A horse, first. Then, out the walls some way or other, and to freedom.
Both Winslow and Miguel would be hunting him, why, he could not say. But both his fealties stood revoked; his Dukes sought his life.
Well enough, Kesley thought. He had no debts to either Miguel or Winslow. Once again he stood alone. Where to, now?
He thought of Narella, in Buenos Aires. She would be waiting for him to come back—or was she, too, only part of Miguel's scheming. He didn't want to believe that.
Van Alen had told him he belonged in Antarctica. Suddenly the image of the mysterious continent rose in his mind. He saw a vast wall. Nothing more was visible.
It took only a moment to frame a resolution. Find Daveen. Find Narella.
And then, he thought, to Antarctica. To Antarctica!
VIII
The sleep-wrapped city was dark and silent. Kesley raced down the quiet streets, cutting laterally once to avoid the yellow glare of a wandering patrolman's swinging sodium lamp.