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insane.”
    “Piss-scryers!” howled Don Prospero, emerging from the
sala
with a rifle in his hands. “Clyster-jockeys!” In the courtyard, the fleeing medicos seized the nearest horses, scrambled awkwardly to the high-cantled saddles, and spurred through the gate, followed by the laughter and shouted advice of the vaqueros. Doña Imelda’s maids and valet, emerging from their rough little travel-coach, sprang back into it for safety, and Don Rafael looked as if he wanted to join them, but Doña Imelda only drew herself up in affront, and none of the other women—Natividad, Señora Lorcha, nor Josefa—even appeared to blink.
    “I’m surprised at you, ’Stasio,” said Don Prospero mildly as Don Anastasio emerged from the
sala
door behind him and went to gather up the two Europeans’ dropped litter of notebooks and pencils. “Bringing in doctors to pick at me like a couple of
sopilotes.
You didn’t used to be so solicitous. What, you here, Antonio?” Don Prospero added as Santa Anna and his young aides came out behind Anastasio. “When did you arrive? And Conchita . . .”
    “Papa.” Consuela gestured toward January, and he advanced to the group and bowed. “This is Señor Benjamino Enero, a surgeon of the United States, appointed by the British minister to look into this matter of Fernando’s death.”
    The dictator’s dark, sharp glance took in January’s well-cut clothing, African features, and clean linen, and his dark brows arched in speculation. But Don Prospero merely waved and said, “No need for that, Conchita—though of course it is very kind of you, Señor Enero, and kind of Don Enrico Ward of England as well. But Fernando himself will tell us everything we need to know. Still, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Señor.”
    He turned eyes of chill Pyrenean blue, the heritage of centuries of aristocratic
criollo
inbreeding, on January. “Did you know that the surgeons of ancient Egypt were performing cataract surgery before Moses ever marched his Israelites forth from bondage? Surgery is true medicine, true healing, unlike those imbeciles. . . .” He gestured at the dust-cloud still hanging over the court, all that was left of the two mad-doctors. “My dear,” he added as the newly arrived guests emerged from the stairway—he strode past Don Rafael and Doña Imelda as if they were invisible, to clasp Natividad’s hands. Natividad sighed—to remarkable effect, her half-bared bosoms in their fluff of black lace resembling nothing so much as a blancmange set on a plate at a wake—and glanced smokily across Don Prospero’s shoulder to meet Santa Anna’s appreciative eyes.
    “Hinojo!” bellowed Don Prospero, and a tall and surprisingly handsome major-domo appeared, clad in the fashion of the preceding century in knee-smalls, silk stockings, and a red satin coat. “Fetch out brandy to the
corredor,
and tell Guillenormand to prepare the
boeuf marchand de vin . . .
I believe it’s the
marchand de vin
you liked so much last time, my Eagle?” Santa Anna almost visibly fluffed his plumage at the flattering nickname. “Oh, run along, Ylario,” Don Prospero added, and made shooing gestures as the Capitán and his blue-coated men emerged from the
sala.
“No one wants you here pulling long faces and no one wants to hear about the Principles of Universal Law.”
    “No,” said Ylario softly, his bitter eyes going to the President of his country. “I see that clearly, Señor.”
    Santa Anna waved a gracious dismissal, as if the sun were not sinking and the fifteen supperless miles that lay between Hacienda Mictlán and the city were not haunted by bandits. Ylario bowed, but as his constables filed down the stairs and Santa Anna’s aides settled themselves on the rough chairs of Indian work to enjoy their brandy, Ylario himself walked along the shadow-barred arcade to the corner where Hannibal and Rose sat.
    January saw him stop before them, and through Don Prospero’s booming