It was an uncommon dialogue, especially given that it was taking place between the favorite of the King of Spain and an obscure swordsman. In the narrow s.p.a.ce between the two coaches, Guadalmedina and Quevedo listened in silence. The Conde de Olivares had exchanged conventional greetings with them, and was now addressing his remarks to Captain Alatriste with a nearly courtly attention that softened the hauteur of his severe countenance. Such deference from a favorite was not usual, a fact that escaped no one.

"An astounding ability," Olivares repeated, as if to himself.

The captain refrained from comment and waited quietly, hat doffed, with a respect not lacking aplomb. After a last look at the captain, Olivares directed himself to Guadalmedina.

"About the issue that concerns us," he said, "you must know that there is nothing to be done. I appreciate your information, but I can offer nothing in exchange. No one can intervene in the affairs of the Holy Office, not even our lord and king." He gestured with a broad, strong hand knotted with prominent veins. "Regardless, this is not something we can bother His Majesty with."

alvaro de la Marca looked at Alatriste, whose expression had not changed, and then turned to Olivares. "No way out of it, then?"

"None. And I regret being unable to help you." There was a trace of condescending sincerity in the favorite's tone. "Especially because the shot aimed at our Captain Alatriste was also meant for me. But that is how things are."

Guadalmedina bowed. Despite his t.i.tle of grandee of Spain he, too, was hatless before Olivares. alvaro de la Marca was a courtier, and he knew that any give and take at court had its limits. For him, it was already a triumph that the most powerful man in the monarchy would grant him a minute of his time. Yet he persisted.

"Will the boy burn, Excellency?"

The favorite tugged at the Flemish lace falling from the wrists of his dark green-trimmed doublet, bare of jewels or adornment, austere, as decreed by the current edict against pomp and ostentation that he himself had urged the king to sign.

"I fear so," he said dispa.s.sionately. "And the girl. And we can be thankful that there are no others to lead to the coals."

"How much time do we have left?"

"Very little. According to my information, they are speeding up the particulars of the trial, and it may be the Plaza Mayor within a couple of weeks. Considering the current state of my relationship with the Holy Office, that would be a feather in their caps." He shook his powerful head nested in the starched collar encircling a ruddy neck. "They have not forgiven me the business of the Genoese."

A slight, melancholy smile appeared between the dark beard on his chin and the fierce mustache, and he lifted his enormous hand to indicate the interview closed. Guadalmedina again bowed slightly, enough to be polite without compromising his honor.

"You have been very generous with your time. We are deeply grateful, and indebted to Your Lordship."

"You may expect a bill, don alvaro. My Lordship never does anything gratis." The favorite turned toward don Francisco, who was playing the part of the stone guest in Tirso's The Trickster of Seville. The Trickster of Seville. "As for you, Senor de Quevedo, it is my hope that our relations may improve. A sonnet or two praising my policy in Flanders would not go unappreciated, one of those anonymous broadsheets that everyone knows are written by you. And a timely poem on the need to reduce by half the value of the "As for you, Senor de Quevedo, it is my hope that our relations may improve. A sonnet or two praising my policy in Flanders would not go unappreciated, one of those anonymous broadsheets that everyone knows are written by you. And a timely poem on the need to reduce by half the value of the vellon vellon coin. Something in the vein of those verses you had the kindness to devote to me the other day: coin. Something in the vein of those verses you had the kindness to devote to me the other day: "May the courtly star that disposes youto the King's favor, without intent or vengeance,a miracle that curtails envy's diligence..."

An uncomfortable don Francisco shot an oblique glance toward his companions. Following his long and painful exile from favor-which he had good signs of at last regaining-the poet hoped to recover his cachet at court, emerging from all his lawsuits and reversals of fortune. The events of the convent of Las Benitas came at an inopportune moment for him, and the fact that for an old debt of honor and friendship he would place his present good star in danger said a great deal for his character. Loathed and feared for his acerbic pen and his extraordinary wit, Quevedo had in recent days attempted not to appear hostile to the powers that be, and that had led him to intersperse his accustomed pessimistic vision and outbursts of bad humor with praise. Human after all, little inclined to return to exile, and hoping to sh.o.r.e up his waning estate, the great satirist was endeavoring to curb his pen, for fear of losing everything. Furthermore, he still sincerely believed, as many did, that Olivares could be the ironfisted surgeon needed to cure the aged and sickly Spanish lion.

