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her shift, the beauty of her long, straight limbs and fine-boned face drew low comments and hisses from the watching men. The slave Sool paid the girl no further heed, turning to join the departing Turanians.
    Sariya seemed well in control of herself. She did not appear to have been tortured—as indeed, she had assured Conan she would not be because of her rank. Obviously the interrogators had finished with her, and to Conan’s relief, none of the staff officers seemed to take a personal interest. He strode swiftly forward, calling out, “Sariya! Come, girl, I’ll find you a place.”
    But as she raised her dark eyes to him, another figure interposed—a tall, lean trooper, brown and hard beneath sweat-stained leather field-vest and breeches. Dark hair straggled from beneath his grimy turban, fringing a seamed, sun-toughened face. A long, curved dagger hung sheathed at his belt, and the coil of red cord tucked beside it marked him as one of an elite corps of lone killers, whose duty took them on long forays into enemy territory.
    Conan did not know the man, but the reputation of his unit was all anyone needed to know. He took another firm step forward, and the trooper moved between him and Sariya. “Why so eager, petty officer? Have you not learned that, excepting only the Emperor and his High Counselors, we Red Garrotes get first pick of all the women?” The man’s drawl was ironic and confident, his face dangerously calm as he sized up Conan’s height and fitness.
    “Be warned, fellow.” The Cimmerian’s voice grated low but clear as he moved near his challenger. “I took this captive yesterday, and she remains in my charge. I will brook no interference.”
    “Is that an order, northling? Think twice before you move to enforce it! My rank is the equal of yours—and my manhood the greater.” The lean assassin flashed a look at the growing straggle of onlookers, who laughed appreciatively. “You must be the raw foreigner I heard of, Captain Murad’s newest petty—if so, Sergeant, be warned that your men despise you! ‘Tis said you run a suicide squad at the gray one’s bidding; learn your place, or you’ll not last long in Venjipur.”
    Reaching behind him, the garroter laid a brown, wiry hand on the unflinching Sariya’s saffron shoulder, caressing her under Conan’s eyes. Most of the watchers laughed at the spectacle, eager to see the comeuppance of an officer, and a barbarian at that. The boldest moved up beside the challenger to leer at Conan.
    “Do not worry about the girl, Cimmerian,” a voice called from their ranks. “In time she will go among the camp followers; then you too can have your turn!”
    A murmur of laughter following this remark, and in its midst Conan moved. His action was too swift to be traced by the eye, except as a change from utter stillness to utter speed, traced by a single flash of steel. His lunge carried him between Sariya and the elite trooper, sending the unprepared woman staggering with the glancing force of his rush. In the shocked stillness ensuing, amidst the puff of hanging yellow dust, every eye peered blinking to assess the damage, and count the toll of the dead. All marveled to see that, swift as the attack had been, it had not been swift enough.
    Conan crouched in a fighting stance, hands poised ready in air. One held steel, the other, blood—and not his adversary’s. Rather the red drops marking the dust of the compound fell from his own palm, slashed open by the curved dagger clutched in his opponent’s raised hand.
    “So you see, northling, things happen swiftly in these tropical lands. The hooded snake strikes fast, the mongoose faster yet! Had you watched patiently and learned, you might have lived to acquire the necessary quickness yourself.” The garroter leered at his audience. “Now, alas, ‘tis too late for you to gain wisdom.”
    His speech had served the purpose of covering his actions as he raised first one foot, then the other in front of