"And I am happy to see YerM'cy looking so well. 'Pon my oath, I am at your service here in San Gines, no lily livers here, and I bring this good ventilator"-he patted his sword, which clinked against dagger and poniards-"to serve G.o.d and my comrades, and to carve a few holes in someone these early morning hours, should we need to."

He looked toward Quevedo with a conciliatory nod, and turned back to the captain, touching two fingers to his cap. "And forgive the error."

Two trollops came running by, holding up their petticoats as they ran. The guitar at the corner stopped in mid-chord, and a wave of uneasiness stirred the rabble in the alley. Everyone turned to look.

"The Law! The Law!" someone shouted.

From around the corner came the hue and cry of constables and catchpoles. There were shouts of "Hold there!" and "I said Hold there, Hold there, by G.o.d," and then came the well-known warnings of "In the name of the King." The pale light of the lantern was doused as the parishioners scattered at lightning speed: the refugees into the church and the rest emptying the alley and Calle Mayor. And in less time than it takes to dispatch a soul, there was not a shadow left behind. by G.o.d," and then came the well-known warnings of "In the name of the King." The pale light of the lantern was doused as the parishioners scattered at lightning speed: the refugees into the church and the rest emptying the alley and Calle Mayor. And in less time than it takes to dispatch a soul, there was not a shadow left behind.

Diego Alatriste retraced his steps down Cava de San Miguel and made a broad circle around the Plaza Mayor to reach the Tavern of the Turk. Standing motionless on the opposite side of the street for a long while, hidden in darkness, he observed the closed shutters and lighted window on the second floor where Caridad la Lebrijana made her home. She was awake, or at least she had left a light on as a signal for him. I am here and I am waiting for you, I am here and I am waiting for you, the message seemed to say. the message seemed to say.

But the captain did not cross the street. Instead he waited quietly, still masked by his cape, his hat pulled low, attempting to blend into the shadows of the arcade. Calle Toledo and the corner of Calle Arcabuz were deserted, but it was impossible to know whether someone might be secretly watching from the shelter of a doorway. All he could see was the empty street and that lighted window, where he thought he saw a shadow. Perhaps La Lebrijana was awake, waiting for him. He imagined her moving about the room, with the cord of her nightdress loose across her naked, dark-skinned shoulders, and he longed for the scent of that body which, despite the many wars it had fought in other days, mercenary battles, strange hands and kisses, was still beautiful, firm, and warm, as comforting as sleep, or oblivion.

Guided by his instinct of self-preservation, he fought the desire to cross the street and bury himself in that welcoming flesh. His hand brushed the grip of the vizcaina vizcaina dagger he wore over his left kidney, close to his sword, a counterweight to the pistol hidden by his cape. Again, ever cautious, he searched for the dark form of an enemy shadow. And he longed to find one. dagger he wore over his left kidney, close to his sword, a counterweight to the pistol hidden by his cape. Again, ever cautious, he searched for the dark form of an enemy shadow. And he longed to find one.

Ever since he had learned that I was in the hands of the Inquisition, and had also learned the ident.i.ty of the ones who had pulled the strings of the ambush, he had harbored a lucid, icy rage bordering on desperation, and he needed somehow to purge it. The fate of don Vicente de la Cruz and his sons, and that of the now-imprisoned novice, had become secondary. In the rules of the dangerous game in which he often p.a.w.ned his own skin, that was part of the deal. In every combat there were losses and gains, and the game of life provided the same ups and downs. He a.s.sumed that from the beginning, with his usual impa.s.sivity: an acceptance that at times seemed to be indifference, but was in fact nothing other than the stoic resignation of an old soldier.

