Princess of Dhagabad, The by Anna Kashina

Hasan.”
    This is it! Her innocent daughter, brought up
in decency, is saying such words to a man! Let her be damned
forever—the heedless old sultaness! How could she have done such
harm to an innocent child?
    Hasan’s answer, however, somewhat eases her
fears, or, rather, offers her an excuse to calm herself a
little.
    “It is only an illusion, princess. I am not a
man. I am a spirit.”

    Chamar Ali. Chamar the Blessed.
    Blessed with everything a man could wish for,
except that, which is most important for any man. A son and
heir.
    Striding along the gallery of the north wing
toward the elegant white building of the harem connected to the
palace, the sultan is listening to his grand vizier, hurriedly
following one step behind.
    “Surely, your majesty knows that this
creature, the djinn, is all-powerful.”
    “Yes, Shamil, I heard,” the sultan replies,
sliding his gaze over a bald spot on the top of the grand vizier’s
head, that glistens with sweat in the bright afternoon sun. Shamil,
a man in his later years, can never understand the impatience of
someone who was forced by the palace festivities to spend almost a
week away from his women. Chamar’s body aches for a gentle woman’s
touch, a longing enhanced so much by his desire to have any one of
his concubines bear him a son. He needs to beget a son who will
live. He cannot possibly waste his time talking to his vizier.
    Shamil, however, is not about to give up.
    “If I may be so bold, your majesty, I believe
that your majesty should feel worried about having this creature
loose in the palace. Perhaps your majesty should call the princess
to order and have her contain this…thing in the bottle where he
belongs.”
    “I don’t think you should worry so much,
Shamil,” Chamar says, shielding his eyes from the sun to look
directly at Shamil. Sensing the sultan’s impatience, the older man
becomes even more nervous. His whole face is now glistening with
tiny beads of sweat, standing in the wrinkles on his forehead and
sparkling in his bushy gray beard.
    Realizing how nervous his vizier is, the
sultan softens to the point of slowing down.
    “The djinn cannot do anything the princess
doesn’t order him to do,” he says, summoning to his aid whatever is
left of his patience. “Because of that he is as harmless as a
child.”
    “But, your majesty!” Shamil, encouraged by
what he mistakes for the sultan’s sudden attention to his words,
rushes into a new attack. “This creature, as I heard, is an ancient
wizard. I also was informed that the princess spends a great deal
of time with him. He can put ideas into her head which will
threaten your rule in unimaginable ways.”
    Chamar sighs, measuring with his eyes the
last ten paces that separate him from the elegantly carved door,
eunuch guards standing still on both sides of it.
    “The princess was told to use the djinn only
for her games,” Chamar says, feeling like a little boy, anxious to
run off to play, forced to recite the lesson to an overly tedious
teacher. “Besides, she is never alone with him. And she is a very
obedient child. Just think, Shamil, what harm can possibly come
from the djinn when he spends all his time with the women?” His
smile fades as he realizes his grand vizier has completely missed
the irony.
    “Your majesty,” Shamil begins again. But the
sultan’s patience has finally come to an end.
    “I have no time for this, Shamil,” he says.
“Later, perhaps.”
    He covers the ten paces to the desired door
and waits for the eunuch on the left to open the door for him. Not
wide, in the presence of another man so close, just enough for the
sultan to go through.
    “Good-bye, Shamil!” Chamar says, feeling like
a mischievous child who found a trick to escape his teacher, and he
slides through the opening of the door.

    “Your move, Hasan.”
    Hasan throws a careless glance at the
chessboard. The black queen floats up and sweeps in an arc into the
very center of the white