From a hunting blind of artfully piled garbage guarded by a dozen fat, half-tamed rats, an Ilsig head, then another, and another, caught the moonlight asthe death squad emerged from the tunnels to go stalking Beysibs in the Maze.

They called their leader "Zip," when they called him anything at all. He didn'tencourage familiarity; he'd always been a loner, a creature of the streetswithout family or friends. Even before the Beysib had come and the waves ofexecutions had begun, the street urchins and the Maze-dwellers had stayed clearof the knife-boy who was half Ilsig and half some race much paler, who hired outfor copper to any enforcer in the Maze or disgruntled dealer in Downwind. Andwho, it was said, brought an eye or tongue or liver from every soul he murderedto Vashanka's half-forgotten altar on the White Foal River's edge.

Even his death squad was afraid of him. Zip knew. And that was fine with him:every now and again, a member was captured by the Rankan oppressors or theBeysib oppressors: the less these idealists of revolution knew of him, the lessthey could reveal under torture or blandishment. He'd had a friend once, or atleast a close acquaintance-an Ilsig thief called Hanse. But Hanse, with all hisshining blades and his high-toned airs, had gone the way of everything inSanctuary since the Beysibs' ships had docked: to oblivion, to hell in a basket.

Standing up straight for a moment in the moon-licked gloom to get his bearings.Zip heard laughter rounding a comer, saw a flash of pantaloon, and ducked back