Purity of Blood Read Online Free Page A

woman was going to involve us in some way, the smile with which Captain Alatriste greeted the poet would have frozen on his lips. But one never knows how the dice will fall, and they are always cast before anyone even notices.

    “I have a favor to ask of you,” said don Francisco.
    Between Señor Quevedo and Captain Alatriste, those words were a pure formality. That was obvious in the look, almost a reproach, the captain gave Quevedo in response. We had taken our leave of the Jesuit and the apothecary, and were now in the Puerta del Sol, walking past the awnings of the stalls around the fountain at the Buen Suceso church. The idle liked to sit on its rim and listen to the water playing, or gaze toward the façade of the church and the royal hospital. The captain and his friend were walking ahead of me, side by side, and I remember how they blended into and then emerged from the crowd in the fading light of dusk, the poet in his usual dark clothing, with his cape folded over his arm, and by his side, the captain in a brown doublet, modest square collar, and nicely fitting hose, his sword and dagger, as always, at his waist.
    “I am greatly obliged, don Francisco, that you are sugarcoating the pill I am to swallow,” said Alatriste. “But please go directly to the second act.”
    At the reference to a second act, I heard the poet’s quiet laugh. We were all remembering what had happened only a few steps from here during the time of the adventure of the two Englishmen. How don Francisco had come to the captain’s aid in the course of an ugly scuffle in which steel had flashed like lightning.
    “I have some friends, people I am fond of,” said don Francisco. “And they want to talk with you.”
    He had turned around to see whether I was listening to the conversation, and seemed relieved when it appeared that I was taking in the sights of the plaza. I was, however, listening to every word. In that Madrid and that Spain, an alert youth matures quickly, and despite my youth I already suspected that it did no harm to keep my ears open. Just the opposite. In life, danger lies not in not knowing, but in revealing that you do: It is always good to have a sense of the music before the dance begins.
    “That has the sound of a potential employ,” the captain was saying.
    It was a euphemism, of course. Diego Alatriste’s line of “employ” tended to take place in dark alleyways, at so much per swordthrust. A slash across the face, slicing off the ear of a creditor or of a bastard dallying with one’s wife, a pistol shot at point-blank range, or a handspan of steel in a man’s throat—all that was classified and the pay set by scale. In that very plaza, at any given time, there were at least a dozen professionals who were available for such arrangements.
    “Yes.” The poet nodded, adjusting his eyeglasses. “And well-paid employ, of course.”
    Diego Alatriste looked long and hard at his companion. I studied the captain’s aquiline profile beneath the broad brim of the hat on which the one note of color was a frowsy red plume.
    “It is clear that today you are making an effort to annoy me, don Francisco,” he said finally. “Do you imply that I would charge for a service done Your Mercy?”
    “It is not for me. It is for a father and his two young sons. They have a problem and have sought my advice.”
    From high atop the lapis lazuli and alabaster fountain, a sculpture of Diana the locals had dubbed Mariblanca, White Mary, looked down upon us as water sang out of the pipes at her feet. The last light was languishing. Rough-looking soldiers and assassins with huge mustaches, broad swords, and a way of standing with their feet planted solidly apart, very “I am dangerous,” were clumped in groups in front of the closed doors of the silk and woolen and book shops, or drinking wine at one of the wretched street stalls. The plaza swarmed with blind men, beggars, and whores whose short mantles separated them from