It must be said, however, in defense of Alatriste's friend that, even during the times of his bonanza, Quevedo had written a play ent.i.tled What Should the Favorite Be Like, What Should the Favorite Be Like, which did not argue well for the future Conde-Duque's influence at court. And despite the attempts of Olivares and other powers at court to attract the poet, that tenuous friendship burst apart some years later. t.i.ttle-tattle had it that the king was irritated by a satiric poem he found beneath his napkin, although I think it was something of greater substance that turned them into mortal enemies, awakened the wrath of our lord and king, and was the cause of an old and ill Quevedo's being imprisoned in San Marcos de Leon. which did not argue well for the future Conde-Duque's influence at court. And despite the attempts of Olivares and other powers at court to attract the poet, that tenuous friendship burst apart some years later. t.i.ttle-tattle had it that the king was irritated by a satiric poem he found beneath his napkin, although I think it was something of greater substance that turned them into mortal enemies, awakened the wrath of our lord and king, and was the cause of an old and ill Quevedo's being imprisoned in San Marcos de Leon.

That happened later, when the monarchy had become an insatiable machine for devouring taxes, while a drained populace received nothing in exchange but the political blunders and the disasters of war. Catalonia and Portugal rebelled, the French-as usual-wanted to slice off their share, and Spain plunged into civil war, ruin, and shame. But I will refer to such somber times at the proper moment. What I wish to relate now is that that evening in the Prado, the poet gave an austere but accommodating and nearly courtly reply.

"I shall consult the Muses, Excellency. And do what can be done."

Olivares nodded, already satisfied. "I have no doubt you will." His tone was that of someone who does not remotely consider a different possibility. "As for your suit for the eight thousand four hundred reales reales owed by the Duque de Osuna, you know that things at the palace go slowly. All in good time. Come by to see me some day and we will have a leisurely chat. And do not forget my poem." owed by the Duque de Osuna, you know that things at the palace go slowly. All in good time. Come by to see me some day and we will have a leisurely chat. And do not forget my poem."

Quevedo nodded, not without a second slightly embarra.s.sed glance toward his companions. He particularly studied Guadalmedina, searching for a sign of mockery, but alvaro de la Marca was an experienced courtier; he knew the sword-sharp gifts of the satirist, and his face showed only the prudent expression of someone who has heard nothing. The favorite turned to Diego Alatriste.

"As for you, Senor Captain, I regret that I cannot help you." His tone, although again distant as befitted their relative positions, was amiable. "I confess that for some strange reason, which perhaps both you and I recognize, I have a certain fondness for your person.... That, in addition to the request from my dear friend don alvaro, caused me to grant you this meeting. But you are aware that the more power one obtains, the more limited is the opportunity to exercise it."

Alatriste held his hat in one hand and rested the other on the pommel of his sword. "With all respect, Your Excellency, one word from you can save that lad."

"I suppose that is true. In fact, an order signed by my hand would be enough. But it is not that easy. That would place me in the position of having to make concessions in return. And in my office, concessions can be made only rarely. Your young friend weighs very little on the scales in relation to other serious burdens that G.o.d and our king have placed in my hands. So I have no choice but to wish you good fortune."

He concluded with an expression that boded no appeal; the matter was sealed. But Alatriste held his eyes without blinking.

"Excellency. I have nothing but the sword I live by and my record of service, which means nothing to anyone." The captain spoke very slowly, as if thinking aloud more than addressing the first minister of two worlds. "Neither am I a man of many words or resources. But they are going to burn an innocent lad whose father, my comrade, died fighting in those wars that are as much the king's as they are yours. Perhaps I, and Lope Balboa, and Balboa's son, do not tip the scale that Your Excellency so rightly mentioned. Yet one never knows what twists and turns life will take, nor whether one day the full reach of a good blade will not be more beneficial than all the papers and all the notaries and all the royal seals in the world. If you help the orphan of one of your soldiers, I give you my word that on such a day you can count on me."