But with me it was different, if Your Mercies will allow me to find a way to say this. To Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, veteran of the tercios tercios of Flanders and those rough and dangerous times, I represented the word "remorse." It was not easy to coolly a.s.sign me to the list of "downs" resulting from a bad adventure or a.s.sault. I was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. And just as one does not choose his friends or his women, but is instead chosen by them, life, my dead father, fate, had set me in his path. There was no way he could close his eyes to an unpleasant truth: I made him vulnerable. In the life he had chosen to live, Diego Alatriste was as much a wh.o.r.eson as the next; but he was a wh.o.r.eson who played according to certain rules. For that reason he was quiet, and kept to himself, which was as good a way as any other to be desperate. of Flanders and those rough and dangerous times, I represented the word "remorse." It was not easy to coolly a.s.sign me to the list of "downs" resulting from a bad adventure or a.s.sault. I was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. And just as one does not choose his friends or his women, but is instead chosen by them, life, my dead father, fate, had set me in his path. There was no way he could close his eyes to an unpleasant truth: I made him vulnerable. In the life he had chosen to live, Diego Alatriste was as much a wh.o.r.eson as the next; but he was a wh.o.r.eson who played according to certain rules. For that reason he was quiet, and kept to himself, which was as good a way as any other to be desperate.

And that was why he was peering into the dark shadows of the street, hoping to spot a constable lurking there, a spy, any enemy at all that he could use to calm the sensation that was griping his bowels and making him clench his teeth until his jaw hurt. He wanted to find someone and then slip toward him in the darkness, without a sound, press him against the wall, gag him with his cape, and without a single word drive his dagger into his throat until he stopped moving and the Devil took him.

Because if we are considering rules, those happened to be his.

VII. MEN OF ONE BOOK

G.o.d never deserts crows or rooks, not even notaries. And he did not completely desert me. For, believe it or not, I was not tortured unbearably. The Holy Office had its rules, too, and despite their cruelty and fanaticism, some of them were observed to the letter. I received my share of slapping and lashes, I cannot deny. And no few privations and rough interrogations. But once they confirmed my age, those not-yet-lived fourteen years kept at a safe distance the contraption of wood, rope, and wheels that at every questioning I could see in the far corner of the room. Even the beatings they gave me were limited in number, intensity, and duration.

Others, however, were not as lucky. I do not know whether the woman's scream I had heard on my first day had come with or without the help of the rack. If the latter, unfortunately, she had been installed upon it, her limbs pulled with turn after turn of the wheel, until her bones were cracked from their sockets. I continued to hear screams frequently, until suddenly, they ceased. That was the same day I found myself again in the interrogation room and finally met the unfortunate Elvira de la Cruz.

She was small and plump, and in no way resembled the romanticized vision I had concocted in my mind. But no matter, not even the most perfect beauty could have offset that mercilessly shaved head, those red-rimmed eyes sunken in dark circles of insomnia and suffering, and, beneath the filthy serge of her habit, the bruises of cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She was sitting down-soon I learned that she was unable to stand without help-and her gaze was the most vacant and desolate I had ever seen: an absolute emptiness born of the pain and exhaustion and bitterness of one who knows the depths of the darkest pit ever imagined. She must have been about eighteen or nineteen years old, but she looked like a decrepit old woman. If she shifted slightly in her chair, it was slowly and painfully, as if her joints were all crippled. And sadly, that was exactly what had happened.

As for me, although it is not a sign of good breeding to boast, they had not torn from me a single one of the answers they wanted. Not even when one of the torturers, the redheaded one, took on the task of measuring every inch of my back with a bull's pizzle. But although I was covered with welts and had to sleep on my stomach-if that agonizing and restless state somewhere between reality and the ghosts of imagination can be called sleep-they did not get one word from dry, cracked lips now crusted with blood that was mine, not poor de la Cruz's. No words, that is, other than groans of pain or protests of innocence. That night I was returning home alone. My master, Captain Alatriste, was nowhere around. I have never heard anything about the de la Cruz family. I am an old Christian, and my father died for the king in Flanders That night I was returning home alone. My master, Captain Alatriste, was nowhere around. I have never heard anything about the de la Cruz family. I am an old Christian, and my father died for the king in Flanders.... And then I would start from the beginning again. That night I was returning home... That night I was returning home...

There was no mercy in them, not even those specks of humanity that can occasionally be glimpsed in the most heartless of souls. Priests, judge, scribe, and torturers acted with such rigorous coldness and distance that that was precisely what evoked the most horror. Even more bloodcurdling than the suffering they were capable of inflicting was the icy determination of those who know know they are backed by divine and human laws and who at no moment doubt the righteousness of what they are doing. they are backed by divine and human laws and who at no moment doubt the righteousness of what they are doing.

