IV
Kesley watched Miguel pace uneasily back and forth. The room he had blundered into was evidently one of the Ducal offices; a broad desk at the back was littered with a great many official-looking papers, and on one wall hung a glossy shield bearing Miguel's coat of arms.
Suddenly Miguel turned. "Where are you from?" he asked. His voice was deep, resonant, commanding.
"Iowa Province. I was a farmer."
"Oh? Then what might you be doing in my lands?"
Kesley saw that he had blundered. Farmers, normally, did not take pleasure jaunts to South America. He tried to repair the damage. "I was on a buying tour. I was down here for cattle, and grain, and—"
Miguel chuckled. "Enough, please. One does not have to be an Immortal to see through your lies." He pulled out a chair and sprawled his big form down. Smiling strangely, he said, "You can speak the truth. Why are you here?"
"I—I—" Kesley's face reddened. He realized that he had no rational answer to give. He was here only because van Alen had led him here—and van Alen was dead or wounded now, far to the south.
Miguel sighed. "You assassins are all alike. At the moment of capture, you lose the sacred fire." Swiftly he leaned over and undid Kesley's bonds.
"There. You are free. Kill me, now. We're alone; this is your chance!"