finished counting out all fifty coins. He had never seen anyone take so long to count out money. She rose slowly to her feet and hobbled slowly to a corner of the room. From a tattered cane basket kept there, she drew a sheet of brass, the surface of which was etched with a grid and symbols in an ancient language lost to the mists of time.

She hobbled back to her old seat and laid the sheet of metal on the floor. Waving her hands over it, she began to chant, slowly at first and then rising to a crescendo. The eunuch was convinced that the words she said were gibberish and the hand motions and gestures meant nothing. He held his peace. There was no point in telling her to hurry up, she would insist on starting again.

Suddenly, her milky eyes rolled back into her head and her head tilted upwards in an unnatural way. Her limbs began to convulse as she rasped, “A path of destruction lies before her, the joy and pride of her father, for all men will bow before her grace, the one who does not hide her face, for on the throne she shall sit, she Heaven’s gracious gift.”

The crone slumped forward and lay unmoving on the floor. Was she dead? The eunuch did not know. The sudden moment of prophecy had scared him. He threw the other bag of coins in her direction and fled into the dark streets, pausing only to cover his face.

 The rats waited for his footsteps to fade before scrambling onto the body of the soothsayer.