They fought for an eternity. Both were exhausted, and the wound in the captain's hip gave him pain, but he was in better shape than Malatesta. It was only a question of time, and the Italian, wild with hatred, resolved to take his enemy with him as he died. It never crossed his mind to ask for mercy, and no one was going to offer it. They were two professionals, aware of what they were doing, sparing with insults and useless words, fighting away for the best and worst they could give. Conscientiously.

Then the third man appeared-he too dressed like a swashbuckler, with a beard and baldric and an array of weapons-at the entrance to the alley. His eyes were like platters when he took in the panorama before him: one man stabbed to death, two still going at each other, and the strip of ground in the alley covered with blood tinting the puddles of urine red.

Stupefied for an instant, he muttered, "Blessed Christ and G.o.d Almighty," and then reached for his dagger. He could not get past Malatesta, however, who was barely holding himself up with the help of the wall, or pa.s.s the obstacle of the other comrade to reach the captain. Alatriste, at the limit of his strength, seized the opportunity to rid himself of his prey, who was still slashing at empty s.p.a.ce. His dagger cut across Malatesta's cheek, and finally he had the satisfaction of hearing a curse in Italian. Then the captain threw his short cape over the third man's vizcaina, vizcaina, and fled down the alley toward La Provincia plaza, his breath burning in his chest. and fled down the alley toward La Provincia plaza, his breath burning in his chest.

He was soon out the other end of the alley, straightening his clothing as he left. He had lost his hat in the struggle, and had another man's blood on his clothing, while his own was dripping down inside his doublet and breeches. Just to be safe, he headed for the church of Santa Cruz, the nearest haven. He stood quietly at the gate, getting his breath back, ready to dash inside the church at the first hint of trouble. His hip was painful. He pulled his handkerchief from his purse and, after feeling for the wound with two fingers and deciding that it was not grave, stuffed the linen into it. But no one came out of the alley, and no one came looking for him. Everyone in Madrid was immersed in the spectacle of the auto-da-fe. auto-da-fe.

It was almost time for me, and for the poor souls behind me. The inquisitors were, at that moment, sentencing the barber accused of blasphemy to a hundred lashes and four years in the galleys. The poor man was wringing his hands, head bowed, weeping, pleading for mercy that no one was going to grant his wife and four children. In any case, he'd gotten better than the penitents wearing cone hats and riding mules who were on their way to the stakes at the Alcala gate. Before nightfall they would be grilled to a crisp.

I was next, and I was so desperate and so shamed that I was afraid my legs would fail me. The plaza, the balconies filled with people, the tapestries, the constables and Holy Office familiares familiares on either side of me made my head spin. I wanted to die there, right there, with no further formalities, and without hope. I knew already that I was not going to die, but that my punishment would be a long prison sentence, and perhaps rowing in the galleys after I had served the required years. All that seemed worse than death, to the degree that I had come to envy the arrogance with which the recalcitrant priest went to the stake without recanting or asking for clemency. At that moment it seemed easier to die than to go on living. on either side of me made my head spin. I wanted to die there, right there, with no further formalities, and without hope. I knew already that I was not going to die, but that my punishment would be a long prison sentence, and perhaps rowing in the galleys after I had served the required years. All that seemed worse than death, to the degree that I had come to envy the arrogance with which the recalcitrant priest went to the stake without recanting or asking for clemency. At that moment it seemed easier to die than to go on living.

They were finished with the barber, and I saw one of the inquisitors in his starched white gorget consult his papers and then look at me. Signed and sealed. I took one last peek at the loge of honor, where our lord and king was leaning a little to one side to whisper something into the ear of the queen, who seemed to smile. They were undoubtedly talking about the hunt, or exchanging pleasantries, or who knows what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l they were saying, while down below them priests were heartily dispatching their subjects. Beneath the arches, the public was applauding the barber's sentence and joking about his tears, licking their lips at the prospect of the next offender.

The inquisitor consulted his papers, looked my way once more, and then made a last review. The sun was beating down on the platform like lead, and my shoulders were burning beneath the heavy cloth of the sanbenito. Finally, the inquisitor gathered up his papers and began his slow march toward the lectern, fatuous and self-satisfied, enjoying the suspense he was creating.

