"I know, sire. Witnesses may be in order."
"Very well," Miguel said wearily. "In return for services to be
rendered, I do promise the hand of my ward, the Lady Narella, to Dale
Kesley of my vassalage."
"When?"
"Upon his return from the successful completion of his endeavors in my
behalf."
"Said endeavors being?" Kesley prodded mercilessly.
"The elimination of Duke Winslow of North America," Miguel said. "His
death by any means whatsoever."
"All right," Kesley said. He glanced from Miguel to the Archbishop--who
seemed somewhat pale beneath his olive skin--to Narella. "Now that
terms have been stated, we can talk business. Miguel, what assurance do
I have that I'll get the girl when I come back?"
"An Immortal is good to his word," the Duke said gruffly. "You have a
witness in the person of the Archbishop."
"Surely you will not require the Duke to swear an oath?" Santana
exclaimed in a shocked voice. "My presence will certify--as if
certification were necessary--that--"
"Enough, padre," Kesley said. There was nothing to be won by forcing
Miguel into an oath; he had already given his word as an Immortal, and
if he would break that, it was reasonable to suspect that no other oath
would bind him.
He looked at the girl again. _Daveen's daughter_, he thought. He
wondered what tangled relationship of cause and effect had brought him
to this place at this time, and where van Alen, who had set the whole
chain of events in motion, was now.
In a month's time Kesley had been transformed from an ignorant Iowa
farmer into a killer of Dukes and a wooer of noble ladies. It was
a strange progress, but it was hopeless, Kesley thought, to try to
account for the vagaries of fate.
"Will you accept and enter my vassalage?" Miguel asked.
Kesley met the Immortal's gaze squarely and this time, it seemed to
him, it was those dark, four-hundred-year-old eyes that gave ground
instead of his own.
"I accept," he said.
He forced himself to kneel and kiss the golden hem of Don Miguel's
jeweled cloak.
V
The ducal capital of Chicago sprawled in a lazy ring on the banks of
Lake Michigan, in Illinois Province. As Dale Kesley and his small
retinue waited outside the city's walls before requesting admission,
the thought occurred to him once again that the world's cities were
similar. As he looked at Chicago, it seemed to him that he might never
really have left Buenos Aires.
Duke Winslow's palace, visible high in the background overlooking the
calm lake, might have been an exact replica of Don Miguel's, except
that its flat walls were hewn from broad slabs of flesh-red feldspar
instead of spun, as Miguel's were, from shimmering polyethylene. In the
stagnant, late-August air, the sun's rays hit the palace walls weakly,
giving them an oily glare that Kesley found displeasing. But still
he preferred the natural blockiness of the stone to the consistent
slickness of the plastic that formed the walls of Miguel's palace.
Polyethylene walls were the products of controlled hard radiation and,
controlled or no, Kesley, like all men, found the concept of radiation
repugnant. It jarred against ingrained taboos.
His eye, becoming city-familiar now, began to detect other differences
between Winslow's capital and Miguel's. The guards posted in Chicago's
outer walls lacked the tense urgency of the small brown men who
protected Buenos Aires; they stared outward with a sleepy complacency
that seemed to characterize the entire city and possibly, Kesley
admitted, the entire North American Empire. Here in the north, there
was none of the crackling atmosphere of tension that seemed to prevail
in Buenos Aires.
Kesley's horse, a firm-fleshed black thoroughbred of the Old Kind,
furnished by Miguel and transported with finicking care from South
America, pawed impatiently at the layer of fine ash that covered the
ground outside the city, and snorted. Kesley steadied the animal with
soothing pressures of his calves and thighs; the horse detected the
signals and subsided.
"Shall we go in?" Kesley asked.
"Why not?" came the reply from his left. Kesley glanced over at the
rider, Archbishop Santana. "We are here, and the time is proper," the
priest said.
Kesley turned in the saddle to gesture at his six men. They rode behind
at a respectful distance, six well-muscled members of Miguel's guard,
resplendent in their imperial blue shorts and flashing yellow jackets.
Kesley urged his horse forward; Santana, a surprisingly good horseman
despite his unathletic physique, did the same, and the six guards
followed. They advanced to the wall.
A toll-keeper waited there, a dried old man in Ducal uniform seated
beside an immense tollbox ornamented with Duke Winslow's arms. Kesley
reined in before him and drew out a jangling leather pouch.
The toll-keeper's lips moved silently as he counted the party. "Eight
dollars," he said.
"_Por cierto._" Kesley leaned far to the right and handed the man the
pouch. "Eight dollars of that is for toll, _amigo_."
Frowning, the old man undid the drawstrings, emptying the contents of
the pouch into his wrinkled palm. Eight tiny golden dollars rolled out,
followed by a massive imperial doubloon of Miguel's coinage. A faint
blink was the only acknowledgement the toll-keeper showed; nodding
curtly, he dropped the eight dollars in the till, pocketed the doubloon
as if by divine right, and gestured casually within with a quick toss
of his head.
As Kesley and his party proceeded through the heavy gate, Kesley
grinned quietly to himself. He wished van Alen could have seen the
strange metamorphosis of his one-time protege: here he was, clad
in the lustrous velvet robes of a Knight of the Empire of South
America, riding a full-blooded, spirited, Old-Kind horse instead of
a swaybacked, scaly old mutant, and distributing largesse with the
natural air of the high-born.