Later, with time, I learned that although all men are capable of good and evil, the worst among them are those who, when they commit evil, do so by shielding themselves in the authority of others, in their subordination, or in the excuse of following orders. And even worse are those who believe they are justified by their G.o.d. Because in the secret dungeons of Toledo, nearly at the cost of my life, I learned that there is nothing more despicable or more dangerous than the malevolent individual who goes to sleep every night with a clear conscience. That is true evil. Especially when paired with ignorance, superst.i.tion, stupidity, or power, all of which often travel together.

And worst of all is the person who acts as exegete of The Word-whether it be from the Talmud, the Bible, the Koran, or any other book already written or yet to come. I am not fond of giving advice-no one can pound opinions into another's head-but here is a piece that costs you nothing: Never trust a man who reads only one book.

I do not know what books those men had read, but as for consciences, I am sure they slept soundly. Though now that they are all in h.e.l.l, where it is to be hoped they burn throughout eternity, they will never sleep again. By that point in my Calvary, I had learned the name of the one who played the lead role, the somber and fleshless priest with the feverish eyes. He was Fray Emilio Bocanegra, president of the Council of Six Judges, the most feared tribunal of the Holy Office. Also, according to what I heard Captain Alatriste and his friends say, he was one of my master's most relentless enemies. He had been the one setting the course of the interrogations, and now the other priests and the silent judge in the black robe acted as mere witnesses, while the scribe set down the Dominican's questions and my laconic replies.

But this time was different, for when I came before them they did not ask me questions but addressed them to poor Elvira de la Cruz. And I sensed things were taking a disturbing turn when I saw Fray Emilio point to me.

"Do you know that young man?"

My apprehension turned to panic-unlike Elvira, I had not as yet reached my limits-when the novice nodded her shorn head without even looking my way. Alarmed, I saw the scribe waiting, quill poised, his eyes on Elvira de la Cruz and the inquisitor.

"Answer with words," ordered Fray Emilio.

The unhappy girl breathed a scarcely audible "Yes." The scribe dipped the quill into the inkwell and wrote, and more than ever in my life, I felt the ground yawning beneath my feet.

"Do you know if he observes any Jewish practices?"

The second "Yes" from Elvira de la Cruz made me jump up with a cry of protest, silenced by a hard thump on the nape of my neck. It came courtesy of the redheaded man who had become the one in charge of anything having to do with me; they may have feared that the larger man would silence me with one blow of his fist. Indifferent to my protest, Fray Emilio pointed toward me, though he never took his eyes from the girl.

"Do you reiterate before this Holy Tribunal that the one called inigo Balboa has manifest Hebraic beliefs in word and deed, and that he, along with your father, brother, and other accomplices, partic.i.p.ated in the conspiracy to take you from your convent?"

The third "Yes" was more than I could take. I pulled away from the redheaded guard and shouted that the poor girl was lying and that I had never had anything to do with the Jewish religion. Then to my surprise, instead of ignoring me as he had previously, Fray Emilio turned to me with a smile. It was a smile of triumphant loathing, so frightening and vicious that it nailed me to the spot, mute, immobilized, breathless. Delighting in every moment, the Dominican went to the table where the others were seated and picked up the chain and amulet Angelica de Alquezar had given me at the Acero fountain. He showed it to me, then to the members of the tribunal, and last to the novice.

"And have you seen this magic seal before? This amulet is tied to the horrendous superst.i.tion of Hebraic cabala, and was taken from the aforesaid inigo Balboa at the time of his arrest by familiares familiares of the Holy Office. It is proof of his involvement in this Jewish conspiracy." of the Holy Office. It is proof of his involvement in this Jewish conspiracy."

Elvira de la Cruz had never once looked at me. Neither did she now look at Angelica's charm, which Fray Emilio was holding before her eyes. She merely repeated the same "Yes," her eyes to the ground, so broken that she did not even seem shamed. Weary, uncaring, as if all she wished for was to have everything over with, so she could throw herself into a corner and sleep the sleep of which she had been deprived half her life.

