Wings of Omen - Thieves World 06 Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.