Purity of Blood

Diego Alatriste thanked his host for the Toro wine, quaffing it in one long draught. He was in his shirtsleeves, unshaven, sitting on a straw mattress in the discreet room Vicuña had outfitted in his gaming house so he would have a place to retire and rest. A shutter allowed him to see into the main room without being seen himself. Boots on, sword on the taboret, loaded pistol on the blanket, vizcaína dagger on the pillow, and eyes sharp when from time to time he glanced through the latticed wood, it was obvious that Alatriste was on his guard. The room had a back, nearly secret, door to a passageway that emerged under an arch in the Plaza Mayor. Vicuña noted that the captain had arranged his belongings so that they could be gathered up in a quick retreat toward that door, should it be necessary. In the forty-eight hours he’d spent hiding there, Diego Alatriste had not relaxed except to nod off for forty winks. Even so, late one afternoon when Vicuña came in quietly to see if his friend needed anything, he had been met by the menacing barrel of a pistol pointed right between his eyebrows.

Alatriste did not betray his impatience by asking questions. He handed the empty jar back to Vicuña and waited, looking at him with clear, unwavering eyes whose pupils were dilated in the dim light of the oil lamp on the table.

“He will be waiting for you in a half-hour,” said the old sergeant, “in San Ginés alley.”

“How is he?”

“Fine. He has spent the last two days in the house of his friend the Duque de Medinaceli, and no one has bothered him. His name has not been made public, and the Law, the Inquisition, no one, is after him. The event, whatever it was, has not become public.”

The captain nodded slowly, reflectively. That quiet was not strange, it was logical. The Inquisition never set bells pealing until it had the last of the loose ends well tied up. And things were still half finished. The absence of news might be part of the trap.

“What are they saying in San Felipe?”

“Rumors.” Vicuña shrugged his shoulders. “That there was swordplay at La Encarnación gate, that someone died…They put it down more to the nuns’ swains than anything else.”

“Have they been to my lodgings?”

“No. But Martín Saldaña smells something. He was at the tavern. According to La Lebrijana, he said nothing specific but hinted a lot. The corregidor’s catchpoles are not showing themselves, he said, but there are people around watching. He did not explain who, although he mentioned familiares of the Holy Office. The message is simple. He is not dancing this chaconne, whatever it is, and you had better guard your hide. Apparently this is a delicate business, and it is being carried out with zeal. No one is claiming any knowledge of it.”

“What do you hear of Íñigo?” The captain looked at Vicuña steadily, with no visible emotion. The veteran of Nieuwpoort hesitated, uncomfortable. With his one hand, he kept turning the empty jug around and around.

“Nothing,” he answered finally. “It’s as if the earth swallowed him up.”

For a moment, Alatriste sat without speaking. He stared at the wood planks between his boots and then stood up.

“Have you spoken with Dómine Pérez?”

“He is doing what he can, but it is difficult.” Vicuña watched as the captain put on his rough-skinned buffcoat. “You know that the Jesuit Order and the Holy Office do not exchange confidences, and if they have the boy it may be a while before the dómine learns of it. As soon as he hears anything, he will tell you. He also offers you the Jesuit church, if you want safe haven. He says that the Dominicans cannot take you from there, not even if they swear you killed the papal nuncio.” He glanced through the lattice toward the gaming room, and then looked back toward the captain. “And whatever it is you’ve done, Diego, I hope to God you have not actually killed the nuncio.”

Alatriste asked for his sword and slid it into its scabbard. He cinched it on, and then stuck his flintlock pistol into his belt, after pulling back the hammer to be sure it was well oiled.

“I will tell you about it another time,” he said.

He prepared to leave as he had come, without explanation and without thanks. In the world that he and the veteran sergeant of the horse guard shared, these terms of the arrangement were understood.

Vicuña laughed a loud, soldier’s laugh. “By all that’s holy, Diego. I am your friend, but I am not curious. Besides, I would hate to die of noose poisoning. So it would be best if you never tell me.”