Free Kitty’s Greatest Hits by Carrie Vaughn

horse by dismounting and climbing steep hills alongside it. He followed the ridge of mountains and hoped he had not lost the way.
    Then he climbed a rise that opened into a valley, as Diego had described. A large pond, probably filled by a spring, provided water, and fruit trees grew thickly. A meadow covered the valley floor, and Ricardo could imagine sheep or goats grazing here or crops growing. Much could be done with land like this.
    A small village sat a hundred yards or so from the pond. The Franciscan’s church was little more than a square cottage made of adobe brick, with a narrow tower. Wood and grass-thatched huts gathered around a dusty square.
    No people were visible, no hearth fires burned. Not so much as a chicken scratched in the dirt. Four horses grazed in the meadow beyond the village. They glanced at Ricardo, then continued grazing. Riding into the village, he shouted a hail, which fell flat, as if the empty settlement absorbed sound. Dismounting, he left his horse by a trough that was dry.
    A smarter man might have traveled with a troop of guards, or at least servants to ease his way. He had thought it easier to travel alone, learn what he could, and return as quickly as possible to report this to the governor. Now, the skin of his neck crawled, and he wondered if he might need a squad of soldiers before the day was through. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword slung on his belt.
    He went into the chapel.
    The place might have been new. A few benches lined up before a simple altar. The wood was freshly cut, but they seemed to have been poorly built: rickety legs slotted into flat boards. Those seated would have to be careful if they didn’t want to tumble to the dirt floor.
    In front, the wood altar was bare, without even a cloth to cover it. No cross hung on the wall. The place had the sickly beeswax candle smell that imbued churches everywhere. At least that much was familiar. Nothing else was. He almost hoped to find signs of violence, because then he’d have some idea of what had happened here. But this … nothing … was inexplicable.
    “¡Hola!” he called, cringing at his own raised voice. He had the urge to speak in a whisper, if at all.
    A door in the back of the chapel opened. A small body in a gray robe looked out. “Who is it?”
    A shiver crawled up Ricardo’s spine, as if a ghost had stepped through the wall. He peered at the door, squinting, but the man was hidden in shadow.
    “I am Captain Ricardo de Avila. Diego Ruiz asked me to come.”
    “Ah, yes! He told me of you.” He straightened, shedding the air of suspicion. “Come inside, let us speak,” the friar said, opening the door a little wider. Ricardo went to the back room as the friar indicated.
    Like the chapel, this room had no windows. There was a table with a lit candle on it, several chairs, and a small, dirty portrait of the Blessed Virgin. There was a trapdoor in the floor, with a big iron ring to lift it. Ricardo wondered what was in the cellar.
    “Take a seat. I have some wine,” the friar said, going to a cabinet in the corner. “Would you like some?”
    “Yes, please.” Ricardo sat in the chair closest to the door.
    The friar put one pewter cup on the table, poured from an earthenware jug, and indicated that Ricardo should take it. He took a sip; it was weak, sour. But his mouth was dry, and the liquid helped.
    The friar didn’t pour a drink for himself. Sitting on the opposite side of the table, he regarded Ricardo as if they were two men in a plaza tavern, not two dusty, weary colonials in a dark room lit by a candle. The man was pale, as if he spent all his time indoors. His hands, resting on the table, were thin, bony. Under his robes, his entire body might have been a skeleton. He had dark hair trimmed in a tonsure and a thin beard. He was a stereotype of a friar who had been relegated to the outer edges of the colony for too long.
    “I am Fray Juan,” the man said, spreading his hands. “And