As for me, I was so terrified I could not even protest. The rack no longer worried me. Now my urgent preoccupation was to learn whether or not they burned boys younger than fourteen at the stake.

"Confirmed. It has Alquezar's signature."

alvaro de la Marca, Conde de Guadalmedina, was wearing a suit of fine green wool trimmed with silver, suede boots, and an elaborate Flemish lace collar. He had fair skin, fine hands, and was quite handsome, and he did not lose a whit of his elegance-it was said that he cut the finest figure at court-even though he was straddling a taboret in the small, dingy room in Juan Vicuna's gaming house. On the other side of the lattice, the main room was crowded with gamblers. The count had played for a bit, with little luck, for his mind was not on the cards, then, using the excuse of a call of nature, he left and came to the back room. There he had met Captain Alatriste and don Francisco de Quevedo, who, unrecognizable in their capes, had come by way of the secret door in the Plaza Mayor.

"And Your Mercies. .h.i.t the mark," Guadalmedina continued. "The objective was, in fact, to effect a bloodless coup against Olivares by discrediting the convent. And, in pa.s.sing, seize the opportunity to settle accounts with Alatriste. They have fabricated a tale of a Jewish conspiracy, and intend to use the stake."

"The boy, too?" asked don Francisco.

The poet's somber black clothing-the one note of color, as always, the cross of Santiago on his breast-contrasted with the aristocrat's affected elegance. The poet was sitting beside the captain, cape doubled across his shoulder, sword at his waist, hat upon his knees. When alvaro de la Marca heard his question, he busied himself filling a gla.s.s with the muscatel from the jug on a second taboret, which also held a clay pipe and a pouch of shredded tobacco. The muscatel was from Malaga, and the jar was already half empty because Quevedo had given it his attention the minute he came in the door, sour as always, cursing the night, the street, and his thirst.

"Him, as well," the aristocrat confirmed. "The novice and the boy are all they have, because the other surviving member of the family, the elder son, cannot be found." He shrugged his shoulders and paused, his expression grave. "According to what I've been told, they are preparing an auto-da-fe auto-da-fe for the highest-level prisoners." for the highest-level prisoners."

"You are sure of that, Your Mercy?"

"Absolutely. I have pushed everywhere possible, paying good coin. As our friend Alatriste here would say, to score a counterstrike, it takes a lot of gunpowder. There is money enough, but in dealing with the Inquisition, even venality has its limits."

The captain was mute. He was sitting on the cot, doublet unfastened, slowly rubbing a whetstone along the edge of his dagger. The light from the oil lamp left his eyes in shadow.

"I am amazed that Alquezar is reaching so high," offered don Francisco, cleaning his eyegla.s.ses on the tail of his doublet. "It is extremely bold of a royal secretary to take on the king's favorite, even if there is another hand in the works."

Guadalmedina took a few sips of muscatel and clicked his tongue, frowning. Then he dabbed at his curly mustache with a perfumed handkerchief he pulled from his sleeve.

"You should not be surprised. In recent months, Alquezar has gained great influence among those close to the king. He is the creature of the Council of Aragon, for whose members he performs important services, and only lately he has bought several councilors from Castile. Furthermore, through the influence of Fray Emilio Bocanegra, he enjoys support among fanatical members of the Holy Office. Around Olivares, he continues to be submissive, but it is obvious that he is playing his own game. With every day that pa.s.ses, he grows stronger, and adds to his fortune."

"Where is he getting his money?" the poet asked.

alvaro de la Marca shrugged again. He had filled his pipe and was lighting it from a candle. Pipe and tobacco also entertained Juan Vicuna, who liked to smoke when he was pa.s.sing time with Diego Alatriste. But despite its well-known curative properties-it had the apothecary Fadrique's strong recommendation-the captain was not taken with the aromatic leaf brought on the galleons from the Indies. As for Quevedo, he preferred snuff.

"No one knows," said the count, blowing smoke through his nostrils. "Perhaps Alquezar works for someone other than himself. What we do know is that he manages gold like a magician, and he is corrupting everything he touches. Including Olivares, who could have sent him packing back to Huesca months ago, but who now treats him rather gingerly. They say that the royal secretary aspires to be protonotary of Aragon, even minister of foreign relations. If he achieves that, he will be untouchable."