Neither Quevedo nor Guadalmedina-no one-had ever heard Diego Alatriste utter so many words at one time. And the king's favorite listened, inscrutable, motionless, with only an attentive gleam in his astute dark eyes. The captain had spoken with melancholy respect, but with a firmness that might have seemed brusque had it not been made amenable by his serene gaze and calm tone, totally devoid of arrogance. He seemed merely to have enunciated objective fact.

"I do not know whether it will be five, six, even ten days, months, or years hence," the captain persisted. "But you can count on me."

There was a long silence. Olivares, who had begun to close the coach door, concluding the interview, paused. Beneath his terrible mustache, Alatriste and his companions glimpsed something resembling a smile.

"'Sblood!" he said.

The favorite stared for what seemed an eternity. And then, very slowly, after removing a sheet of paper from a portfolio lined with Moroccan leather, he took a lead pencil and wrote four words: Alquezar. Huesca. Green Book. Alquezar. Huesca. Green Book. Pensively, he reread several times what he'd written. Finally, slowly, as if doubting what he was about to do until the last moment, he handed it to Diego Alatriste. Pensively, he reread several times what he'd written. Finally, slowly, as if doubting what he was about to do until the last moment, he handed it to Diego Alatriste.

"You are absolutely right, Captain," he murmured, still thoughtful, before glancing toward the sword Alatriste wore on his left side. "In truth, one never knows."

VIII. A NOCTURNAL VISIT

The bells at San Jeronimo pealed twice as Diego Alatriste slowly turned the key. His initial apprehension turned to relief when the lock, oiled from inside that very evening, turned with a soft click.

He pushed the door, opening it in the darkness without the least squeak from its hinges. Auro clausa patent. Auro clausa patent. With gold, doors open, Domine Perez would have said; and don Francisco de Quevedo had referred to don Dinero as a "powerful caballero." In truth, that the gold was from the pouch of the Conde de Guadalmedina and not from the thin purse of Captain Alatriste mattered not at all. No one cared about name, origin, or smell. The gold had bought the keys and the plan of the house, and thanks to it, someone was going to receive a disagreeable surprise. With gold, doors open, Domine Perez would have said; and don Francisco de Quevedo had referred to don Dinero as a "powerful caballero." In truth, that the gold was from the pouch of the Conde de Guadalmedina and not from the thin purse of Captain Alatriste mattered not at all. No one cared about name, origin, or smell. The gold had bought the keys and the plan of the house, and thanks to it, someone was going to receive a disagreeable surprise.

Alatriste had bid don Francisco good-bye a couple of hours earlier, when he accompanied the poet to Calle de las Postas and watched him gallop away on a good horse, carrying traveling clothes, sword, portmanteau, a pistol in his saddletree, and, tucked in the band of his hat, those four words the Conde de Olivares had confided to them.

Guadalmedina, who had approved the poet's journey, had not shown the same enthusiasm for the adventure Alatriste was preparing to undertake that very night. Better to wait, he had said. But the captain could not wait. Quevedo's a.s.signment was a shot in the dark. He had to do something in the meantime.

He unsheathed his dagger and, holding it in his left hand, crossed the patio, trying not to b.u.mp into anything in the dark and wake the servants. At least one of them-the one who had provided the keys and the plan to alvaro de la Marca's agents-would sleep deaf, mute, and blind that night, but there were a half-dozen more who might take to heart his having disturbed their sleep at such hours. The captain had taken the appropriate precautions. He was wearing dark clothing, without a cape or hat to get in his way. In his belt was one of his flintlock pistols, well oiled and ready to fire, along with his sword and dagger. Finally he had added the old buffcoat that had offered such venerable service in a Madrid to which Alatriste himself had contributed, not a little, to making insalubrious. As for boots, they had been left in Juan Vicuna's little hideaway. In their stead the captain was wearing a pair of leather sandals with woven gra.s.s soles, very useful for moving with the speed and silence of a shadow. The sandals were a lesson learned in times even more deadly than these, when a man had to slip between fascine battlements and trenches to slit the throats of Flemish heretics during cruel night raids in which no quarter was given or expected.