I looked at Fray Emilio Bocanegra, motionless on the raised dais, sinister in his black-and-white habit, savoring his victory. I looked at Luis de Alquezar in his loge, cunning, cruel, the cross of Calatrava dishonored by its place on his chest. At least, I told myself-and it was, G.o.d knows, my only consolation-Captain Alatriste is not sitting here beside us.

The inquisitor stood before his lectern, slowly, ceremoniously, preparing to read my name. Just then a caballero dressed in black and covered with dust erupted into the loge of the royal secretaries. He was in mud-spattered traveling clothes, high riding boots, and spurs, and he had the appearance of having ridden-whipping his mounts from post house to post house-without rest. He was carrying a leather lettercase, which he took straight to the royal secretary. I saw that they exchanged a few words, and that Alquezar, taking the lettercase with an impatient gesture, opened it, glanced at it, looked in my direction, then at Fray Emilio Bocanegra, and back to me.

The black-clad caballero turned, and at last I recognized him.

It was don Francisco de Quevedo.

X. UNFINISHED BUSINESS

The fires burned all night long. People stayed very late by the Alcala gate, even after the penitents were nothing more than calcified bones in a pile of embers and ashes. Rising columns of smoke were stained red in the light of the flames. Occasionally a breeze stirred, carrying to the crowd a heavy, acrid odor of wood and burned flesh.

All Madrid spent the night there, from honest married women, somber hidalgos, and highly respectable people, to the lowest of the low. Street urchins dashed around at the edges of the coals, as constables cordoned off the area. There were vendors galore, and beggars, making hay. And to each and every one, the spectacle seemed holy and edifying-or at least that was the view they affected in public. Poor, miserable Spain, always disposed to overlook bad governance, the loss of the fleet of the Indies, or a defeat in Europe, with merriment-a boisterous festival, a Te Deum, or a few good bonfires-was once again being faithful to herself.

"It is repugnant," said don Francisco de Quevedo.

He was a great satirist, as I have already mentioned to Your Mercies, the consummate Catholic in the mode of his century and his nation, but he tempered all that with his deeply ingrained culture and limpid humanism. That night he stood motionless, frowning, watching the fire. The fatigue of his breakneck journey showed on his face and in his voice. Although in the latter, his weariness sounded as old as time.

"Poor Spain," he added in a low voice.

One of the fires collapsed, sputtering, in a cloud of sparks, illuminating the figure of Captain Alatriste by his side. People burst into applause. The reddish glow lighted the walls of the Augustinian monastery in the distance, and the nearby stone pillory at the crossroads of Vicalvaro and Alcala roads, where the two friends stood a bit back from the crowd. They had been there since the beginning, quietly talking. They stopped only when, after the executioner made three turns of the rope around Elvira de la Cruz's neck, the brush and wood crackled beneath the novitiate's body. Of all the penitents, the only one burned alive was the priest. He had stood firm until the last, refusing to reconcile before the priest attending him, and confronting the first flames with a serene countenance. It was sad that when the flames reached his knees-they burned him slowly, showing great piety, to allow him time to repent-he broke down, ending his torment with atrocious howls. But, with the exception of Saint Lawrence, no one, as far as I know, attains perfection on the grill.

Don Francisco and Captain Alatriste had been talking about me. I was sleeping, exhausted and at last free, in our lodgings on Calle del Arcabuz, under the maternal care of Caridad la Lebrijana. I'd fallen into a deep sleep, as if I needed-which was in fact the case-to reduce my adventures of recent days to the confines of nightmare. And while the fires burned at the site of the stakes, the poet had been telling the captain the particulars of his hurried and dangerous journey to Aragon.

The course suggested by Olivares had mined pure gold. Those four words that don Gaspar de Guzman had written in the Prado meadows-Alquezar. Huesca. Green Book-had been enough to save my life and hobble the royal secretary. Alquezar was not only our enemy's surname, it was also the name of the town in Aragon in which he had been born. And to that town don Francisco de Quevedo had hastened, changing post horses along the camino real camino real-one dropped stone-dead in Medinaceli-in his desperate attempt to win the race against time. As for the green book, which was what the birth registry was called, it contained the catalogues, family genealogies, and listings kept by individuals or parish priests, and records that served as proof of ancestry.

