'Who did it?' 'A man called Morris, and a Sergeant. Hakeswill.' 'Why?' He shrugged. 'They lied.' 'You kill them?' 'Not yet.' She nodded slowly. 'You will?' 'I will.' It was not yet dawn, but the sky had the grey luminance that came before first light, and Sharpe wanted to be at the telegraph early. He was reluctant to move, to lose the warm body, but others were stirring in the house and a cockerel, exploding into sound in the courtyard, jerked him upright. He lay back again, taking five more minutes, and pulled Teresa close. 'Did Hardy want you?' She smiled, said something in Spanish, and he assumed she was asking if he was jealous. 'No.' She wagged her head, seemed to shrug. 'Yes. He wanted me.' 'And did you?' She laughed. 'No. Joaquim was too close.' Joaquim, damned Joaquim Jovellanos, El Catolico, Colonel and crook. The girl had told him, when they were lying hot and sweaty in the wide bed, of her father, of El Catolico, of the business of staying alive in the mountains when the enemy is everywhere and there is no law and no government.
