"Oh, dear me, no!" Marquinez frowned, as though Sharpe's suggestion of such haste was somehow unseemly.

"Soon?" Sharpe pressed.

"The decision is not mine," Marquinez said happily.

"Our affairs will surely not be of interest to Captain-General Bautista?" Sharpe said with what he hoped was a convincing innocence.

"The Captain-General is interested in all our visitors, especially those who have been notable soldiers," Marquinez bowed to Sharpe, whose fame had been described in Louisa's letter of introduction. "Tell me," Marquinez went on, "were you at Waterloo?"

"Yes."

"Then I am sure the Captain-General will want to meet you. General Bautista is an afficionado of the Emperor. He would, I think, be delighted to hear of your experiences." Marquinez beamed delightedly, as if a mutual treat awaited his master and Sharpe. "Such a pleasure to meet you both!" Marquinez said, then ushered them back to the guardroom. "Such a pleasure," he said again.

"So how did it go?" Blair asked when they returned.

"Very well," Sharpe said. "All things considered, it couldn't have gone much better."

"That means you're in trouble," Blair said happily, "that means you're in trouble."

That night it rained so heavily that the town ditch flooded with earth-reddened water which, in the moonlight, looked like blood. Blair became drunk. He bemoaned that his wife was still in Liverpool and commiserated with Sharpe and Harper that their wives were, respectively, in France and Ireland. "You live in bloody France?" Blair kept asking the question as though to dilute the astonishment he evidently felt for Sharpe's choice of a home. "Bloody funny place to live, I mean if you've been fighting the buggers. It must be like a fox moving in with the rabbits!"

Sharpe tried to talk of more immediate matters, like Captain-General Bautista and his fascination for Napoleon, but Blair did not want to talk about the Spanish commander. "He's a bastard. A son-of-a-whore bastard, and that's all there is to say about him." It was clear that Blair, despite his privileged status as a diplomat, feared the Spanish commander.

"Are you saying he's illegitimate?" Sharpe asked disingenuously.

"Oh, Christ, no." Blair glanced at the servants as though fearing they had suddenly learned English and would report this conversation to Bautista's spies. "Bautista's a younger son, so he needs to make his own fortune. He got his posting here because his father is a Minister in Ferdinand VII's government, and he greased his son a commission in the artillery and an appointment in Chile, because this is where the money is. But the rest Bautista did for himself. He's capable! He's efficient and a hard worker. He's probably no soldier, but he's no weakling. And he's making himself rich."

"So he's corrupt?"

"Corrupt!" Blair mocked the word. "Of course he's corrupt. They're all corrupt. I'm corrupt! Everyone here knows the bloody war is lost. It's only a question of time before the Spaniards go and the Chileans can bugger up their own country instead of having someone else to do it for them, so what Bautista and his people are doing is making themselves rich before someone takes away the tray of baubles." Blair paused, sipped, then leaned closer to Sharpe. "Your friend Vivar wasn't corrupt, which is why he made enemies, but Bautista, he's a coming man! He'll make his money, then go home and use that money to buy himself office in Madrid. Mark my words, he'll be the power in Spain before he's fifty."

"How old is he now?"

"He's a youngster! Thirty, no more." Blair, clearly deciding he had said enough about the feared Bautista, pushed his glass to the end of the table for a servant girl to fill with a mixture of rum and wine. "If you want a whore, Colonel," Blair went on, "there's a chingana behind the church. Ask for the girl they call La Monja!" Blair rolled his eyes heavenward to indicate what exquisite joys awaited Sharpe and Harper if they followed his advice. "She's a mestizo."

"What's a mestizo?" Harper asked.

"Half-breed, and that one's half woman and half wildcat."

"I'd rather hear about Bautista," Sharpe said.

"I've told you, there's nothing to tell. Man's a bastard. Cross him and you get butchered. He's judge, jury and executioner here. He's also horribly efficient. You want some more rum?"

Sharpe glanced at the two Indian girls who, holding their jugs of wine and rum, stood expressionless at the edge of the room. "No."

'You can have them, too," Blair said hospitably. "Help yourselves, both of you! I know they look like cows, but they know their way up and down a bed. No point in employing them otherwise. They can't cook and their idea of cleaning a room is to rearrange the dirt, so what else are they good for? And in the dark you don't know they're savages, do you?"

Sharpe again tried to turn the conversation back to his own business. "I need to find the American Consul. Does he live close?"

"What the hell do you want Fielding for?" Blair sounded offended, as though Sharpe's question suggested that Fielding was a better Consul than Blair.

Sharpe had no intention of revealing that he possessed a signed portrait of Napoleon which the American Consul was supposed to smuggle to a British Colonel now living in the rebel part of the country, so instead he made up a story about doing business for an American expatriate living in Normandy.

"Well, you're out of luck," Blair said with evident satisfaction. "Fielding's away from Valdivia this week. One of his precious whaling boats was impounded by the Spanish Navy, so he's on Chiloe, trying to have the bribe reduced to something under a King's ransom."

"Chiloe?" Sharpe asked.

"Island down south. Long way away. But Fielding will be back in a week or so."

Sharpe hid his disappointment. He had been hoping to deliver the portrait quickly, then forget about the Emperor's gift, but now, if he were to keep his promise to Bonaparte, he would have to find some other way of reaching Fielding. "Have you ever heard of a Lieutenant Colonel Charles?" He asked Blair as casually as he could.

"Charles? Of course I've heard of Charles. He's one of O'Higgins's military advisers."

"So he's a rebel?"

"Of course he's a bloody rebel! Why else would he have come to Chile? He likes to fight, and Europe isn't providing any proper wars these days, so all the rascals come over here and complicate my life instead. What do you want with Charles?"

"Nothing," Sharpe said, then let the subject drop. An hour later he and Harper went to their beds and lay listening to the water sluice off the tiles. The mattresses were full of fleas. "Like old times," Harper grumbled when they woke early the next morning.

Blair was also up at first light. The rain in the night had been so heavy that part of the misted square was flooded, and the inundation had turned the rubbish-choked ditch into a moat in which foul things floated. "A horrid day to travel," Blair complained when he met them in his parlor where coffee waited on the table. "It'll be raining again within the hour, mark my words."

"Where are you going?"

"Downriver. To the port." Blair groaned and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "I've got to supervise some cargo loading, and probably see the Captain of the Charybdis."

"What's the Charybdis?" Harper asked.

"Royal Navy frigate. We keep a squadron on the coast just to make sure the bloody dagoes don't shoot any of our people. They know that if they upset me, I'll arrange to have their toy boats blown out of the water." Blair shivered, then groaned with pain. "Breakfast!" he shouted toward the kitchen, then flinched as a muffled rattle of musketry sounded from the Citadel. 'That's another rebel gone," Blair said thickly. There was a second ragged volley. "Business is good this morning."