Diego Alatriste appeared not to be listening. He set his whetstone on the straw mattress and ran one finger along the edge of the blade. Then, very slowly, he reached for the sheath and put the vizcaina vizcaina back in it. Only then did he look at Guadalmedina. back in it. Only then did he look at Guadalmedina.

"Is there no way to help inigo?"

Through blowing smoke, the captain could see the count's friendly but pained smile.

"I fear not. You know as well as I that to fall into the hands of the Inquisition is to be caught in an efficient and implacable machine." He frowned, pensively stroking his goatee. "The thing that amazes me is that they have not arrested you."

"I am in hiding."

"That is not what I mean. They have ways of finding out what they want to know.... Equally strange is that they have not come to your house. That means they do not as yet have evidence against you."

"They could care less about evidence," said don Francisco, taking possession of the jug of muscatel. "They fabricate it or they buy it. Money, after all," and between sips, he recited, "Can buy honor, and take it away,break any law, destroy any prey."

Guadalmedina, who was lifting his pipe to his mouth, stopped in midair.

"No, with your pardon, Senor de Quevedo. The Holy Office is very punctilious, according to the circ.u.mstance. If there is no proof, no matter how fervently Bocanegra swears that the captain is in it up to his neck, the Council will not approve any action against him. And if they have nothing official, it is because the boy has not talked."

"They always talk." The poet took a long swallow, and then another. "And besides, he is still a boy."

"Well, by my faith, I say he has not spoken, however young he may be. That is what I understand from the persons with whom I have consulted all day. I a.s.sure you, Alatriste, that with the gold I squandered today in your service, we could have peacefully settled that matter of the Kerkennahs. There are things that can be bought with gold."

And alvaro Luis Gonzaga de la Marca y alvarez de Sidonia, Conde de Guadalmedina, grandee of Spain, confidant of our lord and king, admired of all the ladies at court and envied by no few caballeros of the finest breeding, gave the hired sword a look of sincere friendship.

"Did you bring what I asked of you?" asked Alatriste.

The count's smile widened. "I did." He set his pipe aside, and pulled from his waistcoat a small packet, which he handed to the captain. "Here you have it."

Someone less knowledgeable than don Francisco de Quevedo would have been surprised at the familiarity between the aristocrat and the veteran. It was widely known that the count had more than once counted on Diego Alatriste's blade to resolve matters that required a steady hand and few scruples, such as the death of the troublesome Marques de Soto, and another, similar, problem. But that did not mean that the one who pays owes anything to the one he has hired, much less that a grandee of Spain, who had considerable influence at court, would meddle in the affairs of the Inquisition on behalf of a don n.o.body whose sword he could have bought by merely rattling his purse. But as Senor de Quevedo knew very well, there was more between Diego Alatriste and alvaro de la Marca than their dark business dealings.

Nearly ten years before, Guadalmedina had been a naive young blood serving on the galleys of the viceroys of Naples and Sicily. He had found himself in difficulty on that disastrous day in the Kerkennah Islands when Moors attacked the troops of the Catholic king as they waded through the shallow bay. The Duque de Nocera, with whom don alvaro was serving, had suffered five terrible wounds when they were beset on every side by the Arabs' curved-blade saif saifs, pikes, and harquebuses. The Spanish were being killed man by man; they were no longer fighting for the king but in defense of their own lives, killing in order not to die, in a horrifying retreat through water up to their waists. It had become, as Guadalmedina told it, a question of dining that night either in Constantinople or with Christ. A Moor stood in his way, and he lost his sword as he ran him through, so the man behind him struck twice with his saif saif as de la Marca whirled around looking for his dagger in the water. as de la Marca whirled around looking for his dagger in the water.

He was picturing himself dead, or a slave-more the former than the latter-when a few soldiers who were holding out in a group and firing themselves up by shouting "Spain! Spain! All for Spain!" heard his cries for help over the roar of harquebus fire. Two or three came to his aid, splashing through the mud and knifing Arabs right and left. One of the rescuers was a soldier with an enormous mustache and gray-green eyes, who, after slashing a Moor's face with his pike, put one arm around young Guadalmedina's shoulders and dragged him through mud red with blood toward the boats and galleys anch.o.r.ed near the beach. Once there, they still had to battle, with Guadalmedina bleeding on the sand amid flying shot and arrows and flashing blades, until the soldier with the light eyes could finally pull the injured man into the water, load him onto his back, and carry him to the skiff of the last galley. Behind them they could hear the yells of the poor wretches who had not escaped, but were murdered or captured for slaves on that fateful beach.