As soon as don Francisco arrived there, he used his ingenuity, his famous name, and the money provided by the Conde de Guadalmedina to sniff through the local archives. And there, to his surprise, relief, and joy, he found confirmation of what the Conde de Olivares already knew through his private spies: Luis de Alquezar himself did not have pure blood. did not have pure blood.

In Alquezar's genealogy-as in that of half of Spain-there was a Jewish branch, this one doc.u.mented as having converted in 1534. Those ancestors of Hebrew origin disqualified the royal secretary's claim of n.o.bility. But in a time in which even purity of blood was bought at so much per grandfather, that history had been very conveniently forgotten when necessary proof and doc.u.ments were created so that Luis de Alquezar could a.s.sume a high post at court. And as, in addition, he commanded the distinction of being a caballero of the order of Calatrava, which group did not admit any man who could not prove he was an old Christian and whose forebears had not defiled themselves in the practice of manual labors, the falsified doc.u.mentation and the conspiracy to provide them were flagrantly illegal. Publication of that information-a simple sonnet by Quevedo would have sufficed-backed by the green book the poet had obtained in Alquezar's parish in exchange for a weighty roll of silver escudos, escudos, would have destroyed the royal secretary's reputation, resulting in the loss of his Calatrava habit, his post at court, and the greater part of his privileges as a caballero and man of substance. would have destroyed the royal secretary's reputation, resulting in the loss of his Calatrava habit, his post at court, and the greater part of his privileges as a caballero and man of substance.

Of course, the Inquisition and Fray Emilio Bocanegra, like Olivares himself, were already aware of all this, but in a venal world built upon hypocrisy and spurious manners, the powerful, the carrion-feeding buzzards, the envious, the cowards, and all swine in general, tended to look out for one another. G.o.d our Father created them, and in our unhappy Spain they had clung together forever, with great rewards.

"What a pity that you did not see his face, Captain, when I showed him the green book." The poet's quiet voice shouted his fatigue. He was still wearing the dust-covered clothing and bloodstained spurs of his journey. "Luis de Alquezar turned whiter than the papers I put in his hands, then he turned as red as fire, and I feared he was going to collapse of apoplexy. But I had to get inigo out of there, so I pressed even closer and said, 'Senor Secretario, there is no time for discussion. If you do not intervene on the lad's behalf, you are lost.' And he did not even try to argue. That great scoundrel recognized that one day every man among us must settle accounts with the All-Powerful."

It was true. Before the scribe could speak my name, Alquezar shot out of his loge like a musket ball, with a dispatch that said a great deal for his qualifications for the post of royal secretary-and any other matter that concerned him. He stopped before a stupefied Fray Emilio Bocanegra, with whom he exchanged a few words in a very low voice. The Dominican's face had shown, in quick succession, surprise, anger, and dismay. His vengeful eyes would have struck don Francisco de Quevedo dead on the spot, had the poet-exhausted from the journey, on pinpoints because of the danger still threatening me, and determined to carry through to the end even if that meant there on the spot-given a fig for all the murderous looks in the world. Wiping sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, again as pale as if the barber had bled him too liberally, Alquezar slowly returned to the loge where the poet was waiting. And finally, over the royal secretary's shoulder, Quevedo watched as on the dais of the inquisitors, Fray Emilio Bocanegra, shaking with spite and rage, motioned to the scribe. After listening respectfully for a few instants, that same scribe took the sentence he was about to read and set it aside, pigeonholing it forever.

Another pyre collapsed with a great crash, and a rain of sparks flooded the darkness, heightening the radiance that illuminated the two men. Diego Alatriste stood unmoving beside the poet, never taking his eyes from the flames. Beneath the brim of his hat, his strong mustache and aquiline nose seemed to make even leaner a face already emaciated by the fatigue of the day, as well as the new wound to his hip. Though not serious, it was quite painful.

"A pity," murmured don Francisco, "I did not arrive in time to save her as well."

He nodded toward the nearest pyre, and seemed shamed by Elvira de la Cruz's fate. Not in regard to himself, or the captain, but by everything that had led the poor girl to this point, destroying her family along with her. Shamed, perhaps, by the land in which he had been fated to live: vengeful, cruel, dazzling in its sterile grandeur but indolent and vicious in everyday life. Quevedo's honesty and stoic, sincerely Christian, Seneca-inspired resignation were not enough to console him. It seemed that to be lucid and Spanish would forever be coupled with great bitterness and little hope.

