The three coming toward his hunting party were drunk as Rankans and limp as anyman might be who'd just come out of the Street of Red Lanterns empty of seed andpurse.

He could almost see their fish-eyes bulging; he could hear their jewelry clank.For pussy-whipped sons of snake-women, these were loud and brash, taller thanaverage, and with a better command of street-Rankene: from under theirglittering, veil-draped hats, profanity worthy of the Rankan Hell-Hounds cut thenight.

There remained nearly the whole Street of Red Lanterns between the two parties."Pre-position," Zip breathed, and his two young squad members slipped away tofind their places.

They'd done this every night since Harvest Moon; the only result of it Zip hadseen was a second, then a third wave of Beysib ritual executions. .But sincethose ceremonially slaughtered were hated Rankan overlords and IIsigs who servedthe Rankans and the Bey, it wasn't keeping any of the revolutionaries up atnight.

And you had to do something. Kadakithis had been a harsh ruler, but the Rankanbarbarians were spoken of wistfully and with something bordering on affectionnow that the Beysib had come: a matriarchy complete with female mercenaries,assassins, magicians more utterly ruthless than men could ever be. It was enoughto have brought Zip into the orb of the Revolution-his manhood was somethinghe'd fight to keep. It was going to take more than a few exposed fish-folktitties to make him bow his head or renege on his heritage.

Right now, he was going to kill a couple of Beysib boy-toys and lay theirpertinent equipment on Vashanka's Foal-side altar: maybe the Rankan murder-godcould be roused to action; Death knew that the Ilsig gods were out of theirdepth with these women-despots whose spittle was as venomous as the pet snakesthey kept and the spells they spoke. The Revolution could use the publicity andZip could use the money their jewelry was going to bring once Marc melted itdown.

Down the street came the Beysib boywhores, laughing in deeper voices than Beysibmen usually dared. Zip could make out some words now: "-porking town down on itsporking hands and knees with its butt in the air while those porkers pork it-"

Another voice cut in: "I've told you once, Gayle, to watch your mouth. Now I'mmaking it an order. Beysibs don't- God's balls!"

Without warning, and according to plan. Zip's two cohorts jumped out fromconcealment as the three Beysibs passed them.

Zip readied his throwing knives: once the Beysibs were herded his way, they wereas good as dead. He widened his stance, feeling his pulse begin to pound.

But these Beysibs didn't run: from under their cloaks or out of theirpantaloons, weapons suddenly appeared: Zip could hear the grate of metal asswords left their scabbards and the dismayed shouts from his cohorts as theytried to engage swordsmen with rusty daggers and sharpened wooden sticks.

Zip had a wrist slingshot; it was his emergency weapon. He didn't mean to useit; he was still thinking to himself that he was better off not gettinginvolved, that these weren't your average Beysibs-maybe not Beysibs at all-andthat he didn't owe the death-squad members anything, when he found himselfletting fly once, then again, with his wrist slingshot and making as much noiseas he could while running pell-mell toward the fray.

One of his missiles found its target: with a yelp, a pan-talooned figure went toits knees. Another turned his head, cursing like a soldier, and somethingwhizzed past Zip's ear. He felt warmth, wetness, and knew he'd been grazed.

Then he realized that neither of his squad members were standing: he slowed to awalk, his breathing heavy, trying to see if the two lying in the dirt weremoving. He thought one was; the other seemed too still.

His adversaries, whoever they were, seemed to want to continue the argument: thetwo with the swords moved toward him, parallel to one another, splitting thestreet into defensible halves, far enough away from the buildings to avoid anymore lurkers in doorways, and from each other to give each room to handleanything that might come his way. Neither spoke; they closed on him withbusinesslike economy and a certain eagerness that gave Zip just enough time forsecond thoughts: These were professional tactics, put into practice byprofessionals. When times had been easier in Sanctuary and an old warhorsenamed Tempus had formed a special forces unit of Stepsons and then invitedany Ilsigs who dared to train for a citizens' militia. Zip had taken theopportunity to leam all he could about the Rankan enemy: Zip had been taught"street control" by the same book as those now advancing down this particularstreet toward him.

Two to one against professionals, there was no chance that he could win.

He raised his hands as if in surrender.

The two soldiers-in-disguise growled low to one another in what might have beenCourt Rankene.

Before they could decide the obvious-to take him alive and spend the eveningasking him questions it would be painful, perhaps crippling, not to answer-Zipdid what he had to do: let fly with a palmed dagger and then a specially prongedslingshot missile.

Both casts sped murderously true-not into the probably armored chests of the twobig men with swords (whose companion was now on his feet and falling in behindthem, perfectly and by-the-drill covering every move they made) but into theexposed neck and chest of Zip's own two men: no revolutionary could becaptured alive; everyone knew too much; they'd all signed suicide pacts inblood but, in this case. Zip knew he'd better help these two along. Rankaninterrogation could be very nasty.

Then as the rear man yelled, "Get the bastard," and the two in front lungedtoward him. Zip wheeled and dove for the tunnel entrance, down among the garbageand the rats, pulled the cobble-faced cover in place behind him, and shot thestout interior bolt.

Two days later, Hakiem was sitting on a bench in Promise Park-not one of hisaccustomed haunts.

He considered himself, as a storyteller, a neutral party in this war betweenRanke and the Harka Bey for control of Sanctuary. In his innermost heart hecouldn't help but take sides, though, and since his side was the side of theIlsigi, whose land this once was and whose sorrow he now shared, he'd gottenjust a little bit involved with helping the Revolution.

This was nothing new for Hakiem: he'd been a little involved with Jubal the exslaver, a little involved with Prince/Governor Kadakithis's Hell-Hounds... witheverything, if truth be known, that concerned his beloved, benighted town.

He kept telling himself that there was a good story in whatever it was heshouldn't be getting involved in. The Revolution, which might be the greateststory Sanctuary would ever offer him, was also the most dangerous. Involved init were Rankans and Ilsigs, fighting together- though some didn't know it andothers wouldn't admit it- against the heinous matriarchy of the Beysibs.

But, Hakiem reminded himself as he waited for his contact to appear, he was anold man: he wouldn't have lived to be old if he were too foolish. And Hakiem,who'd been safe on the sidelines, an observer and a certified neutral all hislife, was beginning to feel the tug of revolutionary fervor himself-politics, hewell knew, was an old man's game: old men sent young men out to lose theirlives for principles. He'd have to be careful not to become as deluded asthose the Ilsigi populace fought: the Beysibs, the Rankans, the Nisibisi andwhoever else wanted to put their stamp on his poor little sandspit of a town.