"Iowa Province," Kesley said, joining the group. "You?" "Illinois." The other's voice was bitter. "I'm from the court of Duke Winslow. He'll hear of this; he'll—" The guard yelled: "Quiet down there!" "What is all this?" Kesley whispered. "I don't know. Miguel's evidently rounding up all the North Americans in his territory. It's illegal! It's—" The guard whirled suddenly and struck the Illinois man across the face with his pistol. "Silence!" Kesley felt a surge of anger, but restrained it. He bent and lifted the older man to his feet. Dazed, the courtier wiped blood from his tunic and dabbed gently at his gashed cheek. "Damn him," he muttered. He groped at his hip for a sword that wasn't there. "Hush," Kesley said. "They'll only knock you down again. Fall in line and keep quiet. We'll find out what's going on later." It was the only way to stay alive, he told himself. Fall in line; ask questions later. Another door opened, and they entered the palace of the Duke. "This way," the guard called. "After me." Shepherding them with his drawn pistol, he led the way, while three other guards closed in at each side of the group. Kesley looked around. They were in a long corridor which headed toward a descending staircase. The dungeons, obviously. They kept walking. Fall in line; ask questions later. Kesley repeated it to himself. Suddenly he stiffened. He had fallen obediently in line when van Alen had appeared from nowhere—and the questions that arose had never been answered. Now, perhaps, he was marching unquestioningly to his death. I won't do it, he thought defiantly, and stepped out of line. He yanked the pistol from the astonished guard near him and slid his hand around the thick butt. The gun had an unfamiliar feel to it; it was heavy and clumsy. But he raised it quickly to shoulder-level and fired. The guard at the front of the line yawped and clutched his shoulder. Kesley fired again. A second guard dropped. The other men in the line caught on, now, and charged the remaining
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