"Dreadful," Kesley exclaimed, and released the bridle. The horse sped away into the night as another wave of riders followed down. Winslow, aroused, was probably sending his whole guard corps out to search for the fugitive. Lights were going on all over the city now. Sudden bright, yellow eyes winked down from unshuttered windows. Kesley stepped back into the shadows and let five more horsemen go by. A sixth came down the road. Kesley flagged him down with his lantern. "What's going on, friend?" "Haven't you heard? We're chasing an escaped assassin." "What's that?" Kesley assumed an expression of horror. "What did he look like?" "Big man in royal robes. One of those South Americans." "No! I just saw one go into that house over there." He indicated a home which had not yet awakened to the clamor of the streets. "I'm sure it was the South American," Kesley continued. "I was going to ask him where he was going, but then I saw he was an ambassador and--" There was no need to chatter further. The horseman, his mind set on medals, was dismounting. "Which house?" he asked tensely. "That one?" Kesley nodded. "Want me to help you?" "That's all right," the guard said. "Stay out here and tend my horse. I'll go in and look around." "Good luck," Kesley said. He let the man take six steps toward the silent house, then whipped out his truncheon and brought it down with skull-crumpling force. Hastily he dragged the man behind a low, bunchy shrub, ran back to the street, and clambered aboard the waiting horse. As the animal began to move, yet another wave of guards swept down from the Palace. Kesley fell in with them, peering grimly forward into the night as they rode. They dashed on, clattering up the main street and splitting off there to explore any byway where the fugitive might be hidden. Atop his horse--a scale-covered, dusky mutant with many-jointed legs--Kesley choked off a chuckle and forced his face into the solemn mask of the dedicated pursuer. In the morning, the elaborate, half-mythical tracking devices would be brought into play: the needle-snouted, mechanized bloodhounds of legendary dread, the whirling radar parabolas, the ingenious screens and devices inherited from a culture long dead. It wasn't much of a secret that the Dukes maintained many of the taboo devices of the Old World, and used them for their private ends. Miguel's closed-circuit TV, Kesley thought, was an example. But the bloodhounds wouldn't be called out till later. Right now the reaction was one of simple hysteria; heads would be rolling at the Palace if Kesley were not found at once. And, he thought, riding atop a Ducal horse, clad in Ducal uniform, it wasn't too likely that they were going to find him. He glanced ahead. The guards were riding together, forming an anxious little circle. Evidently someone had called a halt and was about to organize a systematic search.