Wings of Omen tw-6

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  Jubal responded, "Then perhaps it's not at all. But then you've wasted our time, and we don't like that. Do we?"

  Ten scruffy locals made threatening noises.

  "Look here, slumlord, are you in the pay of the Beysibs? If not, let's get serious. I didn't come here to give your staff combat lessons. If they need 'em, I've got trainers in the 3rd Commando who specialize in making silk purses out of sow's ears."

  Three of the ten were edging forward. Jubal stopped them with a raised hand. From under the mask came what might have been a rattling sigh. "3rd Commando? Should I be impressed?"

  Sync said, "I don't know what you're supposed to be, Jubal, in that damn feathered cape and mask. Is everybody in this town in drag?" He crossed his arms, thinking he should have sent a Sanctuary veteran to bring this black man in by the ear. He had to remind himself forcefully not to call Jubal a Wriggly to his face. It was a damned shame, having to join forces with an enemy you'd thoroughly beaten years ago-and on equal terms. The misfortunes of war were neverending.

  "Not everybody," Jubal said, leaning forward.

  The naked threat in his voice told Sync that he'd pushed just about as far as he could 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 though it looks to me like you'd be safe enough defending yourself, I'm going to tell you why I'm here and we can have a democratic referendum on how much of a share in 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 make sure 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're on our own."

  "Yes?" Jubal purred.

  "We're trying to put together a coalition to rid Sanctuary of the Harka Babies and 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 it working with us. Nobody's going to take and hold Sanctuary without your active cooperation, 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, from too many unidentified quarters."

  Jubal laughed. The laugh was amplified by his hawkmask and boomed so loud in the small room that its curtains quivered. "That may be, that may be. But flattery won't get you everywhere-just somewhere. Now, let's hear the specifics." The ex gladiator's arms came out from under his cloak and Sync could see purple scars that 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 those ears you've got. I want you to come to a little party we're having, at Marc's Weapons Shop on the Street of Smiths, this evening. Representatives of every faction my Long Recon people think useful will be there. I want to put them together-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 like you and I don't have to kiss any pomaded pederasts' rings and women do what women do best."

  Again, Jubal laughed. When he sobered, he raised his mask-not enough for Sync to see 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, the local death squads and revolutionaries, your odd mercenary, the downtrodden Ilsig populace, and the regular army garrison-the ranking officer over there is an 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 firing range out back, two display cases filled with blades, and two walls of high torque crossbows.

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

  It was early, before the scheduled evening meeting, and Zip and Marc were arguing, 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 was hunched, 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 this bunch. You trained with Stepsons; you know that now they're drifting into town again, things are going to change. You stayed out of trouble when they were around last time; now, you can't. They'll tan your hide and use it for a saddle 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 by accident. I don't want to be any rebel leader; I don't want to incite any riots or 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 knew about you already. If you aren't with them, that bunch assumes you're against them."

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

  "You'll care, when they make you two inches taller before they make you six inches 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 another and the value of their word. Tempus will be along, Strat says, presently: that means the Storm God-if you still care about Vashanka-is coming home. I'm not good with words..." Marc rubbed his beard miserably; his round, brown eyes pleaded with the gutterbred fighter jammed against the joint of two walls as if he were already at bay. "Please just stay and listen to their proposal: without you, the death squads will never give this alliance a chance."

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

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

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

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

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

  Marc looked at his big-knuckled hands. The slit-eyed, scruffy youth before him had been orphaned in the Rankan takeover of Sanctuary. He didn't remember his parents and he'd grown up fast and hard, hating Rankans all the way. He'd had no connections, no advantages, no mentors: Marc had known Zip for years, and never dared to get involved- this k
ind died young and they died unpleasantly.

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

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

  "Thanks for not pressuring me."

  "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 that the goddess could keep this boy from diving through the open hole by his side into the tunnels and never coming up. Marc began to explain about the vampire woman, Ischade; the crime lord, Jubal; the Rankan 3rd Commando leader, Sync; the storyteller, Hakiem, and the acting garrison commander, Walegrin.

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

  The only element missing from the list of invited guests was a representative of black magic-some honcho from the mageguild, or Enas Yorl, or some Hazard-class enchanter 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 have invited 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, though Sync was well aware that the mouth was mightier than the sword in a situation like this. If things went badly, the rest could be let go, but Hakiem would have to die.

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

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

  The young guerrilla fighter whom Sync, Gay Ie, and Strat had tangled with on the Street of Red Lanterns-the one who'd killed his own men rather than let them be captured- had the other far comer, a mangy cur scratched fleas by his knee. Sync nodded to Zip and threaded his way to him through the crowd: if there was one single element of this riffraff he needed to secure his tactical advantage, it was this scruffy rebel leader. Reaching him, with all eyes on them. Sync held out 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 compare notes."

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

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

  "Now that we're all here," Sync scanned the room, making sure that this was indeed the case; a particular pair of wolfish eyes in a furry face met his and he nodded as he continued, "I'd like to turn the meeting over to our resident expert 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, the mangy cur, part wolf by the look of it, who'd been scratching fleas near Zip's knee, stretched, yawned, and got to his feet.

  The dog, with a sneeze and a sniffle, wandered in seemingly haphazard fashion up to 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 the blademonger put out a hand to stay him.

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

  It was a smooth transition, smoother than Randal usually could manage. He didn't even sneeze much.

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

  For the first time. Sync had that warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that he got 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 the Stepsons left it has come to our attention, and with your help, we're going to set about making things right here-ousting the Beysibs and returning Sanctuary to its former... ah... glory."

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

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

  It bothered Sync, just a little, that the credibility of honest fighters wasn't sufficient to satisfy this rabble, but a simple shape-change trick by a fey magician made everybody in the place feel like conquering heroes. He'd counted on that being the case, but it still troubled him: fighters tended to dislike sorcerers, class to class.

  If there was one exception, one person not charmed and convinced by Randal's tricks (including the materialization of a topographical map of Sanctuary, a feast fit for the Beysibs in Kadakithis's palace, and "working capital" to the tune 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 in on the youth.

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

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

  "Magic? I'm afraid of your kind of magic-a knife in the back in the dead of night-not theirs," Sync quipped, wondering if this gutterpud wasn't smarter than he looked: no Stepson, no 3rd Commando, and especially no Rankan regular army 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 the Unicorn, we go through the tunnels. Smith Street's under curfew, even if the Maze isn't; and, wherever you are these days, two men together rouse su
spicion. Come on-that is, unless you're afraid of getting those nice boots wet."

  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.