Purity of Blood

A certainty: If the Italian had made the least move of surprise, or of menace, Alatriste would have without so much as a “Defend yourself!” fired the pistol he held at point-blank range. Instead, Malatesta lay staring at the door as if he were struggling to recognize who had come in, and his right hand did not make a twitch in the direction of the pistol lying ready on the sheets. He was propped up on a pillow, and a face that could strike terror on its own was made even more frightening by pain, a three days’ beard, a badly closed, inflamed wound above his eyebrows, a filthy poultice covering a nasty cut below his left cheekbone, and an ashen pallor. Bandages crusted with dried blood wound around his naked torso, and from the dark stains seeping through them, Alatriste counted a minimum of three wounds. It seemed clear that the assassin had got the worst of the recent skirmish in the alley.

With his pistol still pointed at Malatesta, the captain closed the door behind him and approached the bed. The Italian seemed to have recognized him at last, for the glitter of his eyes, exacerbated by fever, had turned harder, and his hand made a weak attempt to reach for the pistol. He had obviously lost a lot of blood. Alatriste held the barrel of his weapon two inches from the Italian’s head, but his enemy was too debilitated to defend himself.

After acknowledging the futility of trying, he simply lifted his head a little off the pillow. Beneath the Italian mustache, now in need of care, appeared the white flash of the dangerous smile the captain, to his misfortune, knew well. Fatigued it is true—and twisted in a grimace of pain—but it was the unmistakable smile with which Gualterio Malatesta seemed always prepared to live or else depart for the lower regions.

“Forsooth!” he murmured. “If it is not Captain Alatriste.”

His voice was muffled and weak in tone, though firm in words. The black, febrile eyes were fixed on the visitor, ignoring the barrel of the gun pointed at him.

“It appears,” the Italian continued, “that you are performing your charitable works by visiting the ill.” He laughed to himself.

For a moment the captain held his glance and then lowered the pistol, though he kept his finger on the trigger. “I am a good Catholic,” he replied mockingly.

Malatesta’s short dry laugh intensified when he heard that, ending in a fit of coughing. “I have heard that.” He nodded, when he had recovered. “Yes, that is what they say. Although in recent days there have been some yeas and nays on the subject.”

He still held the captain’s eyes, but then, with the hand that had not been capable of picking up the pistol, he motioned toward the jug on the table.

“If it is not too much, would you set that water a little closer? Then you could boast that you had also given drink to the thirsty.”

Alatriste considered for a moment, then picked up the jug and brought it to the bed, never taking his eyes from his enemy. Malatesta drank two avid gulps, observing the captain over the rim of the jug.

“Have you come to kill me straight off,” he inquired, “or do you hope that first I will spill out the details of your most recent venture?”

He had set the jar to one side, and weakly swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His smile was the smile of a cornered snake: dangerous to the last hiss.

“I have no need for you to tell me anything.” Alatriste shrugged. “It is all very clear: the trap at the convent, Luis de Alquézar, the Inquisition. Everything.”

“The Devil. You have simply come to kill me, then.”

“That is so.”

Malatesta studied the situation. He did not seem to find it promising.

“And the fact that I have nothing new to tell you,” he concluded, “only shortens my life.”

“More or less.” Now it was the captain who flashed a hard, dangerous smile. “Although I shall do you the honor of assuming that you are not a man to spill your guts,” he said, with some irony.

Malatesta sighed, shifting painfully as he felt his bandages.

“Very chivalrous on your part.” Resigned, he pointed to the sword at the head of his bed. “A pity that I am not well enough to return your courtesy and save you having to kill me in my bed like a dog. But you trimmed my candle quite thoroughly the other day in that accursed alley.”

He moved again, attempting to find a more comfortable position. At that moment he did not seem to hold more rancor than was required by their profession. But his dark, feverish eyes were alert, watching Alatriste.

“You truly did…I hear that the boy’s skin was saved. Is that true?”

“It is.”

The assassin’s smile widened.

“That pleases me, by God. He is a brave lad. You should have seen him that night at the convent, trying to hold me at bay with a dagger. Hang me if I enjoyed taking him to Toledo, and less, knowing what awaited him. But you know how it goes. He who pays, commands.”