The house was still and dark. Alatriste b.u.mped against the rim of a cistern, felt his way around it, and finally found the door he was seeking. The second key worked to his satisfaction, and the captain found himself in a broad, enclosed stairway. He went up the stairs, holding his breath, grateful that the steps were stone and not creaking wood. At the top, he paused in the shelter of a large armoire to orient himself. Then he took a few paces forward, hesitated in the shadowy corridor, counted two doors to the right, and went in, vizcaina vizcaina in hand, holding his sword to prevent it from knocking against some piece of furniture. Next to the window, Luis de Alquezar was snoring like a pig, in deep shadow relieved by the soft glow of an oil lamp. Diego Alatriste could not contain a secret smile: his powerful enemy, the royal secretary, was afraid of the dark. in hand, holding his sword to prevent it from knocking against some piece of furniture. Next to the window, Luis de Alquezar was snoring like a pig, in deep shadow relieved by the soft glow of an oil lamp. Diego Alatriste could not contain a secret smile: his powerful enemy, the royal secretary, was afraid of the dark.

Alquezar, only half awake, was slow to understand that he was not having a nightmare. But when he started to turn onto his other side and the sharp gouge of a dagger beneath his chin prevented him, he realized this was not a bad dream. Frightened, he tried to sit up, blinked his eyes, and opened his mouth to scream, but Diego Alatriste's hand quickly covered it.

"One word," whispered the captain, "and you are a dead man."

Between the nightcap and the iron hand that was gagging him, the eyes and mustache of the royal secretary were quivering with terror. A few inches from his face, the weak light of the lamp outlined Alatriste's aquiline profile, the luxuriant mustache, the sharp blade of the dagger.

"Do you have armed guards?" asked the captain.

Alquezar shook his head no. His breath moistened the palm of the captain's hand.

"Do you know who I am?"

The terrified eyes blinked, and after an instant the head nodded affirmatively. And when Alatriste took his hand away from Luis de Alquezar's mouth, he did not try to shout. Mouth agape, frozen with stupor, he stared at the shadow bending over him as if seeing a ghost. The captain pressed the tip of the dagger a little harder against Alquezar's throat.

"What are you going to do with the boy?" demanded Alatriste.

Alquezar's bulging eyes saw nothing but the dagger. His nightcap had fallen onto the pillow, and the lamp illuminated spa.r.s.e, tangled, greasy hair that accentuated his ign.o.ble round face, heavy nose, and short, scraggly beard.

"I do not know whom you mean."

The royal secretary's voice was weak and hoa.r.s.e, but even the threat of the steel could not mask his indignation. Alatriste pressed the dagger until he evoked a moan.

"Then I will kill you right now, sure as there is a G.o.d."

Alquezar moaned again. He was petrified, not daring to blink. The sheets and his nightshirt stank of bitter sweat, fear, and hatred.

"It is not in my hands," he babbled finally. "The Inquisition..."

"Don't f.u.c.k with me. Not the Inquisition. Fray Emilio Bocanegra and you, just you two."

Very slowly Alquezar lifted a conciliatory hand, never taking his eyes from the dagger pressing against his throat. "Perhaps something..." he murmured. "We could perhaps try..."

He was frightened, but it was also true that in the light of day, when that dagger was not at his throat, the royal secretary's att.i.tude could change. No doubt it would, but Alatriste had nothing to lose by trying.

"If anything happens to the boy," he said, his face only inches away from Alquezar's, "I will come back here as I have come tonight. I will come to kill you like a dog, slit your throat while you sleep."

"I tell you again that the Inquisition..."

The oil in the lamp sputtered, and for a moment its light reflected in the captain's eyes was a spark from the flames of h.e.l.l. "While you sleep," he repeated, and beneath the hand resting on Alquezar's chest, he could feel that the man was shaking. "I swear it."

No one would have doubted this for an instant, and the royal secretary's gaze reflected that certainty. But the captain also saw his relief at knowing he was not going to be killed that night. In the world of this loathsome creature, night was night and day was day, and like a new chess game, everything could begin again in the morning. And suddenly, like a revelation, Alatriste realized that the royal secretary would be back in command the moment the dagger was removed. The knowledge that despite anything he could do, I was already sentenced to death, filled Alatriste with an icy, hopeless rage. He hesitated, and Alquezar immediately perceived that hesitation with alarm. In one terrible flash, as if the steel of the vizcaina vizcaina transmitted a glimpse of Alquezar's sinister thoughts, the captain saw everything clearly. transmitted a glimpse of Alquezar's sinister thoughts, the captain saw everything clearly.

