'I believe I am going to enjoy this job.'
The smile disappeared from his lips, only to reappear in the black eyes, which glinted dangerously. That was the first time Alatriste saw Gualterio Malatesta smile, and the prelude to a long and troubled series of encounters. The captain would later tell me that at that very instant his thought was that if someone should smile at him like that in a lonely alleyway, he would not wait to see it twice, he would unsheathe his blade like lightning. To cross swords with that individual was to feel the urgent need to strike first, before he dealt a blow that was the last you would know. Picture, Your Mercies, a person by your side who is like a dangerous serpent, someone you can never be sure of, never certain which side he will take, until it is abundantly clear that he does not give a damn about either side, but only himself. One of those slippery, duplicitous, whichever-way-the-wind-blows types, with a bag of dirty tricks. A man with whom you could never lower your guard, and whom it behooves you to take out of the picture before he stabs you in the back.
Their portly soon-to-be-employer was a man of few words. Again he waited without speaking, listening attentively as the round-headed one explained to Diego Alatriste and the Italian the final details of their assignment. Twice the portly man nodded, signaling his approval of what he heard. Then he turned and walked toward the door.
'I do not want much blood,' they heard him insist for the last time from the doorway.
From everything he had seen—the man's bearing, and especially the profound respect the second masked man showed him—the captain deduced that the person who had just left was of very high station. Alatriste was still thinking about that when the round-headed fellow rested one hand on the table and stared intently at him and the Italian. There was a new and disquieting gleam in his eyes, as if he still had not told them everything. An uncomfortable silence fell over the shadow-filled room, and Alatriste and the Italian kept glancing at each other, wordlessly wondering what was yet to come. Facing them, motionless, the masked man seemed to be waiting for something, or someone.
The answer came after a moment, when a tapestry, inconspicuous in the shadows between the bookshelves, moved to reveal a hidden door; in the opening they could see a dark and sinister silhouette, which someone less level-headed than Diego Alatriste might have taken for an apparition. The newcomer stepped forward and the table lamp illuminated his face, exaggerating hollows in his shaved sunken cheeks and the feverish light in a pair of eyes shadowed by thick eyebrows. He was wearing the black and white robes of the Dominicans, and he was not masked. His shining eyes lent an expression of fanaticism to the thin, ascetic face. He must have been close to fifty years old. His gray, tonsured hair was cut short like a helmet around his temples, and his hands, which he had taken from the sleeves of his robes when he entered, were dry and bony, like those of a cadaver. They looked as if they would be as icy as death.
The round-headed man turned toward the priest with extreme deference. 'You heard everything, Reverend Father?'
The Dominican nodded briefly, never taking his eyes from Alatriste and the Italian, as though appraising them. Then he turned to the masked man and, as if that movement were a signal or an order, the latter again addressed the two hired swords.
'The caballero who just left us,' he said, 'is worthy of every respect and consideration. But it is not he alone who decides this affair, and it is best that we elaborate on a few details.'
When he reached this point, the masked man exchanged a brief look with the priest, awaiting his approval before continuing. But the other remained impassive.
'For reasons originating at the highest level of government,' the masked man then continued, 'and despite what the caballero who has just left said, the two Englishmen must be removed from contention in a more . . .' He paused, as if seeking the appropriate words. '... in a more, hmm,
'Do you, senor, wish to say ...' began Diego Alatriste, who preferred to have things clear.
The Dominican, who had listened in silence and seemed to be growing impatient, interrupted, raising one of his bony hands.
'He 'wishes to say' that the two heretics must die.'
'Both?'
'Both.'
Beside Alatriste, the Italian again quietly whistled his little tune.
'No matter to me,' he said. 'And my companion seems not to object to the change in plans.'
'I like it,' the Italian said quickly, still smiling.
'It even makes things easier,' Alatriste continued serenely. 'At night it is more complicated to wound men than to dispatch them.'
'The art of the simple,' his companion added.
Now the captain looked at the masked man. 'There is one thing that worries me,' he said. 'The caballero who just left seems to be a man of high caliber, and he said that he does not wish us to kill anyone. I do not know what my companion thinks, but I would prefer not to get on the wrong side of someone whom you yourself addressed as 'Excellency,' whoever he may be, in order to do Your Mercies' bidding.'
'There could, perhaps, be more money,' the masked one said, after a slight hesitation.
'It would be helpful to know exactly how much.'
'Ten additional four-doubloon pieces. With the ten still to be paid, and these five, that will be twenty-five doubloons for each of you. Plus the purses of the most excellent Misters Thomas and John Smith.'
'I am comfortable with that,' said the Italian.
It was obvious that two or twenty made no difference to him: wounded, dead, or put up as pickles. As for Alatriste, he reflected again for a moment, then shook his head. That was a lot of doubloons for making sieves out of a pair of nobodies. And there, precisely, was the hitch in such a strange business: It was too well paid not to mean trouble. His instinct as a former soldier signaled danger.
