Seven days passed and, on the eighth, Kesley and Duke Winslow were to come face to face.
On the morning of the final day, Kesley rose early. Sleep had been intermittent during the just-ended night, and he left his quarters wearily shortly after dawn. On foot, he wandered through the awakening city, in full regalia.
By now it was generally known that ambassadors from Miguel's court had been in Chicago for the past week, and he drew uneasy stares from the curious early risers. He walked on, down one cobbled street after another, smelling the early morning smells of fresh air and the fresh food offered in the stalls.
The bright sunlight was glinting off Winslow's palace, sending down showers of scattered light. Winslow is awakening now, Kesley thought. For his last morning. After four centuries he's come to his final day.
Suddenly hungry, Kesley turned into a food shop that appeared a few feet away.
"Good morning," the proprietor said unctuously.
Kesley swung himself down into a booth without replying. After a moment, he looked up. "Coffee," he said.
"Certainly, señor."
The white-uniformed counterman seemed delighted to be serving one of the South Americans. He bustled out officiously from behind the counter and put the cup before Kesley.
He tasted the coffee. The synthetic beverage was tepid, slightly oily. Nevertheless, he forced himself to finish it, then sat broodingly in the booth staring at the gray film of dinginess that overlay the empty cup.