Guadalmedina was looking into those same eyes now, in Juan Vicuna's little room. And-as sometimes happens, but always in generous souls-throughout the years that had pa.s.sed since that b.l.o.o.d.y day, alvaro de la Marca had not forgotten his debt. And the debt was even greater when he learned that the soldier to whom he owed his life-the one whose comrades called him captain out of respect, though he had not earned that rank-had fought in Flanders under the banners of his father, Conde Fernando de la Marca. It was a debt, however, that Diego Alatriste never called due except in extreme cases, such as the recent adventure of the two Englishmen. And now, when my life was at stake.

"Returning to our inigo," Guadalmedina continued, "if he does not testify against you, Alatriste, the matter stops there. But he is in custody, and seemingly they expect him to incriminate you. Which makes him a prize prisoner of the Inquisition."

"What can they do to him?"

"They can do anything. They are going to burn the girl at the stake, as sure as Christ is G.o.d. As for him, it depends. He could be freed after a few years in prison, after two hundred lashes, or after being made to wear the cone hat of infidels...or who knows what? But the risk of the stake is real."

"And what about Olivares?" don Francisco put in.

Guadalmedina made a vague gesture. He had recovered his pipe and was puffing on it, eyes half closed against the smoke.

"He has received the message and will consider the matter, although we must not expect too much from him. If he has something to say, he will let us know."

"Pardiez! This is not a minor matter," don Francisco grumbled. This is not a minor matter," don Francisco grumbled.

Guadalmedina turned to the poet with a faint frown. "His Majesty's favorite has other matters to attend to."

He said it rather tartly. alvaro de la Marca admired the poet's talent, and respected him as the captain's friend. They also had friends in common-both had been in Naples with the Duque de Osuna. But the aristocrat was a poet himself in moments of leisure, and it smarted when he thought that this Senor de la Torre de Juan Abad did not appreciate his verses. And still more that Quevedo had been unimpressed when in hopes of winning his approval, Guadalmedina had dedicated a poem to him that was one of the best to come from his quill, the well-known lines that begin, Behind good Roch, lame supplicant...

The captain was paying no attention to them, intent on unwrapping the packet the aristocrat had brought. alvaro de la Marca, puffing his pipe, watched closely.

"Use them with caution, Alatriste," he said finally.

The captain did not reply. He was examining the objects Guadalmedina had brought. On the wrinkled blanket lay a map and two keys.

The cauldron of the Prado gardens was boiling. It was the evening rua, rua, the time of the stylized social parade. Carriages driving from the Guadalajara gate and the Calle Mayor tarried between the fountains and beneath the poplar groves as the setting sun painted the roof tiles of Madrid. The area from the corner of Calle Alcala to San Jeronimo road was a ma.s.s of covered and open coaches, cavaliers who had checked their horses to chat with the ladies, duennas in their nunlike white headgear, ap.r.o.ned servant girls, pages, hawkers selling Cano Dorado water and mead, and women peddling fruit, small pots of custard, jars of conserves, and sweets. the time of the stylized social parade. Carriages driving from the Guadalajara gate and the Calle Mayor tarried between the fountains and beneath the poplar groves as the setting sun painted the roof tiles of Madrid. The area from the corner of Calle Alcala to San Jeronimo road was a ma.s.s of covered and open coaches, cavaliers who had checked their horses to chat with the ladies, duennas in their nunlike white headgear, ap.r.o.ned servant girls, pages, hawkers selling Cano Dorado water and mead, and women peddling fruit, small pots of custard, jars of conserves, and sweets.