"If you kill me now," Alquezar said slowly, "nothing will save the boy."

It was true. But neither would the boy be saved if he left this man alive. With that, the captain stepped back a little, just enough to allow a brief reflection upon whether it was a good idea to slit the royal secretary's throat here and now, and at least leave one fewer serpent in that nest of vipers. But my fate stayed his arm. He turned to take a look around him, as if needing s.p.a.ce for his thoughts, and as he turned, his elbow struck a water jug on the night table, something he had not seen in the darkness. The jug exploded on the floor with a sound like a harquebus shot. Alatriste, still indecisive, bent to put his dagger back to his enemy's throat, just as a light appeared in the doorway. The captain looked up to see Angelica de Alquezar in her nightdress, a candle in her hand, surprised and sleepy-eyed, taking in the scene.

From that instant on, everything happened in rapid succession. The girl screamed, a piercing, bloodcurdling scream that was not fear but malice. It was long and drawn out, like the cry of a female falcon when a predator steals her chicks. It rang through the night, raising every hair on Alatriste's head. Befuddled, he tried to move away from the bed, with the dagger still in his hand and not knowing what the devil to do with the girl; Angelica was already across the room, fleet as a shot.

Dropping the candle to the floor, she threw herself on the captain like a tiny Fury, all blond curls and white silk nightdress floating in the darkness like the shroud of a ghost-beautiful, he supposed, although feminine charms were the last thing on his mind. She fastened onto the arm with the dagger and bit into him like a small blond bulldog. And there she hung, teeth clamped onto his arm, tenaciously clinging to the frightened Alatriste, who in his attempt to shake her off lifted her right off the floor. But she did not budge. Occupied with her, the captain watched the girl's uncle, liberated from the vizcaina vizcaina that had been threatening him, leap from the bed with unexpected vigor, and rush, barelegged and in his nightshirt, to an armoire where he seized a short sword, yelling, "Murderers! Intruders! To arms!" and other such cries. Upon which Alatriste heard the house stirring: thudding footsteps and voices torn from sleep-in all, the tumult of a thousand demons. that had been threatening him, leap from the bed with unexpected vigor, and rush, barelegged and in his nightshirt, to an armoire where he seized a short sword, yelling, "Murderers! Intruders! To arms!" and other such cries. Upon which Alatriste heard the house stirring: thudding footsteps and voices torn from sleep-in all, the tumult of a thousand demons.

Finally the captain succeeded in shaking the girl loose, with a cuff from his free hand that sent her rolling across the floor. Just in time he dodged a thrust from Luis de Alquezar, who, had he not been so undone by his fright, would then and there have put an end to Alatriste's adventurous career. The harried intruder, continuing to avoid Alquezar's blade in a chase that encompa.s.sed the entire room, put that same hand to his sword, turned, and drove Alquezar back with a two-handed swing. He then headed toward the door to make his escape, but again ran into the girl, who renewed her a.s.sault with a bellicose screech that would have turned an ordinary man's blood to ice in his veins.

Again Angelica charged, ignoring the sword Alatriste held uselessly in front of him, and which he had to raise at the last instant to keep from skewering the girl like a chicken on a spit. In the blink of an eye, the angelic-looking Angelica again clamped tooth and nail into his arm as he danced from one corner of the room to the other, unable to rid himself of her, so enc.u.mbered that he could do nothing but parry the sword that Alquezar, without a thought for his niece, was swinging with murderous intent. This chase might have lasted through eternity, but Alatriste somehow pushed the girl aside and made a thrust at Alquezar that drove the royal secretary staggering back amid a great clatter of basins, urinals, and a.s.sorted pottery.

