He pulled on shirt, breeches and boots, then carried the coat downstairs so that one of Blair’s servants could attack it with a brush. Blair was already up, drinking bitter coffee in the parlor and with him, to Sharpe’s utter surprise, was Captain Marquinez. The Captain had a gold-edged shako tucked under one arm. The shako had a tall white plume that shivered as Marquinez offered Sharpe a low bow. “Good morning, Colonel!”
“Got our travel permits, have you?” was Sharpe’s surly greeting.
“What a lovely morning!” Marquinez smiled wiui delight. “Mister Blair has offered me coffee, but I cannot accept, for we are summoned to the Captain-General’s audience.”
“Summoned?” Sharpe asked. Blair clearly thought Sharpe’s hostility was inappropriate, for he was making urgent signals that Sharpe should behave more gently.
Marquinez smiled. “Summoned indeed, Colonel.”
Sharpe poured himself coffee. “I’m an Englishman, Captain. You don’t summon me.”
“What Colonel Sharpe means—” Blair began.
“Colonel Sharpe reproves me, and quite rightly.” The plume nodded as Marquinez bowed again. “It would give Captain-General Bautista the most exquisite delight, Colonel, if you and Mister Harper would favor him with your attendance at this morning’s audience.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said. And wondered just what sort of man he would find when he at last met Vivar’s enemy.
Bautista’s audience hall was a palatial room dominated by a carved and painted royal coat of arms that hung above the fireplace. Incongruously, for it was not cold, a small fire burned in a grate that was dwarfed by the huge stone hearth. The windows at either end of the hall were open; those at the east, where the early sun now dazzled, looked onto the Angel Tower and its execution yard, while the western windows offered a view across the defenses to the swirling waters of the Valdivia River. The whole room, with its blackened beams, lime-washed walls, bright escutcheon and stone pillars, was intended as a projection of Spanish royal power, a grandiose echo of the Escorial.
The room’s real power, though, lay not in the monarch’s coat of arms, nor in the royal portraits that hung on the high walls, but in the energetic figure that paced up and down, up and down, behind a long table that was set before the fireplace and at which four aides-de-camp sat and took dictation. Watching the pacing man, and listening to his every word, was an audience of seventy or eighty officers. This was evidently how Captain-General Bautista chose to do his business: openly, efficiently, crisply.
Miguel Bautista was a tall, thin man with black hair which was oiled and brushed back so that it clung like a sleek cap to his narrow skull. His face was thin and pale, dominated by a long nose and the dark eyes of a predator. There was, Sharpe thought, a glint of quick intelligence in those eyes, but there was something else too, a carelessness, as though this young man had seen much of the world’s wickedness and was amused by it. He wore a uniform that was new to Sharpe. It was an elegantly cut cavalry tunic of plain black cloth, but with no symbols of rank except for two modest epaulettes of silver chain. His breeches were black, as were his cavalry boots and even the cloth covering of his scabbard. It was a simple uniform, but one which stood in stark contrast to the colorful uniforms of the other officers in the room.
Some of those officers had evidently come as petitioners, others because they had information that Bautista needed, and yet more because they were on the Captain-General’s staff. All were necessary to complete what Sharpe realized was a piece of theater. This was Bautista’s demonstration, held at a deliberately inconvenient early hour, to show that he was the enthusiastic master of every detail that mattered in his royal province. He paced incessantly, casting off the matters of business one after the other with a swift efficiency. A Lieutenant of Cavalry was given permission to marry, while a Major of Artillery was refused leave to travel home to Spain. “Does Major Rodriguez think that no other officer ever had a dying mother?” There was laughter from the audience at that sally, and Sharpe saw Colonel Ruiz, the bombastic artilleryman who had sailed on the Espiritu Santo, laughing with the rest.