He entered the city proper at a slow canter, the Archbishop at his
side, his men behind. The streets were crowded. Chicago, built on the
very ashes of the Old City of that name, was the largest city of Duke
Winslow's territories, home to some three hundred thousand souls.
Kesley saw eyes brighten at the sight of his magnificent horse; men
in the streets cleared back, giving way, as the South American party
entered.
"We should find an inn first of all," the Archbishop advised.
"Tomorrow, you and I will try to seek audience with the Duke."
Kesley shook his head. "We announce ourselves to the Duke at once; we
tell him we'll have an audience tomorrow. None of this begging for an
appointment."
Santana shrugged. "As you wish, _Señor Ramon_." The sudden, hard,
sardonic inflection in the Archbishop's purring voice mocked the false
title Miguel had bestowed on Kesley for the purpose of the journey.
Kesley rode silently on, brooding over his mission. He had agreed
lightly enough, back in Buenos Aires, to the assassination of Winslow,
but now that he actually was in Winslow's own capital, with the rosy
bulk of the Ducal Palace towering ahead, he wondered how he could have
acceded so casually to so dangerous and so terrible a mission.
The looming palace ahead was the nerve-center of a continent, and one
man--_one man_--controlled the multitude of ganglia. The entire vast
spread of North America, from the dismal radiation-roasted Eastern
seaboard to the broad plains of the Middle-West farming country to the
open, relatively unscathed lands of the far West, depended for its
organization on Chicago and on Chicago's Duke.
For the first time, Kesley realized the immensity of the confusion that
would result when he struck down Winslow. He had no motive for the
crime, either; it would be a sheerly gratuitous act, performed as a
gesture of disengagement and nothing more.
But what could Miguel's motive in upsetting the balance of the world
possibly be? Surely, Kesley thought, the South American Duke knew what
would happen once Winslow was removed. The taut framework of North
American life would collapse inward on itself like a puffball that had
discharged its dusty cloud of spores.
Who would profit? Miguel? Were assassins now drawing near the Ducal
Palaces of Stockholm, of Johannesburg, of Canberra, readying themselves
to rid the world of all Dukes but Miguel at one bold stroke? If so,
why? Did Miguel want the crushing responsibility of the entire globe's
governance strapped to his shoulders for all eternity?
It seemed unlikely. Kesley thought of the Immortal's deep, weary eyes,
and of the moment of weakness when Miguel had let his heavy head sink
between his hands. No, Miguel had some other motive.
Amusement, perhaps.
Kesley nodded. That was it: amusement. Having long since exhausted the
pleasures of his power, having tasted everything human life had to
offer, the timeless man was searching desperately for a relief from
boredom.
For that reason he had bared his chest to Kesley's knife and, perhaps,
he had not cared whether Kesley struck or not. For the same reason, he
had chosen Kesley at random to remove Winslow, to upset the balance, to
_change things_.
Kesley shuddered. What a nightmare an Immortal's life must be, he
thought, once the first few centuries had passed.
* * * * *
Later, Kesley rode back from the palace with a little less lordliness
than he had had going forth.
"That major-domo had nerve," he remarked mournfully, as the little
band of South Americans trotted through the broad palace approaches
toward the gate leading back into the city. "An appointment next week!
Who does Winslow think he is? And what does he think of Miguel, if he
treats his ambassadors this way?"
"Peace, son," the Archbishop said. "Be philosophical. Duke Winslow is a
busy man and a proud one. I warned you this would happen."
"But we're _ambassadors_!"
"Exactly so. Had we been ragamuffins we would have had a better chance
of an immediate audience." Santana shook his head. "You fail to see
that Winslow is deliberately humbling us to stress his own superiority
over Miguel."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," Kesley admitted. "Of course. He was
just telling us to stand outside and wait around until he was ready to
let us kiss the Ducal robe."
"Precisely. And our course now is simple. We find lodging, and we allow
a week to pass. Then, Winslow will see us. And then, my friend, the
time will come for you to carry out our Duke's command."
"I know."
Kesley felt himself perspiring heavily beneath his ambassadorial
robes, and not entirely because of the humid air. He knew--and Santana
as well, evidently--that he had no plan for slaying Winslow. He was
counting on some random twitch of the Immortal's psychology to put the
Duke in his power. But would Winslow, as had Miguel, bare his chest
willingly to the blade?
Probably not, Kesley thought balefully. From what he had already
deduced of the workings of the Immortal mind, it was hardly likely that
any two Dukes would share a behavioral pattern. And that left Kesley in
an awkward position.
"A week is a long time," Kesley said, as they rode through the gates.
The double doors clanged shut behind them, sealing off Winslow's palace
from the city. "I'll be ready when the time comes, padre."
"I hope so. I will pray for your soul," the priest intoned.
"Fine," Kesley said savagely. "Pray for me sincerely, father. _Pater
noster_--"
"Don't mock what you don't understand," Santana said. He crossed
himself fervently. "Your soul is in danger, _Señor_ Ramon."
"_My_ soul? What about yours, you old windbag?"
Santana squirmed in the saddle, faced Kesley. The plump priest's sad
eyes gazed mournfully into Kesley's. "My soul?" Santana repeated. "My
soul is long since forfeit, but I pray constantly for my salvation."