The King's Gold by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

beneath his fine, Italian-style mustache grew more dangerous.
    “You remain a boy of few words, I see.”
    He was resting his left hand, gloved in black, on the guard of his sword, and he kept turning this way and that, as if distracted. I heard him utter a soft sigh, almost of annoyance.
    “So, in Seville too,” he said, and then he fell silent before I could fathom what it was he meant. After a while, with a glance and a lift of his chin, he indicated the sergeant of the Spanish guard, who was some way off, occupied with organizing his men by the palace gate.
    “I saw what happened between you and him. I was watching from the crowd.” He was studying me thoughtfully, as if assessing the changes that had taken place in me since the last time we had met. “I see you are as punctilious as ever in matters of honor.”
    “I’ve been in Flanders,” I blurted out. “With the captain.”
    He nodded. I noticed that there were a few gray hairs now in his mustache and in the side-whiskers visible beneath the black brim of his hat, as well as a few new lines or scars on his face. The years pass for everyone, I thought. Even for hired swordsmen with no heart.
    “I know,” he said, “but regardless of whether you’ve been in Flanders or not, you would do well to remember one thing: honor is a very complicated thing to acquire, difficult to preserve, and dangerous to sustain. Ask your friend Alatriste.”
    I stood up to him with all the firmness I could muster. “Ask him yourself, if you’ve got the spunk.”
    My sarcasm elicited not a flicker of response from his impassive face. “I know the answer already,” he replied, unmoved. “I have other less rhetorical matters pending with him.”
    He was still looking pensively in the direction of the guards at the gate. Then he chuckled to himself, as if at a joke he preferred not to share with anyone else. “Some fools never learn,” he said suddenly. “Like that imbecile who raised his hand to you without a thought for what you might do with yours.” The hard black snake eyes fixed on me again. “If it had been me, I would never even have given you the chance to take that dagger out.”
    I turned to observe the sergeant. He was strutting about, keeping an eye on his soldiers while they closed the palace gates. And it was true: he was completely unaware how close he had come to having a span of steel in his guts and how close I had come to being hanged for his sake.
    “Remember that next time,” said the Italian.
    When I turned back, Gualterio Malatesta was no longer there. He had disappeared into the crowd, and all I could see was a black hat moving off past the orange trees, beneath the bell tower of the Cathedral.

3. CONSTABLES AND CATCHPOLES
    That night would prove to be a long and busy one, but first there was time for supper and some interesting talk. There was also the unexpected arrival of a friend. Don Francisco de Quevedo had not told Captain Alatriste that the person he would be sharing supper with was none other than Álvaro de la Marca, the Conde de Guadalmedina. To Alatriste’s surprise, and to mine, the count appeared at Becerra’s inn just after sunset, as cordial and self-assured as ever. He embraced the captain, patted me affectionately on the cheek, and called loudly for good wine, a decent meal, and a comfortable room in which he could converse with his companions.
    “Now tell me all about Breda.”
    Apart from the buff coat he was wearing, he was dressed very much in the style favored by our king. His clothes were otherwise expensive but discreet, with no embroidery and no gold; he wore military boots, pale amber gloves, a hat, and a long cloak; and tucked in his belt, as well as a sword and a dagger, were a pair of pistols. Don Álvaro’s night would doubtless last long beyond his conversation with us, and, toward dawn, some husband or abbess would have good reason to keep one eye open as he or she slept. I remembered what Quevedo had said