at the center.

When Daoud judged that Qutuz was halfway to the throne, he began to
move.

He plunged now into that black cave where God dwelt somewhere in
infinite spaces. Doubt and fear he left at the mouth of that cave. He
must give all his strength and will to what he was about to do.

He charged into the storm around Qutuz. Though these magistrates and
merchants were feeble compared to him, their frenzy and the mere weight
of their struggling bodies formed a wall that took all his strength to
break through. Each man was so intent upon his own desperate need to
reach the sultan that none of them seemed to feel Daoud forcing his way
past them.

Qutuz saw him coming. The dark brown eyes met Daoud's, questioning,
frowning. A Mameluke emir of Daoud's rank did not usually join a crowd
of petitioners. The sultan's arms and hands were full of scrolls. His
chamberlain had long since been carried away from him in the crush.

"Oh, Sultan, grant my prayer!" Daoud shouted in a loud voice.

_For your death._

Qutuz's jaw clenched, and his eyes widened in the beginning of fear as
Daoud bore down on him.

Daoud had reached the center of the storm. Color and movement whirled
about him. Shouts deafened him. He forced his mind to blot out the chaos
all around and to focus totally on Qutuz. He made himself as oblivious
to the shrieking men around him as they were to him.

He threw his arms around the sultan, crushing the satin of his kaftan
and his armload of scrolls against his body.

When Daoud's arms came together behind Qutuz's back, his right hand
reached into his left sleeve and pulled the dagger from its sheath.

Qutuz's hands pushed against Daoud's chest. So tight was Daoud's embrace
that he felt the sultan take a deep breath, to cry for help. They were
locked together like lovers.

Daoud stretched out his right arm, and then with all the strength in
that arm drove the dagger into the sultan's back. He struck for the
center of the back, between two ribs, so that the point would reach and
stop Qutuz's heart.

His thrust went true. The strong, lean body jerked violently, then went
limp in his arms. Qutuz was a weight against him, sliding downward.
Daoud was sure he was already dead, because he did not move or cry out.

Triumph blazed up within him. He had done it. He had killed the sultan.

Daoud let go of the dagger, hilt-deep in Qutuz's back. He stepped
backward quickly, pressing himself into the crowd around