A phantom thought struck him, and his lips curled upward. What if Winslow were to engage him in similar service and send him back to assassinate _Miguel_? It was possible. Anything was possible, Kesley thought dismally. Anything was possible at all, in this chess game with all moves masked. They drew near the palace. As usual, the guard at the gate inquired what business Kesley had within. "I have an audience with the Duke," Kesley told him. With great punctiliousness, the gateman disappeared into his tower and returned clutching a lengthy appointment sheet. "The audience is at two," Kesley said impatiently, as the gateman's eyes wandered all over the sheet. "Indeed so," the guard replied after a moment. "And I believe it's no more than ten now. Duke Winslow will see you in four hours, no sooner, _señor_." Kesley wiped away sweat and fought down an impulse to cut the guardsman down with an impatient blow of his dagger. "It's an emergency. Tell the Duke that. Tell him that the Archbishop's been assassinated, and that I must see the Duke now!" A flicker of interest crossed the guard's eyes. "I'll tell him that. Wait here." Ten minutes later the guard returned. "Go in," he said laconically. "You need me any more?" asked the policeman at Kesley's side. "No--thanks, you've been very helpful." He handed the man a coin; as an afterthought, he gave one to the gatekeeper as well, and entered. A _déjà vu_ emotion filtered through him at the sight of the interior of Winslow's Palace grounds. There was the same broad courtyard as at Miguel's, the same distant entrance. This time, though, a cold-faced man in Imperial uniform was waiting for him. "I'm here to see the Duke," Kesley said. The guard nodded. "Certainly. Duke Winslow will see you at once, _señor_. Please follow me." Kesley followed. The great inner doors swung open, revealing a brightly-lit throne room on the ground floor. A row of unblinking retainers with halberds lined the room; there must have been twenty-five on each side, Kesley thought. His throat parched at the thought of the task he would have faced trying to escape from this room after assassinating Winslow. On a raised dais at the far end, beneath an immense figured shield and between two dark columns of glossy, grained onyx, sat a man who could only have been Duke Winslow. For the first time in his life, Kesley approached the man who ruled all of North America--the man whose life he had, not so long ago, pledged to take. VII Winslow had none of Miguel's crisp, compact muscularity, Kesley saw, as he hesitantly approached the throne. North America's Duke sprawled as massively across his gleaming white metal throne as the broad continent he ruled did across its hemisphere; he was an enormous, ponderous, obese man. Winslow's sobbing intake of breath was plainly audible even at the distance Kesley maintained. "Your Highness," he said, and knelt.