"At any rate," Quevedo concluded, "it was the will of G.o.d."

Diego Alatriste did not immediately reply. G.o.d's will or the Devil's, he remained silent, eyes on the fires and the black outlines of the constables and ma.s.ses of people silhouetted against the ominous backdrop of the flames. He had not yet come to see me on Calle del Arcabuz, though Quevedo, and then Martin Saldana, whom they had scouted out earlier in the day, had told him that there was nothing to fear. Everything seemed to have been resolved with such discretion that not even the death of the swordsman in the alley had come to light, nor did anyone have news of the injured Gualterio Malatesta. So, as soon as his wound had been bandaged in Tuerto Fadrique's apothecary, Alatriste had gone with Quevedo to the burning at the Puerta de Alcala. And there he stayed, along with the poet, until Elvira was nothing but bone and ash in the coals of her pyre.

For one moment the captain thought he sighted Jeronimo de la Cruz among the throng, or at least the ghostly shade the elder brother seemed to have become, the one survivor of the slaughtered family. But darkness and the milling crowd had closed back over his m.u.f.fled face-if it had in fact been him at all.

"No," Alatriste said finally.

He had taken so long to speak that don Francisco was not expecting to hear anything, and he looked at him with surprise, trying to think what he was referring to. But the captain, expressionless, continued to observe the fires. Only later, after a second long pause, did he slowly turn toward Quevedo and say, "G.o.d had no part in this."

Unlike the poet's eyegla.s.ses, Alatriste's gray-green eyes did not reflect the light of the bonfires; they were more reminiscent of two pools of frozen water. The last of the flames shed dancing shadows and red hues on his knife-sharp profile.

I was feigning sleep. Caridad la Lebrijana was sitting by the head of the bed, where she had tucked me in after supper and a warm bath in a large tub brought from the tavern. She was watching over me while, by candlelight, she mended some of the captain's linen. Eyes closed, I was enjoying the warmth of the bed, in a delicious half-sleep that also allowed me to keep from answering questions or having to say anything about my recent adventure. The mere thought of it-I could not get the infamous sanbenito out of my mind-still ate into me like acid. The warmth of the sheets, the kind company of La Lebrijana, the knowledge that I was among friends, and especially the prospect of lying there in the quiet, eyes closed, as the world outside whirled on with no thought of me, had lulled me into a lethargy resembling happiness, compounded by the thought that during my imprisonment no one had torn a word from me that would incriminate Diego Alatriste.

I did not open my eyes when I heard steps on the stairway, or when La Lebrijana, swallowing an exclamation, threw her mending to the floor and herself into the captain's arms. I lay listening to the quiet murmur of conversation, several resounding kisses from the tavern keeper, the new arrival's mutter of protest, and footsteps receding down the stairs. I thought I was alone until after a long silence I again heard the captain's boots, this time approaching the bed, and stopping there.

I nearly opened my eyes, but did not. I knew that he had seen me in the plaza, humiliated among the penitents. And I had not been able to forget that because I had disobeyed his orders, I had let myself be trapped like a linnet the night we attacked the convent of the Adoratrices Benitas. In short, I still did not find myself strong enough to confront his questions or his reproaches. Not even the silence of his gaze. So I lay motionless, breathing evenly to feign sleep.

There was an endless time during which nothing happened. No doubt he was watching me in the light of the candle La Lebrijana had left by the bed. Not a sound, not his breathing, nothing at all. And then, when I was beginning to doubt that he actually was there, I felt the touch of his hand, the rough palm that he laid for a moment on my forehead, with a warmth and unexpected tenderness. He held it there a moment and then brusquely pulled away. I heard the steps again, and the sound of the cupboard being opened, the clink of a gla.s.s and a jug of wine, and the sc.r.a.ping of a chair being moved.

Cautiously, I opened my eyes. In the dim light of the room I saw that the captain had unfastened his doublet and unbuckled his sword. Seated by the table, he was drinking in silence. The wine gurgled again and again as it was poured into the gla.s.s. He drank slowly, methodically, as if he had nothing else in the world to do. The yellowish candlelight illuminated the light blotch of his shirt, the plane of his face, his short-trimmed hair, the tip of his thick soldier's mustache. He was silent, not moving except to drink. Behind him was the window he had opened, and I could see vague outlines of nearby rooftops and chimneys. Over them shone a single star, still, silent, cold. Alatriste stared fixedly into the void, or at his own ghosts wandering in the darkness. I knew his eyes when the wine clouded them, and I could guess how they looked at that moment: glaucous, absent. At his waist, blood was slowly soaking the bandage on his hip, staining his white shirt with red.

