Lizard’s Way.
Tempus was thinking, as he rode the Tros past a pile of refuse that undoubtedly hid at least one hostile youngster, that what Zip might gain, could he do the impossible and show progress toward peace-a coalition of rebel forces, a cease fire committee, or even a pacification program-was more than the boy’s wildest dream: a home.
There were no forces to replace the Stepsons and the 3rd. The Rankan army garrison was just that-Rankan. The Stepsons’ barracks, won at so great a cost in life and love five years past, would be deserted; the job the Sacred Band did, undone. There would be a handful of Hell-Hounds to stand against Theron’s battalions, Beysib oppressors, and the crime-lords of the town.
If Zip would only let him, Tempus was going to solve a number of problems that had seemed insoluble only minutes before, and do the youth the only favor one man can do another: Give him a start on solving his own problems, a place to stand, a world to win-a fresh start.
If Tempus could keep his own people from killing the charismatic young rebel leader in the meantime. And if Zip knew a last chance when he saw one.
And if, in Sanctuary, where hate and fear passed for respect. Zip hadn’t made so many enemies that, no matter what Tempus did, the boy’s assassination wasn’t as sure as the next thunderclap of Stormbringer’s welcome-weather.
When that thunderclap did come, Tempus was already cantering the Tros down
Lizard’s Way, headed for the Vulgar Unicorn, where a fiend named Snapper Jo tended bar and word could be spread fast, when a man had rumors he wanted on the wing.