“How pleasant.”
Dolor’s eyes held no hint of present or past emotions; Don Vincente believed it conceivable the man had never had any. “I do not tarry in Palma because it is pleasant; I do so because I have only a month to put things in order here. My instructions are to see to the proper incarceration and security of the prisoners and then return to Rome.”
“And who will be placed in charge of the situation upon your departure?”
“You, Don Castro y Papas, if you prove reliable and motivated enough. If not, I am sure that some mud-caked, understaffed tercio guarding one of the Holy Roman Empire’s surrounded Rhine principalities that could make fine use of your skills.”
Dolor turned and moved unhurriedly toward the pinnace that was being readied for the first shore party. Don Vincente glared after him.
He almost missed the faint movement sidling up to his right. “What is it, Ezquerra?” asked the captain without bothering to look over. “Have you come to complain of another bout of seasickness?”
The career sergeant shrugged. “I cannot tell if it is seasickness, or simple nausea from being too close to Dolor.”
“The man is discomfiting, no question.”
“He is abnormal in every particular, Captain-which I can say without fear of punishment in his case, since he holds no military rank.”
Don Vincente looked after the black silhouette of Dolor. “Do not assume too much about Senor Dolor, Ezquerra-particularly regarding his ability to do you ill. He may not hold any official rank, he may be abnormal, annoying, and yes, even revolting, but bear this in mind: he is dangerous.” Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas studied the silhouette’s easy, economical motions carefully. “Very dangerous.”
Frank felt as much as heard the portcullis ram home behind him; it jarred the stones under his feet.
Or, to be more accurate, it jarred the finely cut pink sandstone paving that was arrayed not in a typically crude grid fashion, but in a pattern of faint yet perfect concentric rings. The circular motif was reprised in the almost delicate arches that marked the inner orbit of the stacked, porticoed galleries. Frank stared up through the identical levels, finding them both familiar and alien-and then he knew why: it reminded him of the leaning tower of Pisa, except inside out. And a lot wider. And more squat. But still “Senor and Senora Stone, you will come this way.”
The sergeant who had spoken to them was a grizzled fellow, at least fifty, and well-scarred. He was as different from the young, diffident gate guards as a mastiff was distinct from dachshunds. He also seemed very annoyed.
Which annoyed Frank, in turn. “Hey, sorry I’m not moving fast enough for you, Sergeant Rock, but getting repeatedly blasted and beaten by you and your buddies hasn’t done a lot for my basic fitness level.”
The sergeant studied Frank’s slight limp. “You will live. Now hurry, or I will have to report your lack of compliance to my superior.”
“You mean, the governor?”
“No, Senor Stone. I am not one of the regular guards at Castell de Bellver.” Sergeant Rock looked like he had wanted to spit when he uttered the words “regular guards.” “I am Sergeant Alarico Garza, here from His Majesty’s Fort San Carlos, and I now report to Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas. With whom, I am told, you have some acquaintance.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Garza frowned. “You are not fond of the captain? I was told that you were on friendly terms.”
“Oh, yeah; he’s a great friend. Best guy to have around if you’re hoping to be betrayed, ambushed, or knocked around. And tell him that if he gets anywhere near me again, I just might have to give his fist another beating with my face.”
For a moment, Sergeant Rock was puzzled; then, with great effort, he stifled a grin. Then he simply extended a guiding hand toward the stairway to the second tier gallery.
As Frank hobbled up the stairs, the sergeant hung farther back, giving the couple some room and time to inspect their surroundings.
Which were, frankly, an architectural marvel of extraordinary grace and beauty. When they reached the top step and came out into the open air so that their voices would not echo back to the sergeant, Giovanna grasped Frank’s arm a little tighter. “Frank, it is not wise to speak ill of Captain Castro y Papas.”
“Why? Because he might beat me up? Oh, wait a minute. He already did that. And for no reason.”
“Frank,” hissed Giovanna. “I have not seen you so stubborn. Can you not believe what I told you about Castro y Papas?”
“You expect me to believe he was doing me a favor when he beat the crap out of me?”
She sighed. “Frank, one of the reasons I love you is that you are so good a man, you do not readily see or understand the evil that runs deep in so many others.” She looked at him squarely, making sure they were still far enough ahead of the sergeant to be beyond earshot. “Captain Castro y Papas beat you because if he didn’t, someone else would have. Maybe one of the new guards brought by that vile little hyena, Dakis. Or maybe Dakis was hoping to do it himself; he looks the type. And of this you may be assured, dear Frank: had one of them beaten you, the injuries you have been affecting since Rome would be quite genuine.”
The sergeant called their attention to another staircase leading up. As they began ascending it, Frank let his head droop as he considered Gia’s arguments. When they reached the roof-a broad, ringlike expanse that sprouted towers from each compass point-he looked at her. “You really think that’s what was going on? That he had no choice?”
Up here, the wind blew fresh from the bay; his wife’s fine, lustrous hair caught it and flew up like shining raven wings. “Oh, the captain had a choice, husband. I suspect he would have been allowed to wash his hands of the indignity of what he was instructed to do. But then he could not have protected you, Frank. I tell you this not because I have changed my opinion of Castro y Papas-I have not-but because you are my husband and I will not lie to you: he may be our enemy, but I must concede that, in this, he was being your friend. As strange as that might seem.”
“Well, yeah-it seems pretty strange,” Frank agreed as he considered the architecture of the Castell from top to bottom. “I hate to say it, Gia, but it’s kind of hard to see anyone breaking us out of here. Not even Harry could pull that off.”
She nodded. “It is a strong fortress.”
Frank assessed the defenses, feeling like he was living a lost chapter from The Lord of the Rings. “A hilltop location that you can only reach by an overgrown goat-trail. An outlying perimeter of ravelins and an outer gate house, all set well away from other habitations. A dry moat around the Castell itself, with a drawbridge and portcullis.”
Gia frowned. “Yes, as I said, a strong fortress-but not impregnable. The cart-driver told us that during the peasant revolt last century, the rebels took the whole Castell-including the lazarette.”
“Yeah, but why? Because they had someone on the inside. And those rebels had a much easier job than a bunch of rescuers will.”
“Why? Because there were so many more of the rebels?”
“Well, that too. But the real difference is in timing, Gia.”
She frowned.
Frank pointed to the outer gatehouse, then the barbican, then the drawbridge, then the portcullis, then the single narrow staircases that provided sole access to each successive level. “Look at all those different chokepoints. Each one is going to cost rescuers time and bodies. And generally, if you need to go quickly, you lose more bodies. But however fast they go, Gia, they won’t be able to get to us before our jailors do. So what does the endgame look like?”