Wings of Omen

Sync didn't know how Zip could find his way through that dank and slippery darkness. They slogged through sewage, then cleaner water up to their knees, in a phosphorescent green-dark counter-Maze no sane fighter would have entered without ropes, torches, chalk, and reinforcements.

Zip seemed right at home; his voice, at least, was relaxed, though Sync couldn't see his face and was concentrating on holding onto Zip's shoulder, as he'd been instructed, trying not to listen to the part of his brain that kept telling him he'd regret putting himself at the mercy of this sewerlord: Zip could lose him down here and Sync might never find his way out.

But the guerrilla either hadn't thought about treachery, or didn't intend any: Zip's tone was almost friendly as he asked, "Surely you don't expect this so called alliance of yours to hold?" His last word echoed: hold, old. Id, d.

"No," Sync replied, "but before we start warring, we like to introduce ourselves. Anyway, it's good form, and we might pick up a few allies, even if we can't form a coalition townwide."

"In two weeks," Zip said with jocular bitterness, "there'll be twice as many factions fighting, thanks to you: army, death squads, revolutionary idealists, Beysib bitches, your rangers, ersatz Stepsons, real Stepsons-what's the point?"

"That's the point. It doesn't have to happen that way."

"If everyone lets you control it. The chance of that is about even with me marrying Roxane and becoming the reigning Nisibisi warlock."

Right about then. Sync began to wonder if Zip was really taking him to the Vulgar Unicorn. Even the mention of Roxane's name made his skin crawl. He'd had quite enough of wizard wars. That was one of the things Sanctuary had to offer as a winter billet: enough trouble to keep his men from going stale, and no uncounterable magic, just the Bey-sibs and the weakling sorcerers of Sanctuary's third-rate mageguild in a town that was a war-gamer's paradise.

"Roxane's that good a friend of yours, is she?" Sync took a shot in the dark.

"She's that much of a problem-you'll find out yourself, sooner or later. She's one very big reason why I can't hook up with you. Another is, I can't speak for everybody- hardly for anybody at all."

"Just the Nisibisi-trained and funded death squads?"

"That's right. Take a left turn here; we're going to start climbing stone steps; they're slippery; there's fifteen, then a landing, then ten more."

They climbed in the dark. Sync continued his interrogation: "I've heard that you control most of the territory in Downwind-that you've held it against the Beysibs and that at this point they've given up trying to take it back."

"Most of the territory? Three blocks? That's what I've got, all I can hold. We don't have drool in the way of arms, or fighters, or anything much but a little Nisibisi support. I'll show my territory to you some time. You won't be impressed."

"I'll be the judge of that." Sync had lost count of the stairs; he tried to mount one and his foot thumped down hard through thin air: they'd made the first landing. Three strides, and they were climbing again. With a sinking feeling that had nothing to do with being underground and at the mercy of a boy guerrilla, Sync asked: "I'd like to meet her, sometime soon-this Roxane. Can you arrange it?"

"Life too dull for you? Just can't wait to lose your soul? Heard that undeads have more fun?"

"I'm serious."

"I wish I wasn't. If you promise me you won't consider it an act of war on my part, I'll hook you up tonight."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it."

"We'll see about that-maybe you won't be able to appreciate anything, afterward. Any next of kin you want me to notify? At least tell that baby-mage of yours to avenge you?"

Sync chuckled, but he couldn't make it sound convincing. "Randal's going to be introducing himself to Sanctuary, this evening. If Roxane's really here, he won't need to be notified. They've met before."

"Here we are. I'm just going to slide this bolt and then we'll climb up, one at a time-I'll go first. And she's really here. Ask One-Thumb."

There was the sound of wood grating, then a square of blinding light, then a dark silhouette in its midst as Zip levered himself up.

Following, Sync reflected that though this wasn't as harmless an alibi as he'd expected, at least he'd be in public, drinking in the Unicorn when as many of the hundred ruling Beysib women as had accepted an invitation to the opening of "Randal's Pleasure Palace" uptown became wax statues in the exhibit of "Beysib Culture" which was the prime attraction of the mage's Beysib trap.

This Sync didn't understand what he was getting himself into. Zip knew. The trick was to let the crazy bastard have his way without Zip taking the blame for what became of the 3rd's commanding officer.

Zip hated officers, armies, authoritarian types. He also hated Roxane, when he dared. But not too often-she was more dangerous than three 3rd Commando cadres and she had him by the jewels.

She'd appreciate Sync, all right, if Zip could deliver him. He didn't know why he felt reluctant to do it. Sync was just another murderer, and the worst kind: professional, efficient, charismatic in a Rankan sort of way. The less Rankans in Zip's world, the better. But still, if the Rankans got together and decimated the Beysibs, there'd be less Rankans for the Nisibisi sympathizers to deal with later. Right now, what was good for the Nisibisi-sponsored Revolution was good for Zip.

So he took some chances, letting Sync see how Zip's sort got around in town without being noticed, even showing him where you left your sewer-reeking clothes in One-Thumb's wine cellar and where you got fresh ones before you slunk up the back way and into the Unicorn crowd through the outhouse entrance as if you'd always been there.

One-Thumb wasn't behind the bar; he was probably upstairs with Roxane, or out at the estate-in which case, there'd be nothing Zip could do tonight: you didn't take people to One-Thumb's uninvited... not unless you wanted to end up dog meat.

The waitress was one of Zip's people; two hand signals he could only hope Sync didn't see brought him his answer: One-Thumb was in his office upstairs.

Since other things went on upstairs-a bit of whoring and drug-dealing-it was no problem for Zip to go on up, but the man beside him was attracting attention: Sync's sword was too service-scarred, his well-chosen and nondescript garb a little too well-chosen and nondescript for the Unicorn denizens not to mark him as somebody trying not to look like a soldier.

So there were too many eyes on them and the place went too quiet when they settled down in a comer. That was another problem with the meres: they couldn't stand having their backs exposed; if Sync could have handled a table in the middle of the room, the break in pattern would have relaxed the crowd and Zip wouldn't have felt like he was on display.

But it was like asking a horse to fly. So they sat in a comer, vacated warily by a couple of slitpurses who gave Zip dirty looks for consorting with the enemy, and pretended nonchalance until the girl came back with their ales and a message: One-Thumb would meet them around the back.

Just as they were finishing their draughts and checking their purses, Vashanka's own hell seemed to break loose outside.

The crowd surged toward the door, beyond which the sky was sheeting colored light, then back again as the dreaded Harka Bey-the Beysib mercenary women, assassins in full dress with their damn snakes on their arms-shouldered their way inside, men-at-arms behind them, and backed everyone up against the walls.