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his mouth full of wine and chicken breast, had been looking toward Sandokazi for guidance. Her full lips sucked at an orange, but her eyes smiled amusement. Conan worked to swallow. Was the White Rose that dive where …
    Santiddio liked the sound of his own words too much to require a reply. “As you know, the White Rose is the revolutionary army dedicated to the overthrow of King Rimanendo and his corrupt court, and to the establishment of a free republic of the Zingaran people. Doubtless you will have seen our broadsides—we circulate them faster than Rimanendo’s stooges can tear them down. Or you may have read our leaflets, perhaps even my own most recent pamphlet—the one that led to our acquaintance under the gallows.”
    Conan nodded politely, licking grease from his fingers. The chicken had taken enough of the edge from his appetite to restore his equanimity. He did vaguely recall some sort of furor in the barracks over the discovery of certain treasonous documents, some discussion of a secret society Rimanendo wanted rooted out. Such was a matter for the city guard to bother about, not for Zingara’s mercenary companies, and Conan found political arguments as dull and fruitless as that other conversational exercise that so obsessed learned fools: religious discussions.
    “Republic?” Conan struggled with the unfamiliar Zingaran term. “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not sure that your native tongue includes the concept,” Santiddio said airily. “It is a creation of the most modern political thought. I don’t know what you might call it—a commonwealth, perhaps, where people choose their rulers instead of accepting those the gods place over them. The idea is somewhat akin to the practices of certain primitive tribes who elect their chiefs.”
    Santiddio caught himself quickly. “Primitive meaning, in other words, ah, certain barbarian peoples…” He tried to recall in what manner the Cimmerians governed themselves.
    “You said the White Rose was an army,” Conan prompted. “Where are your soldiers?”
    “The people of Zingara are our soldiers,” Santiddio informed him, waving his arms to include the world. “For our cause is the cause of all men who seek freedom from the tyranny of a corrupt and willful despot.”
    Conan had been about to ask where their headquarters were, but now thought better of it. “And your officers? Who are they?”
    “We have no officers—at least, not in the sense you mean,” Santiddio hedged. “We have leaders, of course—but our leaders are men chosen by ourselves from our own ranks, not petty tyrants who secure their high position through wealth and birth.”
    “And who is the leader of the White Rose?” Conan persisted.
    “Well, we have no leader —at least no one leader, per se; that is, no one person to whom all others are subservient. This is not to say that we are leaderless, of course.”
    Conan nodded, tankard poised halfway to his mouth.
    “There are some, I suppose,” Santiddio went on, “who would say that I am the leader of the White Rose. Of course, we do have our factions—any movement does. Certainly, Avvinti has his adherents among the conservatives, as does Carico with his muddy ideas on communal property. And there are others prominent in our movement who have a certain following.”
    “Then who makes decisions?”
    “Ah! We all do. We have discussions, form committees to study all aspects of the situation—then we vote on a course of action. The powers to command are held by all.”
    Mordermi burst out laughing. “And if it had been left to your fellow florists, the ravens would be feasting on that glib tongue of yours, Santiddio. Do you know why the White Rose did nothing to secure your release? Because the committee designated to propose a rescue plan couldn’t agree whether to storm the prison or to subvert your guards, while Avvinti maintained that you were far more valuable to the movement as a martyr than as a writer of