the tavern of Caridad la Lebrijana, who was always fretting about the furniture.
'Whenever Your Mercies please.'
The men buckled on their weapons and started outside amid high expectation, taking care not to leave their backs unguarded—just in case—for Jesus may have said something about brothers, but he made no mention of cousins. That was the situation, with all swords still sheathed, when, to the disappointment of the onlookers and relief of Diego Alatriste, the unmistakable silhouette of the high constable, Martin Saldana, appeared in the doorway.
'That throws the blanket over our fiesta,' said Don Francisco de Quevedo.
And shrugging, he adjusted his eyeglasses, glanced out of the corner of his eye, went back to his table, and uncorked another bottle, with no further ado.
'I have a mission for you.'
The high constable, Martin Saldana, was hard and tan as a brick. Over his doublet, he wore an old-fashioned buff-coat, quilted inside, that was very practical in warding off knives. With his sword, dagger, poniard, and pistols, he carried more iron than was to be found in all Biscay. He had been a soldier in the Flemish wars, like Diego Alatriste and my deceased father, and in close camaraderie with them had spent long years of pain and worry, although in the end with better fortune. While my progenitor pushed up daisies in a land of heretics, and the captain earned his living as a hired swordsman, Saldana made his way in Madrid upon his discharge in Flanders—after our deceased king, Philip the Third, signed a treaty with the Dutch— with the help of a brother-in-law who was a majordomo in the palace, and a mature but still-beautiful wife. I cannot prove the story of the wife—I was too young to know the details—but there were rumors that a certain magistrate was free to have his way with the aforementioned senora, and that that was the reason for her husband's being appointed high constable, a position equal to that of the night watchmen who made their rounds in the barrios of Madrid, which at that time were still called
In any case, no one ever dared make the least insinuation in Martin Saldana's presence. Cuckolded or not, there was no doubt was that he was brave, albeit very thin-skinned. He had been a good soldier; his many wounds had been stitched up like a crazy quilt, and he knew how to command respect with his fists or with a Toledo sword. He was, in fact, as honorable as could be expected in a high constable of the time. He, too, admired Diego Alatriste, and he tried to favor him whenever possible. Theirs was an old professional friendship—rough, as befitting men of their nature—but real and sincere.
'A mission,' the captain repeated. They had gone outside and were leaning against a wall in the sun, each with his jug in his hand, watching people and carriages pass by on Calle Toledo. Saldana looked at him a moment, stroking the thick beard sprinkled with the gray of an old soldier, grown to hide a slash that went from his mouth to his left ear.
'You have been out of prison only a few hours and you haven't a coin in your purse,' he said. 'Before two days pass, you will have accepted some paltry employ, escorting some conceited young peacock to prevent his beloved's brother from running him through on a street corner or slicing off a man's ears on behalf of a creditor. Or you will start hanging around in bawdy and gaming houses to see what you can extract from strangers or a priest who's come to wager San Eufrasio's knucklebone. Before you know it, you will be in trouble: a bad wound, a quarrel, a charge against you. And then it will start all over again.' He took a small sip from his jar and half closed his eyes, though he never took them off the captain. 'Do you call that living?'
Diego Alatriste shrugged. 'Can you think of something better?' He stared directly into the eyes of his old comrade from Flanders. The look said,
Saldana picked his teeth with a fingernail and nodded a couple of times. They both knew that were it not for the twists and turns of fate, Saldana could easily be in the same situation as the captain. Madrid was filled with former soldiers scraping a living in the streets and plazas, their belts stuffed with tin tubes in which they carried their wrinkled recommendations and petitions, and the useless service records that no one gave a Fig about. Waiting for a stroke of luck that never came.
'That is why I have come, Diego. There is someone who needs you.'
'Me? Or my sword?' He twisted his mustache with that grimace that passed as a smile.
Saldana burst out laughing. 'What an idiotic question,' he said. 'There are women who are interesting for their charms, priests for their absolutions, old men for their money. ... As for men like you and me, it is only our swords.' He paused to look in both directions, took another swallow of wine, and spoke more quietly. 'These are people of quality. An easy evening's work, with no risks but the usual ones. And for doing it, there is a handsome purse.'
The captain observed his friend with interest. At that moment, the word 'purse' would have roused him from the deepest sleep or the most excruciating hangover.
'How 'handsome'?'
'Some sixty
Saldana made an evasive gesture, looking furtively toward the door of the tavern.
'Perhaps, but I do not know the details. And I do not want to know, if you get my meaning. All I know is that it is to be an ambush. Something discreet, at night, with your face covered and all that. 'Greetings and godspeed, senores'
'Alone, or will I have company?'
'Company, I surmise. There are two to be dispatched. Or perhaps only given a good fright. Or maybe you can use your blade to leave the sign of the cross on their faces, or something of the kind. You will know what to do.'
'Who are they?'
Now Saldana shook his head, as if he had said more than he wanted. 'Everything in its time. Besides, my only role is to act as messenger.'
The captain drained his jug, thinking hard. In those days, fifteen four-doubloon pieces, in gold, came to more than seven hundred
