The Dance of Time: Chapter Eight

    Kungas, also, found that the first Malwa assassination attempt came later than he’d expected.

    He was not, however, caught by surprise. In fact, he wasn’t caught at all.

    Kungas was certainly not one of the best assassins in India. Not even close. He was, however, most likely the best assassin-catcher. For years, the Malwa had used him as a security specialist. After he broke from them to join Shakuntala’s rebellion, she’d made him the commander of her imperial bodyguard.

    “They’re in that building,” Kujulo murmured, pointing with his chin out of the window. He was too far away from the window to be seen from the outside, but he was also too experienced to run the risk that a large gesture like a pointing finger might be spotted. The human eye can detect motion easier than it can detect a still figure. “One of the two you predicted they’d use.”

    “It was fairly obvious,” said Kungas. “They’re the only two buildings fronting the square that have both a good angle for a shot and a good rear exit to make an escape from.”

    Next to him, also carefully standing back from the window so as not to be spotted, Vima chuckled softly. “It helps, of course, that we prepared the sites well. Like bait for rats.”

    Kungas nodded. The gesture, like Kujulo’s chin-pointing, was minimal. Something that couldn’t possibly be spotted even fifty feet away, much less across an entire city square.

    Bait, indeed. The king of the Kushans—his queen, rather, acting on his instructions—had bought the two buildings outright. Then, placed her own agents in the position of “landlords,” with clear and explicit instructions to rent any of the rooms to anyone, no questions asked—and make sure that their reputation for doing so became well known in Peshawar.

    Inevitably, of course, that quickly made both buildings havens for prostitution and gambling. All the better, as far as Kungas was concerned. Within a week, all of the prostitutes were cheerfully supplementing their income as informers for the queen.

    Irene had known the Malwa assassins were there within half an hour of their arrival.

    Piss-poor assassins, in Kungas’ opinion, when she told him. They’d started by annoying the whores with a brusque refusal of their services.

    “All right,” he said. “I see no reason to waste time.”

    “How do you want to do it?” asked Kujulo. “You don’t want to use the charges, I assume.”

    In the unlikely event he might need it a last resort, Kungas had had all the rooms in the buildings that would be suitable for assassination attempts fitted with demolitions. Shaped charges, basically, that would spray the interior with shrapnel without—hopefully—collapsing the walls.

    Still, with the ubiquitous mudbrick construction in Peshawar, Kungas saw no reason to take the risk. There was always the chance the building might collapse, killing dozens of people. Even if that didn’t happen, the expense of repairing the damage would be considerable, and the work itself disruptive. Such an extreme measure might aggravate the residents of Peshawar.

    Irene’s spies had reported that Kungas was now very popular in the city, even among the non-Kushan inhabitants, and he saw no reason to undermine that happy state of affairs.

    The new king’s popularity was not surprising, of course. Kungas had maintained at least as much stability as the Malwa. More, really, since the Pathan hillmen had completely ceased their periodic harassment of the city-dwellers. He’d also lowered the taxes and levies, eliminated the most egregious of the Malwa regulations, and, most of all, abolished all of the harsh Malwa laws regarding religion. The enforced Malwa cult of mahaveda Hinduism had never sat well in the mountains. The moment Kungas issued his decrees, the region’s underlying Buddhist faith had surged back to the surface.

    No, there was no reason to risk undermining all that by blowing up parts of the city. Especially such visible parts, fronting on the main square.

    “I’ve got my men ready,” Kujulo added.

    “What are they armed with? The assassins, I mean. Guns?”

    “No. Bows. Probably be using poisoned arrowheads.”

    Kungas shook his head. “In that case, no. Keep your men ready, but let’s try the Sarmatian girls.”

    Kujulo looked skeptical. Vima looked downright appalled.

    “Kungas—ah, Sire—there isn’t a one of them—”

    “Enough,” Kungas said. “I know they have no experience. Neither did you or I, once. How else do you get it?”

    He shook his head again. “If the Malwa were armed with guns, it might be different. But bows will be awkward in the confines of those rooms. The girls will have a good chance. Some of them will die. But... That’s what they wanted. To be real warriors. Dying comes with it.”

    The crack of a smile re-appeared. “Besides, it’s only fair—since we’re using one of them as the decoy.”

    A few minutes later, the business began. The Sarmatian girl posing as Irene came into the square on horseback, surrounded by her usual little entourage of female guards.

