Again, Jubal laughed. When he sobered, he raised his mask-not enough for Sync tosee 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, thelocal death squads and revolutionaries, your odd mercenary, the downtroddenIlsig populace, and the regular army garrison-the ranking officer over there isan 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 firingrange out back, two display cases filled with blades, and two walls of hightorque crossbows.
Beneath, in the cellar, arcane and forbidden weaponry was kept-alchemicalincendiaries, wrist slingshots such as Zip's, instruments of interrogation andof silent kill: poisons and persuaders.
It was early, before the scheduled evening meeting, and Zip and Marc werearguing, 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 washunched, 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 thisbunch. You trained with Stepsons; you know that now they're drifting into townagain, things are going to change. You stayed out of trouble when they werearound last time; now, you can't. They'll tan your hide and use it for asaddle blanket; your polished teeth'll decorate some war-horse's headstall.