He seemed as resigned and alone as the star winking outside in the night.

Two days later, sun was shining on Calle de Toledo, and again the world was wide and filled with hope, and the vigor of youth was leaping in my veins. Sitting at the door of the Tavern of the Turk, practicing my penmanship with the writing materials Licenciado Calzas kept bringing me from La Provincia plaza, I was again seeing life with that optimism and that speedy recovery following misfortune that only good health and youth can give. From time to time I looked over toward the women selling vegetables in the stands across the street, the hens pecking sc.r.a.ps, and the ragam.u.f.fins running around among the horses and coaches, as I listened to the sound of conversations inside the tavern. I considered myself the most contented boy in the world. Even the verses I was copying seemed to me the most beautiful ever written.

The shadow that comes to end day's reverieWill bring the dark, and close my eyelids fast,Enabling this soul of mine, at last,To slough off anguish and anxiety.

The words were don Francisco de Quevedo's, and they had seemed so lovely when I heard him casually reciting them between sips of San Martin de Valdeiglesias, that I had asked his permission to write them out in my best hand. Don Francisco was inside with the captain and the others-the licenciado, licenciado, Domine Perez, Juan Vicuna, and the Tuerto Fadrique-all of them celebrating with carafes of the finest, sausages and cured hares, the happy end to a bad situation, which no one mentioned explicitly but all had very much in mind. One after another they had ruffled my hair or given me an affectionate pinch on the cheek as they arrived at the tavern. Don Francis...o...b..ought me a copy of Plutarch so that I could practice my reading. The Domine Perez, Juan Vicuna, and the Tuerto Fadrique-all of them celebrating with carafes of the finest, sausages and cured hares, the happy end to a bad situation, which no one mentioned explicitly but all had very much in mind. One after another they had ruffled my hair or given me an affectionate pinch on the cheek as they arrived at the tavern. Don Francis...o...b..ought me a copy of Plutarch so that I could practice my reading. The domine domine brought a silver rosary, Juan Vicuna came with a bronze belt buckle he had worn in Flanders, and the Tuerto Fadrique-who was the pinchpenny of the brotherhood and little inclined to part with his money-brought an ounce of a compound from his pharmacy that he a.s.sured me was perfect for building up the blood and restoring color to a lad like myself, who had suffered so many recent travails. I was the most honored, and the happiest, boy in all the Spains, as I dipped one of Licenciado Calzas's good goose quills into the inkwell, and continued: brought a silver rosary, Juan Vicuna came with a bronze belt buckle he had worn in Flanders, and the Tuerto Fadrique-who was the pinchpenny of the brotherhood and little inclined to part with his money-brought an ounce of a compound from his pharmacy that he a.s.sured me was perfect for building up the blood and restoring color to a lad like myself, who had suffered so many recent travails. I was the most honored, and the happiest, boy in all the Spains, as I dipped one of Licenciado Calzas's good goose quills into the inkwell, and continued: That darkness, though, will not leave memoryOn that far sh.o.r.e where once it brightly blazed,Instead, my flame will burn through icy wavesTo flout the laws of death's finality.

It was at that verse when, as I looked up again, my hand stopped in midair and a drop of ink fell onto my page like a tear. Up Calle de Toledo came a very familiar black coach, one with no escutcheon on the door and a stern coachman driving the two mules. Slowly, as if in a dream, I set aside paper, pen, ink, and drying sand, and stood rooted as if the carriage were an apparition that any wrong movement on my part might dispel. As the coach pulled up to where I stood, I saw the little window, which was open, with the curtains unfastened. First I saw a perfect white hand, and then the blond curls and the sky-blue eyes that Diego Velazquez later painted: the girl who had led me to within a breath of the gallows. And as the carriage rolled past the Tavern of the Turk, Angelica de Alquezar looked straight at me, in a way-I swear by all that is holy-that sent a chill from the tip of my spine to my bewitched and furiously pounding heart. On an impulse, without considering what I was doing, I placed my hand on my chest, honestly and truly lamenting that I was not wearing the gold chain with the amulet that she had given me to ensure a sentence of death, and which, had the Holy Office not taken it from me, I swear by Christ's blood I would have continued to wear around my neck with besotted pride.