    Watching from the same window, Kungas was amused. Irene often complained that the custom in the area of insisting that women had to be veiled in public was a damned nuisance, personally speaking—but a blessing, from the standpoint of duplicity.

    Was that Irene down there? Who could say, really? Her face couldn’t be seen, because of the veil. But the woman was the right height and build, had the same color and length of hair in that distinctive pony-tail, wore the proper regalia and the apparel, and had the accustomed escort.

    Of course, it was the queen. Who else would it be?

    Kungas knew that the assassins across the square wouldn’t even be wondering about it. True, Irene was almost certainly not their target and the assassins would make no attempt here. They’d wait for Kungas to show himself. Still, the appearance of the queen in the square so soon after their arrival would be a good sign to them. They’d want to study her movements carefully. All their attention would be fixed on the figure moving within range of the bows in the windows.

    He waited for the explosions that would signal the attack. For all that Kungas was prepared to see Irene’s girl warriors suffer casualties, he’d seen no reason to make them excessive. He didn’t want to risk destroying the walls with the implanted shaped charges, true—but there was no reason not to use the much smaller charges it would take to simply blow open the doors.

    Blow them open—and spray splinters all through the room. That should be enough to give the inexperienced girls the edge they’d need.

    A bigger edge than he’d expected, in the event. A moment later, the explosions came—and one of the Malwa assassins was blown right out the window. From the way he toppled to the ground twenty feet below, Kungas knew he was already unconscious. A big chunk of one of the doors must have hit him on the back of the head.

    He landed like a sack of meal. From the distance, Kungas couldn’t hear the impact, but it was obvious that he hadn’t survived it. Most of the street square was dirt, but it was very hard-packed. Almost like stone.

    “Ruptured neck, for sure,” Vima grunted. “Probably half his brains spilling out, too.”

    Another assassin appeared in the same window. His back, to be precise. The man was obviously fighting someone.

    A few seconds later, he too toppled out of the window. Still clutching the spear that had been driven into his chest, he made a landing that was no better.

    Worse, probably. The assassin had the bad luck of landing on the flagstones in front of the building’s entrance.

    The shouts and screams and other sounds of fighting could be heard across the square for a bit longer. Perhaps ten seconds.

    Then, silence.

    Kungas glanced down into the center of the square, to assure himself that the decoy was unharmed. He had no particular concern for the girl in question—in fact, he didn’t even know who it was—but he didn’t want to face Irene’s recriminations if she’d been hurt.

    Self-recriminations, really. But Irene was not exempt from the normal human tendency to shed blame on others as a way of handling guilt.

    That left the question of how many of the Sarmatian squad that launched the attack had been killed or injured. But that was a different sort of matter. Getting killed in a fight with weapons in hand didn’t cause the same gut-wrenching sensation as getting killed serving as a helpless decoy.

    “Odd, really,” Kungas murmured to himself. “But that’s the way it is. Someday I’ll have to ask Dadaji if he can explain the philosophy of it to me.”

    He turned and headed for the door. “Come. Let’s find out.”

    It was better than he’d thought. Certainly better than he’d feared.

    “See?” he demanded of Vima. “Only one girl dead. One badly injured, but she’ll probably survive.”

    “She’ll never walk right, again,” Vima said sourly. “Might lose that leg completely, at least from the knee down.”

    Kujulo chuckled. “Will you listen to him? Bad as a doddering old Pathan clan chief!”

    For a moment, he hunched his shoulders and twisted his face into a caricature of a prune-faced, disapproving, ancient clansman. Even Vima laughed.

    “Not bad,” Kujulo stated firmly, after straightening. “Against five assassins? Not bad.”

    Irene was upset, of course. The dead and injured girls were names and faces to her. People that she’d known, even known well.

    But there were no recriminations. No self-recriminations, even. Her Sarmatian guards themselves were ecstatic at their success, despite the casualties.

    It probably wasn’t necessary, but Kungas put it into words anyway.

    “Make Alexander the Great and the Buddha’s son the forefathers of a dynasty—this is what comes with it, Irene.”

    “Yes, love, I know.”

    “They were all volunteers.”

    “Yes, love, I know. Now please shut up. And go away for a few hours.”

Axum, in the Ethiopian highlands

    Ousanas glowered at the construction crew working in the great field just on the outskirts of the city of Axum. Most of the field was covered with the stone ruins of ancient royal tombs.

    “I ought to have the lot of them executed,” he pronounced, “seeing as how I can’t very well execute you. Under the circumstances.”