At last the captain was in the corridor, but only in time to spy three or four servants running up the steps brandishing their weapons. It was a bad scenario. So bad that he pulled out his pistol and fired point-blank at the men on the stairway, a confused tangle of legs, arms, swords, bucklers, and clubs. Before they had time to regroup, he ran back into the room, shot the bolt of the door, and sped like an exhalation toward the window, but not before dodging two thrusts of Alquezar's sword and, for the third, unholy time, finding the girl clinging like a leech to his arm, biting and clawing with a ferocity unsuspected in a girl of twelve. Somehow the captain reached the window, kicked open the shutter, and slit the nightshirt of Alquezar, who was staggering clumsily toward the bed, covering himself. As Alatriste threw one leg over the iron balcony he was still shaking his arm and trying to loose Angelica's hold. The blue eyes and tiny white teeth, which don Luis de Gongora-begging Senor de Quevedo's pardon-had described as aljofares, aljofares, minute pearls set between lips like rose petals, were flashing with exceptional ferocity, until Alatriste, now fed to minute pearls set between lips like rose petals, were flashing with exceptional ferocity, until Alatriste, now fed to his his teeth with the whole matter, grabbed her by her curly locks and pulled her off his martyred arm, tossing her through the air like a furious, screaming rag doll. She landed upon her uncle and both of them crashed onto the bed, which spread its legs and collapsed noisily to the floor. teeth with the whole matter, grabbed her by her curly locks and pulled her off his martyred arm, tossing her through the air like a furious, screaming rag doll. She landed upon her uncle and both of them crashed onto the bed, which spread its legs and collapsed noisily to the floor.

At that point, the captain dropped from the window, ran across the patio and out to the street. He did not stop running until he had left that nightmare far behind.

Alatriste stayed in the shelter of the shadows, seeking the darkest streets by which to return to Juan Vicuna's gaming house. He went down Cava Alta and Cava Baja, along Posada de la Villa and past the shuttered shop of the apothecary Fadrique, before crossing Puerta Cerrada, where at that early hour not a soul was stirring.

He did not want to think, but it was inevitable that he would. He was certain of having committed a stupid act that only made a bad situation worse. A cold rage pounded in his pulse and blood hammered at his temples, and he would gladly have beat himself in the face to give vent to his desperation and his anger. It was the impulse to do something, not to keep waiting for others to act for him-he told himself once he had recovered a little calm-that had brought him out of his den like a desperate wolf, on the hunt for he knew not what.

It was not like him. Life, however long it lasted, was much simpler when there was no one to look out for but oneself. It was a difficult world in which every day a throat was slit, and n.o.body had any responsibility but to keep one's own skin and life intact. Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, veteran of the tercios tercios of Flanders and galleys of Naples, had spent long years ridding himself of any sentiment he could not resolve with a sword. But now look where he was. A boy whose name he had not even known a short while ago was turning everything upside down, making him aware that every man, however able-bodied he may be, has c.h.i.n.ks in his armor. of Flanders and galleys of Naples, had spent long years ridding himself of any sentiment he could not resolve with a sword. But now look where he was. A boy whose name he had not even known a short while ago was turning everything upside down, making him aware that every man, however able-bodied he may be, has c.h.i.n.ks in his armor.

And speaking of c.h.i.n.ks. Alatriste felt his left forearm, still aching from Angelica's bites, and could not prevent a grimace of admiration. At times, tragedies have all the earmarks of burlesque, he told himself. That tiny blond cat, of whom he had heard only vague references-though I myself had never mentioned her name, and the captain knew nothing of my relationship with her-had showed uncommon promise of ferociousness, displaying bloodlines worthy of her uncle.

Finally, remembering once again Luis de Alquezar's terrified eyes, the moist breath on the hand that had silenced him, his stench of sweat and fear, Alatriste shrugged. At last his soldier's stoicism was taking hold. After all, After all, he concluded, he concluded, we can never foresee the consequences of our acts. we can never foresee the consequences of our acts. At the least, following the nocturnal surprise he had just experienced, Luis de Alquezar now knew he was vulnerable. His neck was just as much at the mercy of a dagger as anyone else's, and having seen that clearly could be as bad ultimately as it was good. At the least, following the nocturnal surprise he had just experienced, Luis de Alquezar now knew he was vulnerable. His neck was just as much at the mercy of a dagger as anyone else's, and having seen that clearly could be as bad ultimately as it was good.