Angelica understood the gesture. Her smile, that diabolic expression I so adored, lighted her lips. And then with a fingertip, she brushed them in something very like a kiss. And Calle de Toledo, and Madrid-the entire sphere-vibrated with a delicious harmony that made me feel jubilantly alive.

I stood watching, still as stone, long after the carriage disappeared up the street. Then, choosing a new quill, I smoothed the point against my doublet and finished putting down don Francisco's sonnet.

Soul, in which a G.o.dhead was enclosed,Veins, through which a humor's fire arose,Marrow, the seat of earthly pa.s.sion's reign,Will fly the body, but quiddity retain;Though ash, they will have sensibility,Be dust enamored through eternity.

It was growing dark, but not yet dark enough for a lantern. The Posada Lansquenete was situated on a filthy, stinking street derisively called Calle de la Primavera-though there was no perfume of springtime there! It was near the Lavapies fountain, the location of the lowest taverns and wine cellars in Madrid, as well as of its most ruinous brothels. Clothes were drying on lines strung from one side of the street to the other, and through open windows came the noise of quarrels and crying babies. Horse droppings were piled at the entrance to the inn, and Diego Alatriste took care not to soil his boots when he went into the corral-like courtyard where a broken-down cart with no wheels, only bare axles, was set up on stones. After a quick glance around, he took the stairs, and after thirty or so steps, and after four or five cats had darted between his legs, he reached the top floor without challenge.

Once there, he studied the doors along the gallery. If Martin Saldana's information was correct, it was the last door on the right, just at the corner of the corridor. He walked in that direction, trying not to make any noise and at the same time gathering up the cape that concealed his buffcoat and pistol. Doves were cooing in the eaves, the only audible sound in that part of the house. From the floor below rose the aroma of a stew. A serving girl was humming something in the distance. Alatriste stopped, glanced around for a possible escape route, a.s.sured himself that his sword and dagger were where they should be, then pulled his pistol from his belt and, after testing the primer, thumbed back the hammer. The moment had come to settle unfinished business. He smoothed his mustache, unfastened his cape, and opened the door.

It was a miserable room that smelled of confinement, of loneliness. Some early-rising c.o.c.kroaches were scurrying across the table among the remains of a meal, like looters after a battle. There were two empty bottles, a water jug, and chipped gla.s.ses. Dirty clothes were slung over a chair, a urinal sat in the middle of the floor, a black doublet, hat, and cape hung on the wall. There was one bed, with a sword at its head. And in the bed was Gualterio Malatesta.

A certainty: If the Italian had made the least move of surprise, or of menace, Alatriste would have without so much as a "Defend yourself!" fired the pistol he held at point-blank range. Instead, Malatesta lay staring at the door as if he were struggling to recognize who had come in, and his right hand did not make a twitch in the direction of the pistol lying ready on the sheets. He was propped up on a pillow, and a face that could strike terror on its own was made even more frightening by pain, a three days' beard, a badly closed, inflamed wound above his eyebrows, a filthy poultice covering a nasty cut below his left cheekbone, and an ashen pallor. Bandages crusted with dried blood wound around his naked torso, and from the dark stains seeping through them, Alatriste counted a minimum of three wounds. It seemed clear that the a.s.sa.s.sin had got the worst of the recent skirmish in the alley.

With his pistol still pointed at Malatesta, the captain closed the door behind him and approached the bed. The Italian seemed to have recognized him at last, for the glitter of his eyes, exacerbated by fever, had turned harder, and his hand made a weak attempt to reach for the pistol. He had obviously lost a lot of blood. Alatriste held the barrel of his weapon two inches from the Italian's head, but his enemy was too debilitated to defend himself.

After acknowledging the futility of trying, he simply lifted his head a little off the pillow. Beneath the Italian mustache, now in need of care, appeared the white flash of the dangerous smile the captain, to his misfortune, knew well. Fatigued it is true-and twisted in a grimace of pain-but it was the unmistakable smile with which Gualterio Malatesta seemed always prepared to live or else depart for the lower regions.

