Kesley's self-searching in the past few minutes had revealed one
jarring fact: he did not have the qualms he had supposed he would have.
Assassinating Winslow would not be star-snuffing; he knew he could do
it as casually as van Alen had blasted the blue wolf, back in Iowa
Province.
He knew he should be quaking at the thought of murdering his own Duke,
but the necessary quaking refused to come.
_What's wrong with me?_ he asked himself desperately. _Why am I
different?_