He was dead the minute he announced he wouldn’t play the game; if he was dead a week or two later if he pretended to play along, that was a week or two of living he wouldn’t have otherwise.
It wasn’t a great shot, but it was the only one he had. He didn’t have anywhere to run; he had too many enemies without Tempus added to the list. If he diverged from the “arrangement,” he’d have no chance at all of surviving. It would be open season on Zip-for professionals.
He had one hole card, maybe, in Kama. He couldn’t imagine she’d get that close with him for any kind of revenge.
He wanted to see her, but by the time he got out of the swamp, the sun was going down and he knew he’d better head for Ratfall.
Though Sync had proved Zip wasn’t safe in Downwind, somebody had proved he wasn’t safe out at the barracks, and he’d known for a long time that he wasn’t safer anywhere than his own abilities could make him.
So he went to ground in Ratfall, detouring only long enough to lay the arrow that had nicked his ear on the little pile of stones down at the White Foal
River’s edge.
He used to bring blood sacrifices there-to something. He wasn’t sure what. But it liked them. He thought maybe, if it liked him enough for bringing it presents, it might take of-fense at whoever had shot the arrow (which had his own blood on it still), and do its single servant a favor.
Because without a god’s help, a piece of alley-grime like Zip didn’t have a whore’s chance of making it through another Sanctuary night unmolested.