The Dance of Time

that the Ye-tai excelled in and his own men didn't.

Neither did their general. Toramana's first strike disarmed him; the second cut off his hand; the third, his head.

'Save the head,' Toramana commanded, after the garrison troops were routed.

His lieutenant held it up by the hair, still dripping blood.

'Why?' he asked skeptically. Toramana's Ye-tai, following their commander's example, were not much given to military protocol. 'Getting divorced and remarried, already?'

Toramana laughed. 'I don't need it for more than a day. Just long enough so those damned Rajputs don't get all the credit.'

The lieutenant nodded, sagely. 'Ah. Good idea.'

Even with the partial data at its disposal-even working through the still-awkward sheath of a girl much too young for the purpose-Link knew what to do.

It still didn't know the exact nature of the disaster that had befallen it, while ensconced in the sheath named Sati. As always, Link's memories only went as far as Sati's last communion with the machines in the cellars.

It didn't really matter.

Belisarius, obviously. As before.

The great plan of the new gods lay in shattered ruin. India was now lost. If Link had been in an adult sheath, it might have tried to rally the city's soldiers. But trapped in a girl's body, and with an emperor who had never been very competent and was now half-hysterical, such an attempt would be hopeless.

True, Damodara's forces were still outnumbered by Kausambi's garrison. Link knew that, within a ninety- three percent probability, despite the prattle of panicked courtiers and officers.

But that, too, didn't matter. There was no comparison at all between the morale and cohesion of the opposing sides. Damodara's army had the wind in its sails, now that it had breached the city's walls. Worse still, it had commanders who knew how to use that wind, beginning with Damodara himself.

The only really seasoned army Link had was in the Punjab. A huge army, but it might as well have been on the moon. That army had been paralyzed by Belisarius, it was much too far away for Link to control any longer-and none of the garrisons in any of the cities in the Ganges plain could serve as a rallying point. Not after Kausambi fell, as it surely would by nightfall.

All that remained-all that could remain-was to salvage what pieces it could and begin anew.

Start from the very beginning, all over again. Worse than that, actually. Link would lose the machinery in the imperial cellars. Without that machinery, it could not be transferred once its current sheath died or became too old or ill to be of use. Link would die with it.

Perhaps it was fortunate, after all, that the sheath was only eight years old.

Not that Link really thought in terms like 'fate' or 'fortune.' Still, it was a peculiar twist in probabilities. It would take at least half a century for Link to re-create that machinery, even after it made its way to the Khmer lands.

The work could not be done there, in the first place. In this world, only the Romans and the Chinese had the technical wherewithal, with Link to guide the slave artisans.

Fortunately, the new gods had planned for such an unlikely outcome. Link held the designs in its mind for much cruder machines that would still accomplish the same basic task.

Half a century, at least. Hopefully, the sheath would prove to be long-lived. They normally weren't, simply because Link made no effort to keep them alive, if doing so was at all inconvenient. But it knew how to do so, if it chose, assuming the genetic material was not hopeless. The regimen was very strict, but-obviously-that posed no problem at all. Food meant nothing at all to Link, and the time spent in mindless exercise could still be used for calculations.

'Where are we going?' whispered Skandagupta. His voice was still hoarse, from the earlier screaming.

'BE SILENT OR YOU WILL DIE.'

The threat was not an idle one. An eight-year-old girl's body could not have overwhelmed Skandagupta, even as pudgy and unfit as he was. But Link had kept its special assassins, after ordering them to kill all the women in the cellars. Any one of the assassins-much less all three-could have slain Skandagupta instantly.

The specially trained women would have been useful, later. But they were simply not trained, nor physically conditioned after years living in cellars, for the rigors of the journey that lay ahead. And Link could not afford to leave them alive. Under torture, they might say too much about their origins.

It was questionable whether Skandagupta would survive those rigors. Link's sheath was small enough that it could be carried by the assassins, when necessary. Skandagupta was not, even after he lost his fat, as he surely would. Link could not afford to wear out its assassins.

As it was, Link had almost ordered the emperor killed anyway. The probabilities teetered on a knife's edge. On the one hand, Skandagupta was an obvious impediment in the immediate future. On the other hand. .

It was hard to calculate. There were still too many variables involved. But there were enough of them to indicate that, given many factors, having the legitimate emperor of India ready at hand might prove useful.

No matter. Link could always have Skandagupta murdered later, after all.

The tunnel they were passing through was poorly lit. Skandagupta stumbled and fell again.

The shock was enough to jar the creature out of its fear. 'Where are we going? And what will happen to my wife and children?'

Link decided that answering was more efficient than another threat.

'We are going to the Khmer lands. I prepared this escape route decades ago. Your wife and daughters are irrelevant, since they are outside the succession. Your only son, also. By the end of the day he will have either renounced his heritage and publicly admitted Damodara's forgeries to be the truth, or he will be dead.'

Skandagupta moaned.

'IF HE SPEAKS AGAIN WITHOUT PERMISSION,' Link instructed the assassins, 'BEAT HIM.'

'How badly, Mistress?'

'LEAVE HIS LEGS UNDAMAGED. HIS BRAIN ALSO, SUCH AS IT IS. SO LONG AS HE CAN STILL WALK.'

Damodara entered the palace just as the sun was setting. There was still some fighting in the city, here and there, but not much.

It was all over. His great gamble had worked.

'Skandagupta's son says he will agree to the-ah-new documents,' Narses said.

Damodara considered the matter. 'Not good enough. He has to swear he's a bastard, also. His real father was. . whoever. Pick one of the courtiers whose heads decorate the walls outside. Someone known to be foul as well as incompetent.'

Narses sneered. 'Hard to choose among them, given those qualifications.'

'Don't take long.' Damodara's lips twisted into something that was perhaps less of a sneer, but every bit as contemptuous. 'I want those heads off the walls and buried or burnt by tomorrow afternoon. The impaled bodies, by mid-morning. What a stench!'

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'My wife? Children?'

'They should be here within an hour. They're all safe and well.'

Damodara nodded. 'See to it that stable-keeper is rewarded. Lavishly. In addition to being made the new royal stable-master.'

'Yes, Your Majesty. What about-'

'The two Roman soldiers?' Damodara shook his head, wonderingly. 'What sort of reward would be suitable, for such service as that?'

Narses' sneer returned. 'Oh, they'll think of something.'

'Someone's coming,' said one of the members of the assassination team. He spoke softly. Just as softly as he let the grasses sway back, hiding their position alongside the road to the Bay of Bengal.