"Not everybody," Jubal said, leaning forward.

The naked threat in his voice told Sync that he'd pushed just about as far as hecould with this ex-gladiator cum slaver cum power player, so he changed tack:"That's comforting. Now, since you won't get rid of your bodyguards, even thoughit looks to me like you'd be safe enough defending yourself, I'm going to tellyou why I'm here and we can have a democratic referendum on how much of a sharein the profits your men here get, how much you keep, what everybody's got to do,and who else is-"

"All right," Jubal interrupted. "All right. Saliman, clear the room and makesure no one gets too curious."

"But my lord-" Saliman sputtered.

"Do it!"

Almost as if by magic, the muscle men disappeared.

"Now, what's on your mind. Sink?"

"You must have heard that the 3rd is operating independent of the Emperor-we'reon our own."

"Yes?" Jubal purred.

"We're trying to put together a coalition to rid Sanctuary of the Harka Babiesand install an interim ruler who suits us-make Sanctuary an independent state:I've got half an army with no place to call home."

"And you'd like to make your home in Sanctuary?"

"Remains to be seen. But if we try this, we'd like you to be a part of itworking with us. Nobody's going to take and hold Sanctuary without your activecooperation, we've heard."

"How do you know the Beysibs haven't heard it too?" Jubal asked cannily.

The old black was sharp, but Sync could feel that he was buying the deal-lock,stock, and misrepresentations. "Because they're having too much trouble, fromtoo many unidentified quarters."

Jubal laughed. The laugh was amplified by his hawkmask and boomed so loud in thesmall room that its curtains quivered. "That may be, that may be. But flatterywon't get you everywhere-just somewhere. Now, let's hear the specifics." The exgladiator's arms came out from under his cloak and Sync could see purple scarsthat told one seasoned veteran of too many wars that he was looking at another.

Sync said honestly: "You can't believe I'd go into that here, with all thoseears you've got. I want you to come to a little party we're having, at Marc'sWeapons Shop on the Street of Smiths, this evening. Representatives of everyfaction my Long Recon people think useful will be there. I want to put themtogether-with your help, of course- in one well-coordinated, working unit."

"Intriguing." Jubal's hawkmask bobbed slowly. "And then what?"

"Then we're going to make this town what it ought to be, what it used to be,what it wants to be: a freehold, a thieves' world, a safe haven where men likeyou and I don't have to kiss any pomaded pederasts' rings and women do whatwomen do best."

Again, Jubal laughed. When he sobered, he raised his mask-not enough for Sync tosee the face beneath; just enough to wipe his eyes. "You, me, and what army?"

"You, me, the 3rd Commando, and Tempus's original Stepsons. Plus, perhaps, thelocal death squads and revolutionaries, your odd mercenary, the downtroddenIlsig populace, and the regular army garrison-the ranking officer over there isan old friend of mine. That enough manpower for you?"

"Might be, might be," Jubal chuckled.

"Then you'll come, tonight?"

"I'll be there," Jubal agreed.

Marc's Weapons Shop had a trap door behind the counter, as well as a firingrange out back, two display cases filled with blades, and two walls of hightorque crossbows.

Beneath, in the cellar, arcane and forbidden weaponry was kept-alchemicalincendiaries, wrist slingshots such as Zip's, instruments of interrogation andof silent kill: poisons and persuaders.

It was early, before the scheduled evening meeting, and Zip and Marc werearguing, alone, while above Marc's blonde and nubile wife minded the store.

"You can't ask me to do this, Marc," Zip said from the comer in which he washunched, bowstring-taut and feral, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow,looking for the trap he was sure would soon be sprung.

"I've got to ask you, boy, or watch you commit suicide: you can't fight thisbunch. You trained with Stepsons; you know that now they're drifting into townagain, things are going to change. You stayed out of trouble when they werearound last time; now, you can't. They'll tan your hide and use it for asaddle blanket; your polished teeth'll decorate some war-horse's headstall.I don't want to see that happen."

"So you gave them my name? I trusted you. I got into this whole thing byaccident. I don't want to be any rebel leader; I don't want to incite any riotsor start any twelve-gods-damned revolutions; I just want to protect my own self.Why did you do this to me?"

"They're smart. They've had reconnaissance people in town for weeks-they knewabout you already. If you aren't with them, that bunch assumes you're againstthem."

"Who? The Buggemauts? The Whoresons? Who cares?"

"You'll care, when they make you two inches taller before they make you sixinches shorter-mercenaries are a very suspicious breed. I know Strat's Stepsons,and I trust them: they have to be trustworthy-it's all they've got: one anotherand the value of their word. Tempus will be along, Strat says, presently: thatmeans the Storm God-if you still care about Vashanka-is coming home. I'm notgood with words..." Marc rubbed his beard miserably; his round, brown eyespleaded with the gutterbred fighter jammed against the joint of two walls as ifhe were already at bay. "Please just stay and listen to their proposal: withoutyou, the death squads will never give this alliance a chance."

"You're addled. Bewitched. Most of the death squad members got their start withRoxane, the Nisibisi witch. It's a trap: the Stepsons and the 3rd are lookingfor revenge. Roxane didn't exactly lose gracefully fighting the Stepsons; theylost men; meres never forget."

"You've got to stay... if not for yourself, for me. They've spotted you; theyknow you're using this place to rearm, to meet, to get in and out of thetunnels. If you don't pretend to join them, I'm having this conversation with adead man-it's just a matter of days."

"Well, at least you're being honest, now." Zip pushed himself up against thewall. He had a two-day growth of beard and looked a decade older than the yearshe'd lived. Erect, leaning back in his comer, he said despairingly, "I don'tsuppose it would do any good to make you promise not to reveal any more of ournames?..."

"On pain of death? Kill me now, then. And my wife. And everyone else that'shelped you. I own, boy, I've seen a lot of action, too many wars to suit me, andI'm telling you: the only way to live through what's brewing in Sanctuary is tomake a deal with the 3rd Commando."

"Just so long as it isn't the damn Rankan army-it isn't, you can promise methat, can't you? Can't you?"

Marc looked at his big-knuckled hands. The slit-eyed, scruffy youth before himhad been orphaned in the Rankan takeover of Sanctuary. He didn't remember hisparents and he'd grown up fast and hard, hating Rankans all the way. He'd had noconnections, no advantages, no mentors: Marc had known Zip for years, and neverdared to get involved- this kind died young and they died unpleasantly.

Now, for some reason known only to the gods. Marc was involved: it was a matterof pride, of gut resentment, of life and death.

"No, boy, I can't promise you that. But maybe they can. All / can promise isthat if you don't show up, not me, or my wife, or this shop is going to exist inthe morning: they'll level the place and bury us in it."

"Thanks for not pressuring me."