"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."