"Forsooth!" he murmured. "If it is not Captain Alatriste."

His voice was m.u.f.fled and weak in tone, though firm in words. The black, febrile eyes were fixed on the visitor, ignoring the barrel of the gun pointed at him.

"It appears," the Italian continued, "that you are performing your charitable works by visiting the ill." He laughed to himself.

For a moment the captain held his glance and then lowered the pistol, though he kept his finger on the trigger. "I am a good Catholic," he replied mockingly.

Malatesta's short dry laugh intensified when he heard that, ending in a fit of coughing. "I have heard that." He nodded, when he had recovered. "Yes, that is what they say. Although in recent days there have been some yeas and nays on the subject."

He still held the captain's eyes, but then, with the hand that had not been capable of picking up the pistol, he motioned toward the jug on the table.

"If it is not too much, would you set that water a little closer? Then you could boast that you had also given drink to the thirsty."

Alatriste considered for a moment, then picked up the jug and brought it to the bed, never taking his eyes from his enemy. Malatesta drank two avid gulps, observing the captain over the rim of the jug.

"Have you come to kill me straight off," he inquired, "or do you hope that first I will spill out the details of your most recent venture?"

He had set the jar to one side, and weakly swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile was the smile of a cornered snake: dangerous to the last hiss.

"I have no need for you to tell me anything." Alatriste shrugged. "It is all very clear: the trap at the convent, Luis de Alquezar, the Inquisition. Everything."

"The Devil. You have simply come to kill me, then."

"That is so."

Malatesta studied the situation. He did not seem to find it promising.

"And the fact that I have nothing new to tell you," he concluded, "only shortens my life."

"More or less." Now it was the captain who flashed a hard, dangerous smile. "Although I shall do you the honor of a.s.suming that you are not a man to spill your guts," he said, with some irony.

Malatesta sighed, shifting painfully as he felt his bandages.

"Very chivalrous on your part." Resigned, he pointed to the sword at the head of his bed. "A pity that I am not well enough to return your courtesy and save you having to kill me in my bed like a dog. But you trimmed my candle quite thoroughly the other day in that accursed alley."

He moved again, attempting to find a more comfortable position. At that moment he did not seem to hold more rancor than was required by their profession. But his dark, feverish eyes were alert, watching Alatriste.

"You truly did...I hear that the boy's skin was saved. Is that true?"

"It is."

The a.s.sa.s.sin's smile widened.

"That pleases me, by G.o.d. He is a brave lad. You should have seen him that night at the convent, trying to hold me at bay with a dagger. Hang me if I enjoyed taking him to Toledo, and less, knowing what awaited him. But you know how it goes. He who pays, commands."

His smile had become mocking. Once or twice he looked out of the corner of his eye at his pistol, lying on the sheets. The captain had no doubt that he would use it if the opportunity arose.

"You," said Alatriste, "are a wh.o.r.eson and a viper."

Malatesta looked at him with what seemed to be sincere surprise.

"Pardiez, Captain Alatriste. Anyone who heard you would take you for a Clarist nun." Captain Alatriste. Anyone who heard you would take you for a Clarist nun."

Silence. Keeping his finger on the trigger of the pistol, the captain took a long look around. Gualterio Malatesta's lodgings reminded him too much of his own for him to be totally indifferent. And in a certain way, the Italian was right. They were not all that far apart.

"Is it true that you cannot move out of that bed?"

"By my faith, no." Malatesta was now looking at him with renewed attention. "What is it? Are you looking for an excuse?" Again the white, cruel smile grew wider. "If it helps, I can tell you of the men I have dispatched posthaste, without giving them time for a 'G.o.d help me.' Awake, asleep, from the front, from the back-and more of the second than the first. So don't come to me now with a crisis of conscience." The smile gave way to a quiet little laugh, discordant, evil. "You and I are professionals."

Alatriste looked at his enemy's sword. The guard had as many nicks and dents as his own. Everything comes down to how the dice fall, Everything comes down to how the dice fall, he told himself. he told himself.

"I would be grateful," Alatriste suggested, "if you would try to grab the pistol, or that sword."

Malatesta stared at him, hard, before slowly shaking his head no.

"Not a chance. I may lie here filleted, but I am no coward. If you want to kill me, press that trigger and it will be over. With luck, I will reach h.e.l.l in time for dinner."