"I have been married thirty-six--no, forty-one times. The longest was
the first: twenty-six years. We were both thirty when we met. When she
died, she was fifty-six; I was still thirty. I was just finding out,
then."
Miguel toyed with a sparkling, many-faceted gem on his desk. "Most of
the other marriages were short ones.... I couldn't bear to watch them
grow old. Now I do not marry at all."
"Do you have children?" Kesley asked.
Miguel flinched as if struck. His wide lips tightened in anger; then
his face softened again. "The gene is recessive," he said quietly. "And
lethal in early childhood, if not immediately after birth. My dynasties
have been short-lived. I have had eight children; seven lived less
than a year. The eighth reached the age of nine."
He laughed hollowly. "Out of eternal life, nothing but death. No, I
have no children, young one."
"I--see," Kesley said. He peered closely at the Immortal, feeling a
strange flow of pity for the timeless man. Immortality was a costly
gift, he saw. Suddenly, Kesley wondered how many other Immortals there
had been beside the Twelve--Immortals who, once they realized the
terrible nature of their breed, had taken their own lives. More than
one, he thought.
And how often did Miguel himself consider suicide? Had he had some
hidden protection against Kesley's knife, moments ago downstairs, or
had the Duke been half-hoping the blade would strike true?
Perhaps.
"Why do you keep me here?" Kesley asked.
Miguel looked up slowly. His eyes, deep and piercing, bored into
Kesley's. "You amuse me," Miguel said. "When one is more than four
centuries old, one is hard put to find amusement. I am amused by the
possibility that you might strike me dead at any moment."
"It's really very funny," Kesley said.
"I'm amused by the fact that you're not afraid of me. Awed, yes, but
not servile. How many times a day do you think I hear that hateful word
'Sire'? _Sire!_ Me, who has sired eight dead babes and nothing more."
Kesley looked away, embarrassed. "Sire also means ruler," he pointed
out in a muffled voice.
"That, too," Miguel said. "I rule, and it is my life to rule. I have
ruled four hundred years, and I will rule four thousand more--or four
thousand thousand, or four million. But I can never stop ruling. It is
a burden I can never put down. Who would fill the vacuum I would leave?"
"There were rulers before the Twelve Dukes."
"And they destroyed the world! Destroyed it--and in so doing, brought
_us_ into being. No, stranger, my Dukedom I can never put down. But it
wearies me to make always the petty decisions, to govern the lives of
petty--"
"Why are you telling me all this?" Kesley burst out.
"Mere amusement," Miguel said evenly. "I enjoy talking to you. What is
your name?"
"Dale Kesley."
"Dale Kesley," Miguel repeated. "A fine North American name, square-cut
and undistinguished. I like it."
The Duke gestured toward a communicator-tube on his desk. "Bring that
to me."
Shrugging, Kesley handed him the tube. Miguel switched it on. "Send
Archbishop Santana here at once," he barked, and cut the channel.
He glanced at Kesley. "The Archbishop will swear you to my service,
Dale Kesley."
"But I'm a vassal of Duke Winslow," Kesley protested.
Miguel chuckled heartily. "A vassal of Duke Winslow," he mimicked.
"Vassal, indeed. You turn down my offer? You throw Duke Winslow in my
face?"
"An oath is an oath, Don Miguel."
"Oaths? Who are you to talk of oaths? You're nothing but a paid
assassin--don't think I haven't overlooked that."
Kesley started to protest, but saw there was nothing to be gained by
arguing. Miguel would never believe him.
"His Holiness Archbishop Santana," the wall-announcer said.
The door slid open and the Archbishop entered. As the plump figure
waddled into the room, Kesley grinned in recognition. The Archbishop
was the fat man in velvet robes whom he had bowled over in his mad
flight downstairs.
Now the priest wore a simple black surplice and mitred hat and carried
the crook symbolic of his office. He was a small, rotund man with dark
olive skin and a thin, sharply-hooked nose that seemed highly misplaced
in his otherwise plumply rounded countenance. He paused at the door,
smiling benignly, and made the sign of the cross with two swift motions
in the air.
"Come on in, Santana," Miguel ordered.
The priest approached Miguel and bowed deeply, then glanced at Kesley.
Suspicion was evident on his smoothly-shaven face.
"This is Dale Kesley of North America," Miguel said.
"We have met," the priest said unctuously. "This young man knocked me
down while fleeing from your guards, sire."
Kesley grinned imperceptibly, catching Miguel's faint, involuntary
wince at the _sire_. "It was an accident, Father. I was fleeing
hastily; I didn't see you."
"Time wastes," Miguel said. "Santana, swear this young man quickly into
my service. I have work for him."
The priest began to raise his crook, but Kesley shook his head. "No,
Don Miguel. I told you I'm a vassal of Duke Winslow."
Miguel smiled. "But Duke Winslow's oath is no longer binding upon his
vassals, you know."
"I didn't know. When did this happen?"
"It hasn't, yet. But it will shortly--when Duke Winslow is
assassinated."
"But--when--"
"Soon," Miguel said. His cold smile was painful to watch. "And your
hand," the Immortal continued, "will be the one that strikes him down."
"You're crazy," Kesley said shortly.
Miguel paled, and Santana crossed himself rapidly several times.
"You don't talk like that to your Duke," the Archbishop said.
"_My_ Duke? But--"
Don Miguel regained his composure and put one hand on Kesley's
shoulder. "I ask you to join me and perform this service. I am prepared
to pay well for it."
"The price?"
"My daughter," Miguel said. "Kill Winslow, and she's yours."
"Your _daughter_? But I thought--"
"_Adopted_ daughter," Miguel said smoothly. "My ward. The girl is but
twenty-two, and lovely. Kill Winslow, and she's yours."
Kesley felt perspiration dripping down his body. Kill Duke Winslow?
Upset the balance of the Twelve Empires, break the fragile harmony on
which the world depended? It was impossible!