Captain Alatriste

companion, who was clad in a loose garment that concealed his attire. He was a man of medium stature, with a round head and thin hair. These two had received Diego Alatriste and the black-cloaked man after having made them wait half an hour in the antechamber.

'No deaths, no blood,' the tall, corpulent one insisted. 'At least, not much.'

His companion raised both hands. Diego Alatriste observed that he had dirty fingernails and ink-stained fingers, like those of a scribe; however, a heavy gold seal ring encircled the little linger of his left hand.

'Perhaps just a pink,' they heard him suggest in a prudent voice. 'Something to justify the encounter.'

'But only for the blonder of the two,' the finely dressed man amplified.

'Of course, Excellency.'

Alatriste and the man in the voluminous cape exchanged a professional glance, as if considering the bounds of the word 'pink' and the possibilities—rather remote— of distinguishing one blond from another in the midst of a scuffle, and at night. Picture the scene: Would you be kind enough to come to the light and doff your hat? Thank you, caballero. I see that you are blonder than your friend. Please allow me to pierce your liver. . . . I'll use no more than a quarter of my blade.

In a pig's eye.

As for the man wrapped in the cloak, he had removed his hat when they entered the room, and now Alatriste could see his face in the light of the table lamp illuminating the four men and the walls of an old library thick with dust and nibbled by mice. He was tall, slender, silent, and around thirty years old. His face bore the old marks of smallpox, and the thin line of his mustache gave him the look of a stranger, a foreigner. His eyes and his hair, which fell to his shoulders, were as black as his clothing, and in his sash was a sword with an uncommonly large, round steel guard with exaggerated quillons. No one but a consummate swordsman would have dared expose such a weapon to the inevitable gibes and jeers unless he had the daring and dexterity to defend its oddity with deeds. And this man did not look like someone who would be a target for poking fun. If you looked up the words 'swordsman' and 'assassin,' it was his portrait you would find.

'Your quarries, caballeros, are two foreign gentlemen,' the round-headed man said. 'They are traveling incognito, so that their real names and circumstances will exert no influence. The elder is called Thomas Smith, and he is no more than thirty. The other, John Smith, is nearly twenty-three. They will arrive in Madrid on horseback, alone, at night. Weary, I imagine, for they have been traveling for days. We do not know which gate they will enter by, so the best plan would seem to be to wait for them near their destination, which is the House of Seven Chimneys. Do you know it, Your Mercies?'

Diego Alatriste and his companion nodded. Everyone in Madrid knew the residence of the Count of Bristol, England's ambassador.

'This is the way the affair must go,' the masked man continued. 'It must look as if the two travelers were victims of an assault by common highwaymen. That means that you must take everything they are carrying with them. It would be helpful if the blonder and more arrogant, who is the elder, were slightly injured. A knife wound in a leg or arm, but nothing too serious. As for the younger, you can let him go with just a good fright.' At this point, the man who was talking turned slightly toward the corpulent man, as if awaiting his approval. 'It is important that you make off with any letters and documents they have, and deliver them punctually.'

'To whom?' asked Alatriste.

'To someone who will be waiting on the other side of the Discalced Carmelite monastery. The countersign is 'Monteros y suizos.''

As he was speaking, the man with the round head put his hand inside the dark robes covering his clothing and removed a small purse. For an instant, Alatriste thought he glimpsed on his chest the bright red embroidery of the cross of the Order of Calatrava, but his attention was quickly diverted by the money the masked man put on the table. The lamplight reflected off five four-doubloon pieces for Alatriste's companion, and five for him. Clean, burnished coins. A powerful caballero, that money. Yes, this is what Don Francisco de Quevedo would have said, had he been party to their conversation . . . powerful indeed.

Blessed coins, newly minted with the coat of arms of our lord and king. Bliss with which to buy bed, food, clothing, and the warmth of a woman.

'Ten pieces are missing,' said the captain, 'for each of us.'

The other man's tone was instantly unpleasant. 'The person who will be waiting for you tomorrow night will give you the rest, in exchange for the travelers' documents.'

'And if something turns out badly?'

From the holes in his mask, the eyes of the heavyset man whom his companion had addressed as 'Excellency' seemed to pierce the captain. 'It would be best, for the well-being of all concerned, that nothing turn out badly,' he said.

Menace reverberated in his voice, and it was evident that menace was something this individual dispensed daily. It was also clear that he need threaten but once, and in most instances, not even that. Even so, Alatriste twisted the tip of his mustache while he held his antagonist's gaze, frowning, and with his feet firmly planted, resolved not to be impressed by either an Excellency or a sursum corda. He did not like partial payments, and he liked even less to be lectured to at midnight by two strangers who hid their identity behind masks. But his less exacting companion with the pockmarked face seemed interested in other questions.

'What happens to their purses?' Alatriste heard him ask. 'Must we deliver them as well?'

Italian, Alatriste decided when he heard the accent. The man spoke quietly and gravely, almost confidentially, but in a muffled, hoarse voice that was both disquieting and annoying. It was as if someone had poured raw alcohol over his vocal cords. His words were respectful, but a false note sounded through them—a kind of insolence that was no less disturbing for being veiled. He looked at the masked men with a smile that was at once friendly and sinister, a smile that was a flash of white beneath his trimly cut mustache. It was not difficult to imagine him with the same expression, as his knife—rrriss, rrriss—slit the clothing of a client, along with the flesh beneath it. It was a smile so oddly charming that it gave one cold chills.

'That will not be necessary,' the round-headed man replied, after silently consulting his masked partner, who nodded. 'You may keep the purses, if you wish. As a bonus.'

The Italian quietly whistled an air, something like a chaconne, ti-ri-tu, ta-ta, repeated a couple of times, as he glanced at the captain out of the corner of his eye.