"Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand?"
"All right—for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in—and we'll have two of you!"
Buregarde growled, "Three of us. And we might be hard to handle."
Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for, and found the pencil-ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed the stranger across the face, turned him around, and pointed him toward the far corner.
"I count three," he said. "If you're not out of sight by three—"
"It'll be a pleasure, Peter," said Buregarde.
The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner he ran face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Xanabar. The mercenary collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop he came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlock.
Haughtily he demanded, "What goes on in Xanabar?"
Peter eyed the mercenary sourly. "Kidnaping and attempted murder."