"What is all this?" Kesley whispered.
"I don't know. Miguel's evidently rounding up all the North Americans
in his territory. It's illegal! It's--"
The guard whirled suddenly and struck the Illinois man across the face
with his pistol. "Silence!"
Kesley felt a surge of anger, but restrained it. He bent and lifted the
older man to his feet. Dazed, the courtier wiped blood from his tunic
and dabbed gently at his gashed cheek. "Damn him," he muttered. He
groped at his hip for a sword that wasn't there.
"Hush," Kesley said. "They'll only knock you down again. Fall in line
and keep quiet. We'll find out what's going on later."
It was the only way to stay alive, he told himself. Fall in line; ask
questions later.
Another door opened, and they entered the palace of the Duke.
"This way," the guard called. "After me." Shepherding them with his
drawn pistol, he led the way, while three other guards closed in at
each side of the group. Kesley looked around. They were in a long
corridor which headed toward a descending staircase. The dungeons,
obviously.
They kept walking. _Fall in line; ask questions later._ Kesley repeated
it to himself.
Suddenly he stiffened. He had fallen obediently in line when van Alen
had appeared from nowhere--and the questions that arose had never been
answered. Now, perhaps, he was marching unquestioningly to his death.
_I won't do it_, he thought defiantly, and stepped out of line.
He yanked the pistol from the astonished guard near him and slid his
hand around the thick butt. The gun had an unfamiliar feel to it; it
was heavy and clumsy. But he raised it quickly to shoulder-level and
fired.
The guard at the front of the line yawped and clutched his shoulder.
Kesley fired again. A second guard dropped. The other men in the line
caught on, now, and charged the remaining pair of surprised guards.
Kesley heard a pistol crack, and saw that it was in the hands of a
North American.
_This_ was the way. Act, instead of being acted upon.
Guards were coming down the corridor now, waving pistols. "Over here,"
Kesley yelled. He started to run back the way he had come. Turning
the corridor, he collided with a surprised-looking fat man in reddish
velvet robes, who had been moving forward in stately fashion, oblivious
to the conflict ahead of him.
Kesley knocked the fat man off his legs and kept running. Behind him
came the sounds of pistol shots echoing down the halls, and the clatter
of feet. Guards were coming from all over. He turned, fired three more
times, and threw the useless gun away.
Four guards dashed toward him and, quickly, he backed into a dark
alcove. There was a door. Impulsively, he threw it open and stepped
inside.
A fist rocked him almost before he had crossed the threshold. Dizzily,
Kesley wobbled backward to get a view of his assailant.
He was a big, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man wearing embroidered
robes and a shimmering gold tiara. A _noble_, Kesley decided. _He packs
a mean punch._
The big man reached upward and yanked on a bell. Almost instantly,
the room was full of guards. Determined to do as much damage as he
could before being retaken, Kesley sprang forward. He clawed at the
embroidered gold robes, feeling gold inlay ripping away under his
fingernails. Then the noble hit him again, sending him staggering up
against the wall. Two guards seized him.
"One of the escaped prisoners, _señor_," a guard babbled. "How he got
in here we do not know. He--"
"Enough, _payaso_. Take him away. Kill him."
A tired frown crossed the big man's forehead. "No. Forget that. Tie him
to a chair, and leave him alone here with me."
The guard looked up doubtfully, but quickly concealed his misgivings.
"Of course, sire."
"Send in my clothier also. This idiot has ruined my robes."
Kesley allowed himself to be tied to a chair.
"You're a bold fool," the big man said, coming over to glower down at
Kesley. He knotted his fingers in his thick, tangled dark beard, and
smiled, baring stained yellow teeth. Kesley met the noble's gaze evenly.
The deep eyes were set in a network of fine wrinkles. They were not the
eyes of an ordinary man. They were heavy with the shadow of a hundred
thousand days gone by, and infinities of days to come. Kesley realized
that the man before him was no mere noble. He could only be Don Miguel,
Duke of South America.
An Immortal.