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half-baked political pamphlets.”
    “That bastard, Avvinti! I’ll kill him!” Santiddio flared. “But I thought Sandokazi has convinced you to throw your lot in with us.”
    “Sandokazi was persuasive, I’ll grant you—but the rescue today was entirely on my own initiative.”
    “That bastard Avvinti!” Santiddio’s face was murderous. “I’ll give him his chance to earn a martyr’s glory.”
    Fuming, he struggled into the fresh garments Sandokazi had brought him. One of the whores made to help him with his trunk hose, but Santiddio impatiently brushed her away, and hopped about the room cursing to himself.
    Conan’s attendant brought razor and mirror. She would have shaved him, but Conan didn’t care to allow another hand to bring sharp steel that close to his throat. Letting her hold the mirror, he scraped at the growth of beard. Santiddio had no more than trimmed his own prison growth to its customary length.
    “The situation in brief, Conan,” Santiddio continued, as he busied himself tying his points, “is that Mordermi is in sympathy with the goals and principles of the White Rose, even though the conceited ass considers us little more than idealists and visionaries.”
    “You and your friends tell the poor that the wealth of Rimanendo’s court rightfully belongs to them,” Mordermi said caustically. “I take those riches from Rimanendo’s nobles and give them to the oppressed.”
    “After exacting a profit.”
    “I have my expenses to contend with, Santiddio dear. You are the one who speaks of altruism.”
    “Mordermi!” Santiddio whirled to fix the outlaw with an accusing finger. “Beneath that cynical front beats a heart of stone. ’Kazi, where is my sword?”
    Sandokazi spoke to one of the whores. The girl disappeared, returned shortly with a rapier in a slightly mildewed scabbard. Santiddio slid the double-edged blade from its scabbard, eyed it critically for a moment and made a few passes. Conan watched his movements with interest. Santiddio was quick with words; his talent was not confined to verbal fencing.
    “Avvinti, it is time for a dialogue,” Santiddio murmured, returning the blade to its sheath and belting it to his waist. “Conan, are you an oyster that you will soak in your shell all day?”
    “Just bring me my clothes,” Conan suggested.
    “They crawled away,” Sandokazi laughed. “The lice claimed them in the name of King Rimanendo, and carried them back to the prison for dessert. The girls are finding clothes to fit you.”
    Conan handed the razor back to his doxy, washed the soap from his face. The water, he decided, had reached that point at which it was as likely to deposit dirt on his skin as wash it off, but at least he’d cleansed the stench of prison from his flesh. He climbed out of the tub, wrestled with the whore for the towel. Sandokazi watched him with ironic amusement, chewing at her orange.
    By the time he had dried himself, they had brought fresh garments—clean, if not particularly new. Conan worked his legs into a pair of leather trousers, tight against his damp skin, and drew a loose-sleeved shirt of burgundy stuff over his head. His boots had been cleaned and hastily mended where the iron cuffs had gouged. There was a sleeveless houppelande, its brocade somewhat frayed, that made a snug fit across his chest—Conan suspected its original wearer had been a man of stout proportions—and a slouch-brimmed hat that Conan tried and discarded.
    “Not bad,” Santiddio judged. “You aren’t going to be mistaken for one of Rimanendo’s counts, but then again, you’ll pass in a crowd.”
    Sandokazi laughed cynically.
    “I’m sure we can obtain a more suitable costume, given time,” Mordermi said smoothly. “Something a trifle more in the mode perhaps. After all, the guard will be looking for a ragged barbarian.”
    “I’ll settle for a good sword,” Conan told him.
    “That much is easily done. Our arsenal is better stocked than our