"You're welcome. Thanks for making my shop your favorite haunt."

"I give. Look, tell me who's going to be here."

With a sick feeling in his stomach, fingering an amulet of Shalpa in hopes thatthe goddess could keep this boy from diving through the open hole by his sideinto the tunnels and never coming up. Marc began to explain about the vampirewoman, Ischade; the crime lord, Jubal; the Rankan 3rd Commando leader, Sync; thestoryteller, Hakiem, and the acting garrison commander, Walegrin.

As he did, watching Zip's unbelieving eyes go icy and hostile. Marc couldn'teven convince himself that tonight's meeting wasn't going to be a wholesaleslaughter. Judging by the guest list, somebody could get rid of everytroublemaker in Sanctuary worth mentioning in one cleansing fire- he hoped tohell that "somebody" didn't turn out to be Strat.

The only element missing from the list of invited guests was a representative ofblack magic-some honcho from the mageguild, or Enas Yorl, or some Hazard-classenchanter who might be able to keep order through fear of mortal curse.

And if the Stepsons hadn't been allergic to magicians, they'd probably haveinvited one of them, too.

By the time Sync got to the meeting, the air was already blue with krrf smoke,the packed-clay floor littered with wine dregs.

Kama was presiding, as best she could, over a crowd of thirty-five people who,under any other circumstances, would have been locked in mortal combat by now.

Hakiem the storyteller was the only person in the room who was unarmed, thoughSync was well aware that the mouth was mightier than the sword in a situationlike this. If things went badly, the rest could be let go, but Hakiem would haveto die.

Walegrin, big, blond, and out of uniform, sat in the middle of a half-dozenplain-clothed officers who, by being invited here, would be sufficientlycompromised that even if they weren't actively helpful, they wouldn't hinderSync's progress.

Straton was sitting off by himself in a comer on a winekeg with a woman who mustbe the vampire, Ischade, else they wouldn't have had that much space tothemselves. It was a good thing Critias wasn't in town, or Strat never wouldhave gone after the vampire woman. Sync had to stop himself from looking forsigns of vampire-bite on Strat's neck.

The young guerrilla fighter whom Sync, Gay Ie, and Strat had tangled with on theStreet of Red Lanterns-the one who'd killed his own men rather than let them becaptured- had the other far comer, a mangy cur scratched fleas by his knee. Syncnodded to Zip and threaded his way to him through the crowd: if there was onesingle element of this riffraff he needed to secure his tactical advantage, itwas this scruffy rebel leader. Reaching him, with all eyes on them. Sync heldout his hand and said, "Last time, we forgot to introduce ourselves. I'm Sync.You're?..."

"Zip will do." Eyes slitted, he shook Sync's hand.

"I'm glad you came. When this is over, I'll buy you a meal and we'll comparenotes."

He turned and headed toward the table Marc had set up at the front of the roombefore Zip could ask him what kind of notes or decline his invitation.

Standing beside Kama, Sync waited for Jubal to settle down. Jubal was anotherone to whom this crowd gave extra room, though he'd come in late with only hisfirst lieutenant-Jubal had been skulking outside in the shadows, waiting forSync to arrive.

"Now that we're all here," Sync scanned the room, making sure that this wasindeed the case; a particular pair of wolfish eyes in a furry face met his andhe nodded as he continued, "I'd like to turn the meeting over to our residentexpert on covert enterprise, secrecy, and wizardry, Randal, our own ex-Hazard,formerly of the Tysian mageguild."

Mutters broke out; men and women moved away from one another; necks craned,looking for the sorcerer in their midst.

From Ischade's comer, a musical laugh sounded. As all eyes turned to her, themangy cur, part wolf by the look of it, who'd been scratching fleas near Zip'sknee, stretched, yawned, and got to his feet.

The dog, with a sneeze and a sniffle, wandered in seemingly haphazard fashion upto the table, where Kama knelt down, ready with the cloak she'd been v/earing,and fastened it around the old dog's neck.

In the back of the room, Zip rose to his feet without a sound; Marc theblademonger put out a hand to stay him.

But no one noticed: the crowd's attention was on the dog before them, changingbefore their eyes into a man.

It was a smooth transition, smoother than Randal usually could manage. He didn'teven sneeze much.

When the mage rose to full man's height, the cloak and the smoke and the shadowsthrown by flickering candles in that subterranean meeting room made him seemmore imposing than he really was.

For the first time. Sync had that warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that hegot when a strategy became reality.

Randal said, "Thank you. Commander."

Sync murmured, "You're welcome," and sat down.

"Good evening, gentle folk," Randal began. "I bring you greetings from Tempus,and from all our friends on Wi-zardwall. The plight of Sanctuary since theStepsons left it has come to our attention, and with your help, we're going toset about making things right here-ousting the Beysibs and returning Sanctuaryto its former... ah... glory."

There was a general murmur of agreement.

Randal smiled his boyish, winning smile. The redoubtable mage, his hair grownlong enough to cover his too-large ears and too-thin neck, was a born crowdpleaser. When he sneezed concussively, he blamed it on his "lack of suitablegarments" and the cold; the crowd bought it. They were so anxious to have theadvantage of wizardly aid in fighting the Beysibs that if Randal had talked tothem in the shape of a mule or a salamander, they would have listenedrespectfully, silently, gratefully.

It bothered Sync, just a little, that the credibility of honest fighters wasn'tsufficient to satisfy this rabble, but a simple shape-change trick by a feymagician made everybody in the place feel like conquering heroes. He'd countedon that being the case, but it still troubled him: fighters tended to dislikesorcerers, class to class.

If there was one exception, one person not charmed and convinced by Randal'stricks (including the materialization of a topographical map of Sanctuary, afeast fit for the Beysibs in Kadakithis's palace, and "working capital" to thetune of five thousand Rankan soldats), it was Zip.

Marc knew it, and Sync knew it.

When the meeting was over. Marc delayed Zip's exit so that Sync could close inon the youth.

Sync detoured only long enough to ask Strat, in an undertone, "Still got yoursoul, buddy?" and receive a curt nod in reply before he took the rebel leader bythe elbow and suggested they go to the Vulgar Unicorn for a "drink andwhatever."

To Sync's relief. Zip agreed, saying: "If we're going to do this, we'd better doit right."

"What's 'right'?" Sync asked, not understanding.

"Right? With One-Thumb's help, soldier. Or are you afraid of Nisibisi magic?It's not like your little baby wizard's, up there." He indicated Randaldisrespectfully.

"Magic? I'm afraid of your kind of magic-a knife in the back in the dead ofnight-not theirs," Sync quipped, wondering if this gutterpud wasn't smarter thanhe looked: no Stepson, no 3rd Commando, and especially no Rankan regulararmy officer, wanted anything to do with the Nisibisi witch-caste.

When Sync headed for the trapdoor with its stairs leading up into Marc's shop.Zip's hand closed hard on his arm: "Not that way, fool. You want to go to theUnicorn, we go through the tunnels. Smith Street's under curfew, even if theMaze isn't; and, wherever you are these days, two men together rouse suspicion.Come on-that is, unless you're afraid of getting those nice boots wet."