As a grandee of Spain with the right to wear his hat in the presence of our lord and king, the Conde de Guadalmedina was also ent.i.tled to drive a coach with four mules; the team of six was reserved for His Majesty. However, on this occasion, which required discretion, he had chosen from his coach house a modest carriage without visible insignia, drawn by two modest gray mules and driven by a servant without livery. It was large enough, however, that the count, don Francisco de Quevedo, and Captain Alatriste could fit comfortably as they drove up and down the Prado, awaiting the arranged meeting. They pa.s.sed unnoticed among the dozens of coaches moving slowly at that twilight hour when all Madrid paraded in the proximity of the convent of the Hieronymites: grave canons taking their const.i.tutionals to whet an appet.i.te for dinner; students as rich in wit as poor in maravedis maravedis; merchants and artisans with swords at their belts, proclaiming themselves to be grand hidalgos; and especially, swarms of young swains strumming guitars as if caressing feminine curves; pale hands fastening and unfastening carriage curtains; and many a lady, veiled or not, revealing outside the footboard of her coach, as if accidentally, a froth of seductive petticoat.

As the day languished, the Prado filled with shadows; and as reputable people left, they were replaced by hussies, caballeros in search of adventure, and rogues in general, the park becoming a stage for quarrels, amorous rendezvous, and furtive consultations beneath the trees. This scene was permeated with stealth and good manners: notes exchanged from coach to coach, accompanied by torrid glances, fluttering fans, insinuations, and promises. Some of the more respectable caballeros and damas who met there with the pretense of not knowing one another were plotting an a.s.signation as soon as the sun set, using the intimacy of a coach, or the shelter of one of the stone fountains that adorned the walk, to claim a prize. And there were the usual altercations, stabbings involving jealous lovers or husbands who had found new spices in the pot. It was upon the latter theme that the deceased Conde de Villamediana-dead, it was said, because his tongue was too loose, his innards strung across the Calle Mayor right in the middle of the rua rua-had written these celebrated verses: In Madrid I do not go to the Prado,for as much as it is praisedI know that its welcoming meadowsare already overgrazed.

alvaro de la Marca, a wealthy bachelor and habitue of the Prado and Calle Mayor, and therefore one of those who in Madrid produced cuckolds in riatas of a dozen, was singing in a different register that evening. Dressed in a discreet woolen as gray as his coach and mules, he was trying not to attract attention. As he peered through the coach's drawn curtains, he would quickly draw back at the glimpse of an open coach bearing ladies copiously adorned with silver pa.s.s.e.m.e.nterie, silk, and ruffles from Naples, women he did not wish to greet and to whom he was better known than was convenient. At the other window, don Francisco de Quevedo was also observing from behind a half-closed curtain. Diego Alatriste sat between them, legs in long leather boots stretched out before him, rocked by the soft swaying of the coach, and silent, as was his custom. All three rested their swords between their knees and were wearing their hats.

"There he is," said Guadalmedina.

Quevedo and Alatriste leaned toward the count to take a look. A black carriage similar to theirs, with no coat-of-arms on the door and with drawn curtains, had just pa.s.sed the Torrecilla and was proceeding along the paseo. paseo. The coachman was dressed in brown, with one white and one green plume in his hat. The coachman was dressed in brown, with one white and one green plume in his hat.

Guadalmedina opened the window behind the coach-box and gave instructions to the driver, who slapped the reins to catch up with the other carriage. They drove on for a short distance, until the first carriage stopped at a discreet nook beneath the branches of an old chestnut standing near a fountain topped with a stone dolphin. The second coach pulled up beside the first. Guadalmedina opened the door, and stepped down into the narrow s.p.a.ce between them. Alatriste and Quevedo, removing their hats, did the same. And when the curtain of the black carriage was pulled back, they saw a strong, ruddy face hardened by dark, intelligent eyes; a ferocious beard and mustache; a large head set on powerful shoulders; and the crimson design of the cross of Calatrava. Those shoulders bore the weight of the largest monarchy on the earth, and they belonged to don Gaspar de Guzman, Conde de Olivares, favorite of our lord and sovereign, Philip IV, King of All the Spains.

"I did not expect to see you again so soon, Captain Alatriste," said Olivares. "You were on your way to Flanders."

"That was my intention, Excellency. But something came up."

"So I see. Have you been told that you possess a rare ability for complicating your life?"