Days of the Dead by Barbara Hambly

rustling, she led the way to a broad sweep of elaborately tiled stairs that ascended to the upper
corredor
as a sharp voice snapped in reply, “On the contrary, Don Anastasio, a great deal can be resolved by bloodshed, most notably the intransigent injustices of those who do not recognize the Principles of Universal Law.”
    “I will show you a universal law, you pettifogging mestizo scum,” bellowed a hoarse bass voice, “if your men advance one step closer to that door.”
    “Oh, a thousand curses, it’s that
baboso
policeman Ylario. . . .”
    And as January and Rose followed Consuela through the carved doors into the great
sala,
Hannibal remarked plaintively, “Please don’t tell me I’m about to be shot in the name of the Principles of Universal Law.”
    As viewed by January from the threshold, the battle-lines appeared thus: two men in the blue uniforms of what January guessed to be the Mexico City
guardia civil
had taken a defensive position against the
sala
’s rear wall. They held Hannibal pinned between them with his hands manacled behind his back. Two more in similar uniforms flanked them, their pistols pointed at the half-dozen ruffians in the attire of vaqueros—leather trousers, dingy underdrawers, tooled leather
botas,
and short jackets—deployed between them and the door. The
guardia civil
were commanded by a chubby little cock-sparrow in neat black civilian clothing and a violet-embroidered waistcoat that wouldn’t have been out of place in the streets of Paris: Capitán Francisco Ylario.
    In the center of the vaqueros stood Don Prospero de Castellón, unmistakably: tall, hook-nosed, black-clothed, his long white mane and snowy mustaches bristling and a kind of enthusiastic madness sparkling in his pale-blue eyes.
    He had a rifle pointed at Ylario, who to his credit faced the weapon unflinchingly.
    In one corner of the room, two men in European tailcoats and stylish cravats were looking around frantically for cover and clearly wondering at what point they should jettison their dignity and dive for it; there was also a priest, fat and unshaven, cowering next to the half-open door at the end of the room, bleating “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” and roundly ignored by all. Beside Don Prospero stood a slender middle-aged gentleman clothed, like the mad Don, in the short embroidered velvet jacket and close-fitting trousers of a Mexican grandee, saying in the deep, beautiful voice January had first heard, “Prospero, you know that the law forbids . . .”
    This was evidently precisely the wrong thing to say, because Don Prospero said, “The law? The
law
?” and settled the rifle close against his shoulder to fire. “What has the law to do with—”
    “Father, you cannot have your vaqueros open fire on the
guardia civil
!” Consuela pushed past January and strode to Don Prospero’s side, slapping the rifle-barrel upward from beneath, which, January thought, showed far more experience with such threats than if she’d tried to wrest the weapon from him.
    “And why not, girl?” Don Prospero’s mustaches seemed to point like fangs, but he didn’t re-aim the weapon. Hannibal, who stood almost directly behind Capitán Ylario in the line of fire, shut his eyes in what appeared to be brief silent prayer.
    “Because those vaqueros of yours have no more idea of aim than armed pigs, and the
guardia civil
are worse, and they would surely hit the Señora in the serpent petticoat there.” Consuela gestured to the Italian marble fireplace directly beside Hannibal’s shoulder, upon whose mantel-shelf stood an image, a horrifying demon adorned with a necklace of skulls and, as Consuela had said, a skirt modeled to resemble writhing snakes.
    “Capitán Ylario.” She walked over to the prim little man, who, January now saw, was younger than he had at first guessed, stiff-backed and rather white around the lips beneath his small, neat mustache: he, like January and Hannibal, had seen that Don Prospero really