With that, the captain at last reached the small Conde de Barajas plaza, a step or two from the Plaza Mayor, and as he was about to turn the corner he saw light and a number of people. It was definitely not the hour of the paseo, paseo, so he hid in a doorway. Perhaps it was some of Juan Vicuna's clients leaving after a nightlong skirmish with the cards, or early-morning adventurers...or the Law. Whoever it was, this was no time to meet anyone unexpectedly and risk a confrontation. so he hid in a doorway. Perhaps it was some of Juan Vicuna's clients leaving after a nightlong skirmish with the cards, or early-morning adventurers...or the Law. Whoever it was, this was no time to meet anyone unexpectedly and risk a confrontation.

By the light of a lantern they had set on the ground, he watched as men pasted up a handbill near the Cuchilleros arch, and then moved down the street. There were five of them, armed, and they carried a roll of broadsheets and a bucket of paste. Alatriste would have gone along without paying any attention to what they were doing, had he not noticed that one of them was carrying the black baton of the Inquisition's familiares. familiares. As soon as they were out of sight, he went to the poster and tried to read it, but there was no light. The paste was fresh, however, and he tore the paper from the wall, folded it twice, and took it with him up the steps beneath the arch. He went straight to the pillars in the plaza, opened Juan Vicuna's secret door, and once in the pa.s.sageway struck a spark with flint, lit tinder, and then a candle stub. He did all this while forcing himself to be patient, the way one dawdles before breaking the seals on a letter that might bear bad news. And bad news there was. The poster was an announcement from the Holy Office. As soon as they were out of sight, he went to the poster and tried to read it, but there was no light. The paste was fresh, however, and he tore the paper from the wall, folded it twice, and took it with him up the steps beneath the arch. He went straight to the pillars in the plaza, opened Juan Vicuna's secret door, and once in the pa.s.sageway struck a spark with flint, lit tinder, and then a candle stub. He did all this while forcing himself to be patient, the way one dawdles before breaking the seals on a letter that might bear bad news. And bad news there was. The poster was an announcement from the Holy Office.

Be it known to all citizens and dwellers of this Town, and the Court of His Majesty, that the Holy Office of the Inquisition will celebrate a public Auto-da-Fe in the Plaza Mayor of this City on Sunday next, the fourth day...

In spite of the grim way that Captain Alatriste earned a living, he was not a man who often took G.o.d's name in vain, but this time he let loose with a blasphemous soldier's oath that made the candle flame tremble. It was less than a week till the fourth day of the new month, and there was not a blessed thing he could do until then except wait, d.a.m.ning all his Devils. Add to that the possibility that following his nocturnal visit to the royal secretary, they would on the morning paste up another broadside, this time from the corregidor, corregidor, announcing a price for his head. He wadded up the paper and stood leaning against the wall, staring into empty s.p.a.ce. announcing a price for his head. He wadded up the paper and stood leaning against the wall, staring into empty s.p.a.ce.

He had burned all his powder with the exception of one last shot. Now his only hope was don Francisco de Quevedo.

Your Mercies must forgive me if I again turn to my own story, there in the dungeon of the secret prisons of Toledo, where I had lost nearly any notion of time, or of day and night. After several more sessions, with corresponding beatings by the redheaded guard-they say that Judas had red hair, and my torturer fulfilled his days as Christ's betrayer concluded his-and without having revealed anything worthy of mention, they left me more or less in peace. Elvira de la Cruz's accusation, and Angelica's amulet, seemed to be all they needed, and the last truly difficult session had consisted of a tedious interrogation based on many "That is not true," "Tell the truth," and "Confess that," in which they repeatedly asked me the names of my supposed accomplices, thrashing me with that pizzle in response to every silence, which was every time. I shall say only that I stood firm and did not speak any name. I was so weak that the fainting I had at first feigned, and that had had such conclusive results, now happened naturally, saving me from a true Calvary. I'll wager that if my torturers did not go further it was out of fear of depriving themselves of the starring role they were preparing for me during the festival in the Plaza Mayor.

