"What can I do for you?" the policeman asked.

"You can die, foreigner," Isketerol said in Tartessian.

His left hand flashed out and clamped in the Amurru-kan's hair, jerking the man forward, while his right flashed out from behind his back with the steel dagger the smith had made for him. It was double-edged and needle-pointed, about seven inches long, and sharper than anything he'd ever held before. The point punched into the side of the Amurrukan's neck just behind the windpipe; he could feel the stiff tissues crunching and popping as the broader shoulders of the weapon sliced in. He jammed the man's head down on the desk as he wrenched the blade forward. Blood spurted, covering the short tunic-the T-shirt-he was wearing. His victim's movements went spastic for an instant, then slumped away. Bowels and bladder released their smells to the iron-copper tang of blood.

"To You, Arucuttag of the Sea, I dedicate this offering. Take what I give, Hungry One, and grant my desire," Isketerol said. A wet finger outlined a red wave on his forehead.

He turned to the door and signaled the others in. One of them took a single look and bent over, vomiting, Isketerol hid his contempt. Despite their powers the Amurrukan are womanish, he thought.

"Get moving," he said, raising the barrier between the entranceway and the night officer's desk.

He pushed the body backward, so that it slumped off the chair and onto the floor. No sense in taking unnecessary chances. A moment served to strip off the gunbelt and buckle it around his own waist; he cleaned and sheathed the dagger, then took the crossbow one of Lisketter's followers handed him, instead of drawing the pistol as he longed to do. Best to use a weapon he'd practiced with, and one that made no loud noise.

"Harry? What's going on out there?" someone called from within the building.

Isketerol's lips skinned back from his teeth. So. There is a second one. He waited until the doorknob began to move; the panels were thin wood. Then he shot.

Whunng. The crossbow spoke its single musical note. There was a sharp crack as the bolt punched through the door, hardly slowing, then a heavy grunt from the other side. The door swung open toward him and the policeman toppled out, the stubby arrow sunk to its fletchings through his breastbone. The body sprattled and leaked, then went still.

"Quickly!" Isketerol snapped, reloading.

Lisketter's followers and Walker's men had come prepared, on the assumption that a sixteen-pound sledgehammer and a pry bar were the most versatile keys ever invented. They pushed through into the police station, where the shotguns were in racks, padlocked closed. Three ringing blows disposed of the locks, and the long arms went into crates and were manhandled out to the handcart. Ammunition was in locked boxes beneath; they simply carried those out, since they could be opened later. The door of the storeroom where the private firearms were being kept yielded to two strong men with sledges in less than a minute of battering. Isketerol nodded approval. The best password is an ax, he thought. That was an old saying of the Sidonians, and he'd found much value in it.

Inside was the smaller type of gun, pistols. Each was neatly labeled with its owner's name; they were due to be returned to the private citizens soon, perhaps within the week-that had been one reason they decided on this night to make their strike and flee. Hands dragged in two large boxes, padded with blankets. Walker's man, the gunsmith, began to toss weapons into each, carefully segregating out the magnums from the Saturday-night specials, and seeing that Walker's box for the Yare got the former. Isketerol did the same for the long arms, where the differences were less subtle and the pictures he'd memorized made the work easy. Most of the best ones had already been sent aboard Eagle-that was Will's task-but there were two that were especially formidable; Garands, Will called them, weapons with which the Amurrukan had fought a great war in Walker's grandsire's day. Improved somehow, something about twenty-round magazines. Lisketter's people accepted the others, the.22 popguns and the kiddie can-plinkers, without dispute. Few of them were familiar with firearms, less than he was, even; and those who knew anything were away with Liskettef herself.

Metal clattered on metal. Seconds crawled by like minutes, minutes like hours. Like a battle, Isketerol thought, working a dry mouth. Or rather like the waiting before one; he could remember feeling like this as a stripling, out with the city levy to fight off a raid by mountain tribesmen on the valley farms tributary to Tartessos.

At last they were finished. Isketerol chivvied them out, turning to check that all the other doors to the building were locked from the inside. Then he shut the last one and stuck a strip of soft brass into the slot for the key, hammering the end home with the butt of his dagger and then breaking it off with a sideways blow. That would delay whoever came to check on the station, and moments might be crucial. He took a coat from the handcart and draped it over his shoulders, hiding the weapons at his belt. The crossbow went within, his hand on it as he stood beside the cart in the position he would walk.

A quick glance up and down the street. Nobody was looking this way. "To the docks," he said. "Walk as if you own the world."

If this plan succeeded, Isketerol son of Elantinin would own a good deal of it. His part had begun well. He could only ask the Powers that the others might do as well, and keep alert.

"Go!"

"Told you the blacksmith would be working," Walker said, looking down at his watch. "Right where we need him."

Time to go for it. Three coordinated strikes. Yeah, Isketerol will bring his off. Lisketter… fuck it, I'm committed. Go for it.

He could smell the fear-sweat on the men behind him, Rodriguez and McAndrews. Casual, you dumb bastards, act casual, he thought. We're just some friends out for a stroll. There were a fair number of people out tonight, dropping in on neighbors or heading for parties or whatever. Theirs wasn't the only lantern drawing a yellow light through the dark streets away from the streetlamps of Main. He could smell the clean hot scent of burning charcoal from the big shed up ahead of them, hot metal, sneeze-making cinders, the heavy frying smell of the oil bath used for quenching and tempering.

Dumb bastards. This is the safe part. You're not committed till we go through that door.

You took what material was to hand, but he wasn't impressed with either. The Puerto Rican sailor thought with his balls, and McAndrews had more nonsense stuffed into his thick head than one of Lisketter's flakes, just a different flavor. On the other hand, neither was a coward. McAndrews was even fairly bright, when his brain wasn't focused on the Glories of Africa; squeamish, though.

They could hear the clang of the hammer from the shed; it was a converted truck garage near Seahaven Engineering, chosen for its concrete floor. Smoke floated up from the new forge chimney, ghostly in the star-sheening night sky. Sheet metal had been laid around the brick of the stack, to lessen the risk of fire. Red light leaked out around the edges of the doors and through the big propped-open windows.

Good. Only Martins and his bimbo there. There were six separate hearths inside, and a selection of special-purpose anvils. Walker pushed open the door just enough for a man's body and slipped through. Even with good ventilation it was hot inside, and Martins's bare skin shone with sweat. He was standing by the oil bath, and it hissed and bubbled smoke as he plunged the bright metal into it. Over by the forge his girlfriend, Barbara, rested at the pedal-worked bellows, her inevitable cat in her lap. She was a comfortable-looking woman in her late thirties, given to wearing long scarves; she'd run an herb store, before the Event.