One of his missiles found its target: with a yelp, a pan-talooned figure went toits knees. Another turned his head, cursing like a soldier, and somethingwhizzed 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 awalk, his breathing heavy, trying to see if the two lying in the dirt weremoving. He thought one was; the other seemed too still.

His adversaries, whoever they were, seemed to want to continue the argument: thetwo with the swords moved toward him, parallel to one another, splitting thestreet into defensible halves, far enough away from the buildings to avoid anymore lurkers in doorways, and from each other to give each room to handleanything that might come his way. Neither spoke; they closed on him withbusinesslike economy and a certain eagerness that gave Zip just enough time forsecond thoughts: These were professional tactics, put into practice byprofessionals. When times had been easier in Sanctuary and an old warhorsenamed Tempus had formed a special forces unit of Stepsons and then invitedany Ilsigs who dared to train for a citizens' militia. Zip had taken theopportunity 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 particularstreet toward him.

Two to one against professionals, there was no chance that he could win.

He raised his hands as if in surrender.

The two soldiers-in-disguise growled low to one another in what might have beenCourt Rankene.

Before they could decide the obvious-to take him alive and spend the eveningasking him questions it would be painful, perhaps crippling, not to answer-Zipdid what he had to do: let fly with a palmed dagger and then a specially pronged