    Antonina smiled. “Approximately how much more of your Cassandra imitation will I be forced to endure?”

    “Cassandra, is it? You watch, woman. Your folly—that of your husband’s, rather—will surely cause the spiritual ruin of the great kingdom of Axum.” He pointed an accusing finger at the radio tower. “For two centuries this ridiculous field given over to the grotesque monuments of ancient pagan kings has been left to decay. As it should. Now, thanks to you and your idiot husband, we’ll be resurrecting that heathen taste in idolatry.”

    Antonina couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a radio tower, Ousanas!”

    The aqabe tsentsen of Ethiopia was not mollified. “A Trojan horse, what it is. You watch. Soon enough—in the dark, when my eagle eye is not watching—they’ll start carving inscriptions on the damned thing.”

    Gloomily, his eyes ranged up and down the huge stone tower that was nearing completion. “Plenty of room for it, too.”

    Antonina glanced back at the Greek artisan who was over-seeing the project. “Tell me, Timothy. If I understand this right, once the tower is in operation anyone who tries to climb onto it in order—”

    The artisan winced. “They’ll be fried.” Warily, he eyed the tall and very muscular figure of the man who was, in effect if not in theory, the current ruler of Ethiopia. “Ah, Your Excel—”

    “See?” demanded Ousanas, transferring his glare to the hapless artisan. “It’s already starting! I am not an ‘excellency,’ damnation, and certainly not yours. A humble keeper of the royal fly whisks, that’s all I am.”

    Timothy sidled back a step. He was fluent in Ge’ez, the language of the Axumites, so he knew that the title aqabe tsentsen meant “the keeper of the fly whisks.” He also knew that the modesty of the title was meaningless.

    Antonina came to the rescue. “Oh, stop bullying the poor man. Timothy, please continue.”

    “Well... it’s hard to explain without getting too technical. But the gist of it is that a big radio tower like this needs a big transmitter powered by”—here he pointed his finger at a huge stone building—“the steam engine in there. In turn, that—”

    The next few sentences were full of mysterious terms like “interrupter” and “capacitor bank” that meant absolutely nothing to Antonina or Ousanas. But Timothy’s concluding words seemed clear enough:

    “—every time the transmitter key is depressed, you’d have something like two thousand watts of power shorting across your body. ‘Fry’ is about the right word for what’d happen, if you got onto the tower itself. But you’d never make it that far, anyway. Once you got past the perimeter fence you’d start coupling to the radials implanted around the base of the tower. Your body would start twitching uncontrollably and the closer you got, the worse it’d get. Your hair might even catch on fire.”

    Ousanas grimaced, but he was still not mollified. “Splendid. So now we will have to post guards to protect idolators from idolatry.”

    Antonina laughed again. “Even for you, Ousanas, this display is absurd! What’s really bothering you? It’s the fact that you still haven’t figured out what I’m going to decree tomorrow regarding the succession. Isn’t it?”

    Ousanas didn’t look at her, still glowering at the radio tower. After a moment, he growled, “It’s not so much me, Antonina. It’s Rukaiya. She’s been pestering me for days, trying to get an answer. Even more, asking for my opinion on what she should do, in the event of this or that alternative. She has no more idea than I do—and you might consider the fact that whatever you decide, she will be the one most affected.”

    Antonia struggled—mightily—to keep her satisfaction from showing. She had, in fact, deliberately delayed making the announcement after telling everyone she’d reached a decision, in the specific hope that Rukaiya would turn to Ousanas for advice.

    “I’d have thought she’d mostly pester Garmat,” she said, as if idly.

    Ousanas finally stopped glowering and managed a bit of a grin. “Well, she has, of course. But I have a better sense of humor than the old bandit. She needs that, right now.”

    So, she does. So, she does.

    “Well!” Antonina said briskly. “It’ll all be settled tomorrow, at the council session. In the meantime—”

    She turned to Timothy. “Please continue the work. Ignore this grumbler. The sooner you can get that finished, the sooner I can talk to my husband again.”

    “And that’s another thing!” Ousanas grumbled, as they headed toward the Ta’akha Maryam. “It’s just a waste. You can’t say anything either secret or personal—not with that sort of broadcast radio—and it won’t work anyway, once the monsoon comes with its thunderstorms. So I’ve been told, at least.”

    Antonina glanced at the sun, now at its mid-day altitude, as if gauging the season. “We’re still some months from the southwest monsoon, you know. Plenty of time.”