Free The King's Gold by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

the Duques de Lerma and Osuna. More than that, he was held to be an honest man, something almost unheard of in his profession. His sole passions were addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, and the one goal of his life was to make the books balance. All the information they had received about the contraband gold came from reports compiled by the count-duke’s spies, and these had been confirmed by several months of patient research by Olmedilla in the relevant offices, cabinets, and archives.
    “All that remains for us now is to ascertain the final details,” concluded the count. “The fleet has been sighted, and so we do not have much time. Everything has to be resolved tomorrow during a visit that Olmedilla will pay Garaffa, the man who chartered the galleon, so that he can clarify certain points concerning the transfer of the gold to the Niklaasbergen . The visit, of course, is an unofficial one, and Olmedilla has no document or letter of authority.” Guadalmedina raised his eyebrows ironically. “So Garaffa will probably refuse to talk.”
    We passed a tavern. The window was lit and from inside came the strumming of a guitar. A gust of laughter and singing emerged as the door opened. On the threshold, a man vomited loudly before staggering homeward to sleep off the wine he had drunk. Between retches, we heard his hoarse cries invoking God, although not exactly prayerfully.
    “Why don’t you just arrest this Garaffa?” asked Alatriste. “A dungeon, a scribe, and a bit of strappado can work wonders. All you have to do is call on the king’s authority.”
    “It’s not that easy. There’s a dispute over who holds sway in Seville, whether the Audiencia Real or the Cabildo, and the archbishop has a finger in every pie. Garaffa is well connected with the Church and with Medina Sidonia. There would be a huge scandal, and meanwhile the gold would have vanished. No, everything must be done as discreetly as possible. And once Garaffa has told us what he knows, he will have to disappear for a few days. He lives alone with just the one servant, so no one would mind very much if he disappeared forever.” He paused significantly. “Not even the king.”
    After saying this, Guadalmedina walked a little way in silence. Quevedo was lagging slightly behind me, limping along in dignified fashion, one hand on my shoulder as if, in a way, he was trying to keep me out of the whole business.
    “In short, Alatriste, it’s up to you how you play the cards.”
    I couldn’t see the captain’s face, only his dark silhouette ahead of me, his hat, and the tip of his sword, which glinted in the rectangles of moonlight that slipped through the gaps between the eaves. After a moment, I heard him say, “Getting rid of the Genoese gentleman is easy enough, but as for the other business . . .”
    He paused, then stood still. We caught up with him. He had his head slightly bowed, and when he looked up, his pale eyes glittered in the darkness.
    “I don’t like torturing people.”
    He said this quite simply, bluntly, and undramatically. It was an objective fact spoken out loud. He didn’t like sour wine either, or stew with too much salt in it, or men who were incapable of sticking to the rules, even if those rules were personal, individual, and apparently unimportant. There was a silence, and Quevedo removed his hand from my shoulder. Guadalmedina gave an awkward little cough.
    “That’s not my business,” he said at last, somewhat embarrassed. “Nor do I wish to know anything about it. How you get the information we need is a matter for Olmedilla and for you. He does his job and you get paid for helping him.”
    “Besides, dealing with Garaffa is the easy part,” said Quevedo, in a placatory tone.
    “It is,” agreed Guadalmedina, “because once Garaffa has given us the final details of the plan, there is another minor matter, Alatriste.”
    He was standing opposite the captain, and any awkwardness he may have felt