Arturo Perez-Reverte - Captain Alatriste

All these things piqued Alatriste's curiosity, enough that instead of making himself scarce, as his common sense was screaming at him to do, he stood there quietly beside the two Englishmen whom he had been on the verge of sending to a far different neighborhood, reflecting bitterly on one sure reality: cemeteries are filled with curious people. But he was no less sure that after the incident with the Italian, and with the two masked men and Fray Emilio Bocanegra awaiting results, the possibility of the cemetery was not a "perhaps." So staying, leaving, or dancing a chaconne was all one and the same. Sticking his head in the

sand, like that rare bird from Africa, would not solve anything, and furthermore, it was not Diego Alatriste's nature. He was aware that in blocking the Italian's sword he had taken a definitive step, and there was no turning back. Thus the only remedy was to play the hand with the cards dealt by that old joker Destiny, even though they were terrible.

He looked at the two young Englishmen. By this time, according to the agreement—the one he was carrying gold in his purse for executing—they should be cold cuts on a platter. He felt drops of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. What a whore luck was, he cursed silently. A fine moment he'd chosen to play at being a gentleman and suffer a crisis of conscience in some alleyway in Madrid—an old girl on her way down. And he with her.

The Englishman dressed in gray was on his feet and looking at the captain. Now it was his turn to be studied by Alatriste in the light of the lantern: blond, curling mustache, elegant air, circles of fatigue beneath his blue eyes. Barely thirty, and obviously well-bred. And like his friend, pale as wax. There had been no color in their faces since Alatriste and the Italian fell upon them.

"We are in your debt," said the man in gray, and after a brief pause he added, "In spite of everything."

His Spanish was riddled with imperfections, with the strong accent of "those up there," that is, the English. His tone seemed sincere. It was evident that he and his companion had seen death face to face, with no soft lights or heroic drumrolls, but in the dark, and nearly in the back, like rats in an alleyway and several leagues from anything remotely resembling glory. An encounter that few members of the upper classes had experienced, accustomed as they were to departing this mortal coil amid fifes and drums, serene as the elegant profile on a coin. The fact is that from time to time he blinked without taking his gaze from the captain's, as if surprised to find himself alive. And the truth was that now he was going to live, heretic or no.

"In spite of everything," the heretic repeated.

The captain did not know what to say. After all, despite the denouement of the ambush, he and his soldier-of-fortune companion had intended to murder the two Misters Smith, or whoever these bastards were. To fill the embarrassing pause, the captain glanced away, and the glint of the Englishman's sword caught his eye. He walked over, picked it up, and returned it to him. The so-called Thomas Smith, or Steenie—and what the devil kind of name was that ? —weighed it pensively before putting it back in its scabbard. He kept looking at Alatriste with those frank blue eyes that made the captain feel so uneasy.

"At the beginning we thought . . the Englishman said, then waited as though expecting Alatriste to complete his sentence. The captain merely shrugged. At that moment the wounded youth made a move to get up, and "Steenie" turned to help. Both men's swords were now sheathed, and in what little light remained they observed the captain speculatively.

"You are not a common thief," said Steenie, who slowly was recovering his color.

Alatriste glanced toward the young man whom his companion had several times addressed as "Milord." Thin blond mustache, fine hands, aristocratic-looking despite the clothing stiff with the dust and filth of the road. If that individual was not from a good family, the captain would pledge himself to the faith of the Turks. By his life he would.

"Your name?" the man in gray asked.

It truly was amazing that these heretics were still alive, for they were innocent as lambs. Or perhaps that was the reason they were. All Alatriste could do was stay silent. He was not a man given to confidences, even less one to spill his feelings to two strangers he had been about to kill. So he could not, God knows, imagine what made this dandified young stranger think he was going to open his heart to him, just to be a good fellow. In any case, despite how much he wanted to find out what the fuck this was all about, the captain began to think that it might be better to put a little distance between himself and the two men. Getting into questions and answers was not something that suited him in the least. Besides, someone might appear at any moment: the watchman making his rounds or . . . Anything unexpected could complicate things. Indeed, given the worst possibility, it might occur to the Italian, whistling his ti-ri-tu, ta-ta, to return with reinforcements to get the job done. That thought made the captain take a worried look down the dark lane behind him. He had to get out of there, and quickly.

"Who sent you?" the Englishman insisted.

Without answering, Alatriste went to retrieve his cape. He threw it over one shoulder, leaving the hand that wielded his sword free, just in case. The horses were close by, dragging their reins on the ground.

"Get on your horses and go," he said.

The one called Steenie did not move, but turned to consult with his companion, who had not spoken a word in Spanish and seemed to have only a rudimentary comprehension of it. They exchanged a few phrases in their tongue, speaking very low, and the wounded youth nodded. At last the one in gray spoke to Alatriste.

"You were going to kill me, but you relented," he said. "You also saved my friend's life. Why?"

"Old age. I am turning soft."

The Englishman shook his head. "This was not a chance encounter." He looked toward his companion and then at the captain, with sharpened attention. "Someone hired you, is that not true?"

The captain was beginning to lose patience answering so many questions, and even more when he saw that his questioner's hand was moving toward the purse at his waist, suggesting that any helpful word would be generously remunerated. At that Alatriste frowned, twisted his mustache, and placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Look at me carefully, Your Mercy," he said. "Do I look like someone who tells his life story to anyone who happens along?"

The Englishman stared at him, hard, and slowly removed his hand from his purse. "No," he conceded. In truth you do not."

Alatriste nodded approvingly. "I am very happy that you agree with me. Now fetch your horses and get out of here. My companion may return."

"And you, sir?"

"That is my affair."

Again the two young men exchanged words in English. The one in gray seemed to be considering something, elbow cupped in one hand, chin on fist. An unusual stance, notably affected, more suitable to the elegant palaces of

London than to a dark lane in Madrid. In him, however, it seemed natural, as if he were accustomed to striking a pose. So white and so blond, he had the air of a popinjay, or a courtier, but it was also true that he had fought with skill and courage, just as his companion had. Their patterns of behavior, the captain observed, were cut from the same cloth. A pair of well-bred youths, he concluded. In over their heads with women, religion, or politics. Or perhaps all three.

"No one must know about this," the Englishman said at last.

A quiet laugh escaped Diego Alatriste. "I am not the most eager among us to have it known."

The youth seemed surprised by the captain's laugh, or perhaps he did not fully understand what he said; but after a moment he, too, smiled. A faint, courteous smile. A bit superior.