Wings of Omen - Thieves World 06 Read Free

result of it Zip had seen was a second, then a third wave of Beysib ritual executions. .But since those ceremonially slaughtered were hated Rankan overlords and IIsigs who served the Rankans and the Bey, it wasn't keeping any of the revolutionaries up at night.
    And you had to do something. Kadakithis had been a harsh ruler, but the Rankan barbarians were spoken of wistfully and with something bordering on affection now that the Beysib had come: a matriarchy complete with female mercenaries, assassins, magicians more utterly ruthless than men could ever be. It was enough to have brought Zip into the orb of the Revolution-his manhood was something he'd fight to keep. It was going to take more than a few exposed fish-folk titties 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 their pertinent equipment on Vashanka's Foal-side altar: maybe the Rankan murder-god could be roused to action; Death knew that the Ilsig gods were out of their depth with these women-despots whose spittle was as venomous as the pet snakes they kept and the spells they spoke. The Revolution could use the publicity and Zip could use the money their jewelry was going to bring once Marc melted it down.
    Down the street came the Beysib boywhores, laughing in deeper voices than Beysib men usually dared. Zip could make out some words now: "-porking town down on its porking 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'm making it an order. Beysibs don't-God's balls!"
    Without warning, and according to plan. Zip's two cohorts jumped out from concealment as the three Beysibs passed them.
    Zip readied his throwing knives: once the Beysibs were herded his way, they were as 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 their pantaloons, weapons suddenly appeared: Zip could hear the grate of metal as swords left their scabbards and the dismayed shouts from his cohorts as they tried 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 use it; he was still thinking to himself that he was better off not getting involved, that these weren't your average Beysibs-maybe not Beysibs at all-and that he didn't owe the death-squad members anything, when he found himself letting fly once, then again, with his wrist slingshot and making as much noise as he could while running pell-mell toward the fray.
    One of his missiles found its target: with a yelp, a pan-talooned figure went to its knees. Another turned his head, cursing like a soldier, and something whizzed 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 a walk, his breathing heavy, trying to see if the two lying in the dirt were moving. He thought one was; the other seemed too still. His adversaries, whoever they were, seemed to want to continue the argument: the two with the swords moved toward him, parallel to one another, splitting the street into defensible halves, far enough away from the buildings to avoid any more lurkers in doorways, and from each other to give each room to handle anything that might come his way. Neither spoke; they closed on him with businesslike economy and a certain eagerness that gave Zip just enough time for second thoughts: These were professional tactics, put into practice by professionals. When times had been easier in Sanctuary and an old warhorse named Tempus had formed a special forces unit of Stepsons and then invited any Ilsigs who dared to train for a citizens' militia. Zip had taken the opportunity 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 particular