I did not examine these details too closely, though, for I was far from lucid, so addled that I did not recognize myself in the inigo who took the beatings or who waked with a shudder in the darkness of a dank cell, listening to a rat scamper back and forth across the floor. My one true anxiety was that I would rot in that cell until I was fourteen, at which time I would make close acquaintance of the rope and wood contrivance still standing in the interrogation room, as if signaling that sooner or later I would be its prey.

In the meantime, I chased the rat. I was tired of going to sleep dreading its bites, and I devoted many hours to studying the situation. I ended up knowing its habits better than my own: its chariness-it was an old veteran rat-its audacity, the way it moved inside the walls. I learned to follow its scamperings, even in the dark. One night, pretending to be asleep, I let it follow its usual routine until I knew it was in the corner where I had set out bread crumbs every day, enticing it to that spot. I grabbed the water jug and slammed it down, with such good fortune that it turned up its paws and died, without squeaking an "Ay!" or whatever the devil rats say when they get what is coming to them.

That night, finally, I could sleep peacefully. But the next morning I began to miss my cellmate. Its absence left me time to reflect on other things, such as Angelica's treachery and the stake where I could, and almost certainly would, end my brief life.

As for their burning me to a crisp, I can say, without braggadocio, that I spent no time at all worrying about that. I was so exhausted by the prison and the torture that any change would seem like a liberation. I often busied myself in calculating how long it would take to burn to death. Then again, if one recants in the proper form, they will use the garrote before lighting the pyre, and the end will come more gently. Whatever they did, I consoled myself, no suffering is eternal; and ultimately there is peace. Furthermore, in those days dying was a common occurrence, easily accomplished. I had not committed sins enough to weigh down my soul to the point of preventing my rejoining, in whatever place, that good soldier Lope Balboa. At my age, and having a certain heroic concept of life-do not forget that I was in these straits because I had not informed on the captain or his friends-the situation was made bearable by considering it a test in which, again begging your pardon, I found I was quite pleased with my performance. I do not know if in truth I truly was a lad with natural courage; but the Lord G.o.d above knows that if the first step toward courage consists of comporting oneself as if one were indeed courageous, I-let the record show-had taken not a few of those steps.

Nevertheless, I was hopelessly melancholy, filled with a deep anguish-something akin to wanting to cry but which had nothing to do with the tears of pain or physical weakness that were sometimes spilled. It was instead a cold, sorrowful sadness related to the memory of my mother and my little sisters, the captain's look when he silently approved of something I had done, the soft green hillsides around Onate, my childhood games with boys who had lived nearby. I regretted that I had to bid farewell to all that forever, and I mourned all the beautiful things that had awaited me in life, and that now I would never have. And especially, more than anything, I was sad not to look for one last time into the eyes of Angelica de Alquezar.

I swear to Your Mercies that I could not hate her. Just the opposite, knowing that she had played a part in my misfortune left a bittersweet taste that heightened the sorcery of her memory. She was wicked-and she became more so with time, I swear in Christ's name-but she was breathtakingly beautiful. And it was precisely the combination of evil and beauty, so tightly entwined, that fascinated me, an agonizing pleasure as I suffered every torment because of her. By my faith, one would think I was enchanted. Later, as the years went by, I heard stories of men whose souls had been stolen by a wily Devil, and in each of them I recognized my own rapture. Angelica de Alquezar held my soul in thrall, and she kept it as long as she lived.

And I, who would have killed for her a thousand times, and died for her another thousand without blinking an eye, will never forget her incomparable smile, her cold blue eyes, her snowy white skin, so soft and smooth, the touch still on my own skin, now covered with ancient scars, some of which, pardiez, pardiez, she herself gave me. Like the one on my back, a long scar from a dagger, as indelible as that night, long after the time I am writing about here, when we were no longer children, and I held her in my arms, both loving and hating her, not caring whether I would be dead or alive at dawn. When she, so close to me, whispering through lips red from kissing my wound, spoke the words I shall never forget, in this life or in the next: she herself gave me. Like the one on my back, a long scar from a dagger, as indelible as that night, long after the time I am writing about here, when we were no longer children, and I held her in my arms, both loving and hating her, not caring whether I would be dead or alive at dawn. When she, so close to me, whispering through lips red from kissing my wound, spoke the words I shall never forget, in this life or in the next: "I am happy I have not killed you yet." "I am happy I have not killed you yet."