The writer's quill paused a moment in midair, as he flashed a look of irony toward the captain. 'How wicked of him. And you?'
'I do not enjoy killing. For me, taking a life is a business, not a pleasure.'
'Yes, so we noted.' The man dipped the quill into the inkwell and turned back to his task. 'And next, I suppose, we shall learn that you are a man given to Christian charity.'
'You err, Your Mercy,' the captain responded serenely. 'I am known to be a man more inclined toward the sword than toward sentiment.'
'That is why you were recommended to us as a man of the sword. To our misfortune.'
'But in truth, it is so. Fortune has reduced me to this sad estate. I have been a soldier all my life, and there are certain things one cannot avoid.'
The Dominican, who had been as quiet as the Sphinx during this exchange, sat straight up and leaned across the table toward Alatriste as if he would obliterate him on the spot. That instant.
'Avoid? You soldiers are offal,' he declared with infinite repugnance. 'Rabble ... blaspheming, looting, wallowing with women. What infernal 'sentiment' do you refer to? Taking a life is as easy as breathing to you.'
The captain received the reproof in silence, and only when the priest had finished did he shrug.
'You are undoubtedly right,' he said. 'But some things are difficult to explain. I was going to kill that Englishman. And I would have, had he defended himself or sought mercy for himself. But when he pled for mercy, it was as I told you, he pled for the other man.'
The round-headed man again paused in his writing. 'Did they, by any chance, reveal their identity to you?'
'No, although they could have, and perhaps saved themselves. I was a soldier for nearly thirty years. I have killed, and I have done things for which my soul will be damned through eternity. But I know how to appreciate the gesture of a courageous man. And heretics or not, those men were courageous.'
'You give that much importance to courage?'
'There are times when courage is all that is left,' the captain said with utter simplicity. 'Especially in times like these, when even flags and the name of God are used to strike deals.'
If he had expected a reply, there was none. The masked man did nothing but continue to stare at him. 'By now, of course, you have learned who those two Englishmen are.'
Alatriste said nothing, but finally allowed a weak sigh to escape. 'Would you believe me if I denied it? Since yesterday, all of Madrid has known.' He looked at the Dominican and then the masked man with an expression that was easy to read. 'And I am happy not to have that on my conscience.'
The scribe made a brusque movement, as if attempting to shake off the thing Diego Alatriste had not wanted to be responsible for. 'You bore us with your inopportune conscience,
This was the first time he had used that form of address. It was consciously ironic, and Alatriste frowned, not pleased.
'It matters little whether I bore you or not,' he replied. 'I do not like to murder princes without knowing who they are.' Irritated, he twisted his mustache. 'Or to be deceived and manipulated.'
'And you feel no curiosity,' intervened the priest, who had been listening closely, 'as to why just men had determined to procure those deaths? Or prevent evil men from usurping the good faith of our lord and king, and from taking an infanta of Spain to the land of heretics as a hostage?'
Alatriste slowly shook his head. 'No, I am not curious. Please consider, Your Mercies, that I have not even attempted to find out who this gentleman is who covers his face with a mask.' Alatriste looked at his questioners with mocking, insolent seriousness. 'Nor the identity of the one who, before he left the other night, insisted that I should merely frighten Masters John and Thomas Smith, take their letters and documents, but spare their lives.'
For a moment the Dominican and his companion said nothing. They seemed to be thinking. It was the latter who finally spoke, staring at his ink-stained fingernails.
'Perhaps you suspect who that other caballero might be?'
''Sblood! I suspect nothing. I find myself involved in something that is too rich for my fancy, and I regret it. Now all I hope to do is to leave with my head attached to my body.'
'Too late,' said the priest, in a tone so low and menacing that it reminded the captain of the hissing of a snake.
'Returning to our two Englishmen,' the masked man put in. 'You will recall that after the other caballero left, you received different instructions from the holy father and from me.'
'I remember. But I also remember that you yourself seemed to show special deference to that 'other caballero,' and that you did not reveal your orders until he was gone and the ... holy father'—Alatriste looked out of the corner of his eye at the Inquisitor: remote, impassive, as if all this had nothing to do with him—'had stepped from behind the tapestry. That too may have influenced my decision regarding the lives of the Englishmen.'
'You accepted good money not to respect them.'
'True.' The captain put his hand to his belt. 'And here it is.'
The gold coins rolled across the table and lay gleaming in the light of the candles. Fray Emilio Bocanegra did not even look at them, as though they were cursed. But the masked man reached for them and counted them one by one, stacking them into two small piles beside the inkwell.
'You are four doubloons short,' he said.
'Yes. That is payment for my trouble. And for having been taken for an imbecile.'
The Dominican exploded with a flash of choler. 'You are a traitor, and totally untrustworthy,' he said, contempt vibrating in his voice. 'With your untimely attack of scruples, you have favored the enemies of God and of Spain. All this will be purged from you, I promise, in the cauldrons of Hell, but before that you will pay dearly here on earth.
