Arturo Perez-Reverte: Captain Alatriste

When they were alone, Olivares looked up and held Captain Alatriste's eyes for a long moment. "I am not going to offer an explanation, nor do I have any reason to do so," he said gruffly.

"I have not asked an explanation of Your Excellency."

"Had you done so, you would be dead by now. Or on your way to being so."

Then silence. The king's favorite had risen to his feet and was walking toward the window, where he could see clouds threatening rain. He seemed to be concentrating on the guards in the courtyard. Hands crossed behind his back, standing against the light, he looked even more dark and forbidding.

"Whatever else," he said without turning, "you can thank God that you are still alive."

"It is true that it surprises me," Alatriste replied. "Especially after all I have just heard."

"Supposing that in fact you heard something."

"Supposing."

Still without turning, Olivares shrugged his powerful shoulders. "You are alive simply because you do not deserve to die. At least not for the matter at hand. And also because there are those who have your interests at heart."

"I am grateful to them, Excellency."

"Do not be." The favorite moved away from the window, and his footsteps echoed on the parquet floor. "There is a third reason. There are those for whom your being alive is the gravest blow I can impose at this moment." He took a few more steps, nodding, pleased. "People who are useful to me because of their venality and ambition. But at times that same venality and ambition causes them to fall into the temptation of acting in their own behalf, or that of someone other than myself. What can one do? With upright men, one may win battles, perhaps, but not govern kingdoms. At least not this one."

He stood pensively regarding the portrait of the great Philip the Second above the fireplace; and after a very long pause he sighed deeply, sincerely. Then he seemed to remember the captain, and whirled toward him.

"As for any favor I may have done you," he said, "do not crow. Someone has just left this room who will never forgive you. Alquezar is one of those rare astute and complex Aragonese of the school of his predecessor, Antonio Perez. His one known weakness is a niece of his, still a girl, a menina in the palace. Guard yourself against him as you would against the plague. And remember that if for a while my orders can keep him in line, I have no power at all over Fray Emilio Bocanegra. Were I in Captain Alatriste's place, I would quickly heal my wound and return to Flanders as soon as possible. Your former general, Don Ambrosio de Spinola, is set to win more battles for us. It would be very considerate if you got yourself killed there, and not here."

Suddenly, Olivares seemed tired. He looked at the table strewn with papers as though in them he saw his condemnation, a long and fatiguing sentence. Slowly he sat down and faced them, but before he bade the captain farewell, he opened a secret door and took out a small ebony box.

"One last thing," he said. "There is an English traveler in Madrid who for some incomprehensible reason feels he is obligated to you. His path and yours, naturally, will in all probability never cross again. That is why he charged me to give this to you. Inside is a ring with his seal and a letter that—well, would you expect otherwise?—I have read. It is a kind of directive and bill of exchange that obliges any subject of His Britannic Majesty to lend aid to Captain Diego Alatriste should he ever have need. It is signed Charles, Prince of Wales."

Alatriste opened the black wood box with the ivory-inlaid lid. The ring was gold, and was engraved with the three plumes of the English heir. The letter was a small sheet folded four times, bearing the same seal as the ring, and written in English. When Alatriste looked up he saw that the favorite was watching him, and that between his ferocious beard and mustache gleamed a melancholy smile.

"What I would not give," said Olivares, "to have a letter like that."

EPILOGUE

The sky above the Alcazar threatened rain, and the heavy clouds blowing from the west seemed to rip apart on the pointed spire of the Torre Dorada. Sitting on a stone pillar on the royal esplanade, I covered my shoulders with the captain's old herreruelo, the short cape that served me for warmth, and continued to wait, never taking my eyes off the gates of the palace from which the sentinels had already chased me three times.

I had been there a very long while: ever since early morning, when I was roused from my uncomfortable dozing in front of the prison where we had spent the night— the captain inside and I out—and I had followed the carriage in which Constable Saldana had driven the captain to the Alcazar and taken him in through a side gate. I had not eaten a bite since the night before, when Don Francisco de Quevedo, before turning in—he had been recovering from a scratch suffered during the skirmish—came by the prison to inquire about the captain. When he found me huddled at the exit, he went to a nearby tavern and bought me a little bread and dried beef. The truth is, this seemed to be my destiny: a good part of my life with Captain Alatriste was spent waiting for him, expecting the worst. And always with my stomach empty and dread in my heart.

A cold drizzle began to moisten the large paving stones of the royal esplanade, little by little turning into a fine rain that drew a gray veil across the facades of nearby buildings and traced their reflections on the wet stones beneath my feet. I entertained myself by watching them take shape. That was what I was doing when I heard a little tune that sounded familiar to me, a kind of ti-ri-tu, ta-ta. Among the gray and ocher reflections stretched a dark, motionless stain. When I looked up, there before me, in cape and hat, was the unmistakable, somber figure of Gualterio Malatesta.

My first inclination when I saw my old acquaintance from the Gate of Lost Souls was to take to my feet, but I did not. Surprise left me so paralyzed and speechless that all I could do was sit there quietly, and not move, as the dark, gleaming eyes of the Italian nailed me to the spot. Afterward, when I could react, I had two specific and nearly opposite thoughts. One: Run. Two: Pull out the dagger I had hidden in the back of my waistband, covered by the cape, and try to bury it in our enemy's tripe. But something about him dissuaded me from doing either. Although he was as sinister and menacing as ever—lean, sunken-cheeked face marred by scars and pox marks—his attitude did not signal imminent danger. And in that instant, as if someone had swiped a line of white paint across his face, a smile appeared.

"Waiting for someone?"

I sat there on my stone pillar, staring at him. Drops of rain ran down my face, and rain collected on the broad brim of the Italian's felt hat and in the folds of his cape.

"I believe he will be coming out soon," he said in that muffled, hoarse voice, observing me all the while. I did not answer this time, either, and after a moment of silence, he looked over my shoulder and then all around, until his eyes settled on the facade of the palace.

"I was waiting for him, too," he added pensively, eyes now fixed on the palace gate. "For reasons different from yours, of course."

He seemed in a spell, almost amused by some aspect of the situation. "Different," he repeated.

A carriage passed. Its coachman was wrapped in a waxed cloth cape. I took a quick look to see whether I could make out the passenger. It was not the captain. At my side, the Italian was observing me again, that funereal smile still on his face.

"Have no fear. I have been told that he will come out on his own two feet. A free man."

"And how would you know that?"

My question coincided with a cautious movement of my hand toward the back of my waistband, a move that did not pass unnoticed by the Italian. His smile grew broader.