Purity of Blood

The chief constable, Martín Saldaña, found him at the doorway of his house on Calle León when he returned from his last rounds. Or, to be more exact, what he encountered was the light glancing off Alatriste’s pistol, which was aimed straight at him. But Saldaña was an even-tempered man who had, in the course of his life, seen more than his share of pistols, harquebuses, and every other kind of weapon pointed at him. This one made him neither hotter nor colder than usual. He propped his fists on his hips and stared at Diego Alatriste who, in cape and hat, was holding his pistol in his right hand and, to be safe, resting the left on the handle of the dagger stowed in his belt above his left kidney.

“’Pon ’is body, Diego, you like to tempt fate.”

Alatriste did not respond. He stepped a little out of the shadow to search Saldaña’s face by the faint light from the street—just a large candle burning at the corner of Calle de las Huertas. Then the captain turned up the barrel of the pistol, as if intending to show the weapon to his friend.

“Do I need this?”

Saldaña observed him an instant. “No,” he said finally. “Not this minute.”

That broke the tension. The captain stuffed the pistol back into his belt and dropped his hand from the dagger.

“We are going to take a little walk,” he said.

“What I cannot understand,” said Alatriste, “is why they are not openly looking for me.”

They were walking across Antón Martín plaza toward Calle Atocha, deserted at that hour. There was still a waning moon in the sky, which had just emerged from behind the chapel of the Amor de Dios Hospital, and its beams rippled on the water falling from the curbstone of a fountain and running in rivulets down the street. There was asmell of rotted vegetables in the air, and the pungent odor of mule and horse manure.

“I don’t know, and I do not want to know,” said Saldaña. “But it is true that no one has given your name to the authorities.”

He stepped to one side to avoid some mud, but put his foot where he least wanted and choked back a curse behind his graying beard. His short cape accentuated his stocky build and broad shoulders.

“Whatever the case,” he continued, “be very careful. The fact that my catchpoles are not on your trail does not mean that no one is interested in the state of your health. According to my information, the familiares of the Inquisition have orders to bring you in with maximum discretion.”

“Have they told you why?”

Saldaña threw a sideways glance toward the captain. “I haven’t been told, and I do not want to know. One fact: they have identified the woman who was found dead the other day in the sedan chair. She is one María Montuenga. She served as a duenna to a novice in the convent of La Adoración Benita. Do you know the name?”

“Never heard it.”

“So I imagined.” The chief constable laughed quietly to himself. “Better that way, because whatever else is going on, this is a rather murky business. They say that the old woman was a procuress, and now the Inquisition is involved…. That would not ring a bell either, I imagine.”

“None.”

“Right. They are also talking about some bodies that no one has seen, and about a certain convent turned upside down in the midst of a hurly-burly that no one seems to remember.” Again that sideways glance at Alatriste. “There are those who connect all this with Sunday’s auto-da-fé.”

“And you?”

“I make no connections. I receive orders and I carry them out. And when no one tells me anything, a circumstance I greatly celebrate in this case, all I do is watch, listen, and keep my mouth shut. Which is not a bad position to take in my office. As for you, Diego, I would like to see you far away from all this. Why are you still in town?”

“I can’t leave. Íñigo…”

Saldaña interrupted him with a strong oath.

“I don’t want to hear it. I have already told you that I do not want to know anything concerning your Íñigo, or anything else. As for Sunday, I do have something to say about that. Stay away. I have orders to place all my constables, armed to the teeth, at the disposition of the Holy Office. Whatever happens, neither you nor the Blessed Mother of God will be able to move a finger.”

The swift black shadow of a cat crossed their path. They were near the tower of the Hospital de la Concepción, and a woman’s voice cried out, “Watch out below!” Wisely, they jumped aside, and heard the chamber pot being emptied onto the street from above.

“One last thing,” said Saldaña. “There is a certain swordsman you must keep an eye out for. Apparently, parallel to the official plot, there is a semi-official one.”

“What plot are you referring to?” And in the darkness, Alatriste smirked and twisted his mustache. “I thought I just heard you say that you know nothing at all.”

“The Devil take you, Captain.”

“They want me to wake with the Devil, that is true.”