The Inquisition

As they dragged him into the blacksmith’s shop and dumped him unceremoniously in a corner near the forge, Zorro almost found himself wishing they would just kill him and get it over with.  The only trouble was, having seen what was at least a credible version of the afterlife, he was far from certain that dying would help.  Now he thought he was starting to see how people’s lives could get so tangled up together that what they felt for each other could actually take on a life of its own and outlive them both—for even if he died a thousand deaths, he doubted he would ever get over what he was feeling right now.

Oh of course there was the anger that twined like a knot in his guts, as if to strangle the hope that maybe he had simply misunderstood her.  But worse by far was the sorrow, the bitter overwhelming sense of loss.  God help him, couldn’t he at least stop wanting her?

Better to weep over their bodies than see them with someone else?  How many times had he laughed at that old dicho?  Even his father, who would have been happy to see him display just a little more of that fiery Spanish jealousy, disapproved of such excesses.  How ironic, then, that a man like his father would die because Diego had wanted this woman badly enough to forgive her anything, to grovel, to swallow even what little pride he did have.

And what a way for Alejandro de la Vega to learn that his son was not just an emotional weakling but an inveterate liar as well.  He sat in what was more or less the center of the room, tied to a heavy straight backed chair, looking dazed, as if he hadn’t quite overcome the effects of Magaña’s drugs.  But the spark of defiance in his eyes was obvious.  He would sign no confession as long as he thought Diego had escaped.  Zorro didn’t even want to think what he would see in the old man’s eyes when Magaña brought the two of them face to face at last and, with a typically cold solicitous little smile, pulled off his mask.

Oreana, of course, hadn’t even been able to bear looking in Zorro’s direction, though he was at least somewhat gratified to see that her betrayal hadn’t earned her Magaña’s trust either.  He hadn’t tied her up, but his guards continued to stand on either side of her, awaiting his orders.  Why she would even want to be here Zorro didn’t know.  Apparently del Valle had been left in his cell.  She should have stayed there with him.  Or perhaps now Magaña had come up with some ingenious way to insure her continued loyalty to him.

He scrutinized Alejandro up and down, then sighed.  "Now, Señor de la Vega," he began, "is it not possible that we could simply refrain from any further unpleasantness?  I have ample proof of your son’s heresies.  Various witnesses have testified as to his interest in questionable ideas and philosophies, as well as his eagerness to promulgate them.  Time and again, he has spoken up in defense of criminals and vagrants—the very worst elements in our society, often arguing that they should be treated with as much respect as any nobleman.  Do you deny this?"

"Even criminals and vagrants can behave nobly," said Alejandro thickly.  "Just as nobility can sometimes behave like barbarians."

Magaña nodded patiently as if he had been through this explanation a thousand times with a thousand different neophytes.  "To be sure," he said.  "But do you not see that one cannot discern the truth by looking only at isolated cases?  One must study the larger pattern, and your son has rarely gone out of his way to defend the rights of those to whom God has given natural authority."

"Perhaps because they can so easily defend themselves."

"As can any truly innocent man—no?"

Alejandro shook his head.  "In an ideal world, perhaps, but— "

"Oh, so . . . you, too, would question God’s ultimate wisdom?  Set yourself up as judge?"

"No, of course not," said Alejandro gruffly.  "But what gives you that right?"

Magaña’s expression never changed.  "Our Holy Mother Church," he said.  Then he lifted a worried eyebrow and sighed.  "Your son is guilty, not just of heresy, Señor, but of practicing witchcraft and consorting with known witches.  We have the confession of the witch herself."

"That," said Alejandro, "is ridiculous.  Why, she is no more a witch than—"  But he broke off when he realized what he was about to say.  Magaña smiled faintly.

"You do believe in witches, no?" he said.  Alejandro said nothing.

"Oh, please, Don Alejandro," said Oreana in a surprisingly timid and desperate voice that left Zorro, if not Magaña, a bit taken aback.  "Please"—she came forward a little—"this isn’t worth your life.  Just sign the confession—por el amor de Dios."

Alejandro glanced up at her, then back to Magaña.  "You may be able to intimidate helpless women," he said evenly.  "But you will find it a little more difficult to intimidate me."

Magaña glanced from the old man to the girl, studying her carefully.  "Intimidation you call it?" he mused.  Then, turning back to Alejandro, he cupped his chin and added, "Even the righteous are wise to fear God’s vengeance.  And do not think she has confessed simply to avoid punishment.  She will do penance—as will her entire family.  But the Lord in His mercy has shown her the error of her ways.  I pray He will soon soften your heart as well."

"Diego would not wish to see either of us stubbornly resist reconciliation to the Church just for the sake of a piece of land," Oreana added, edging a bit closer to both men.  The two guards started after her, but Magaña shot them a reassuring glance as she circled around behind the heavy chair, then knelt at Alejandro’s feet.  "If you repent," she said, "then perhaps Diego will repent as well.  And if he does, the Church might agree to be merciful—no?"

Magaña nodded thoughtfully, since the question was directed more nearly at him than Alejandro.  "Indeed," he said.  "Of course, much would depend on your son’s willingness to adopt a more, shall we say, responsible? way of life.  He has spent far too much time in the tavern, far too much time with books and idleness.  It is said that, over the years, he has shown very little interest in marriage, ignoring even the most suitable young women.  This is rather curious behavior for a normal, healthy young man, wouldn’t you say?  He should settle down.  Raise some children."

In his corner, Zorro tried very hard to hold his tongue in the midst of this negotiation—for he saw all too clearly that this was what it was.  He and his father would be granted their lives and their lands in exchange for his marriage to Oreana: on the surface a very tempting offer.  In fact, if he hadn’t just overheard her talking to Magaña, and if she hadn’t just lied to him about del Valle, he himself might have thought to take it, not realizing it would also mean his death—and the death of any real intimacy they might have shared.

For suddenly Zorro also saw that by forcing her to marry in the Church, Magaña would, in effect, be dangling her soul over the pit of a Christian hell from which only he could probably save her.  Or at least she would think so.  And that would guarantee her ultimate loyalty to him—at least for the rest of this lifetime.

The man certainly left little to chance, Zorro thought as he let a quiet sigh escape him.  He might not have tried to anticipate exactly how his spells would work, but clearly the only thing he hadn’t counted on was Diego’s ability to eavesdrop on his conversations.  Not that this had been such a serious oversight.  Or had it?

Suddenly Zorro found himself wondering why the girl had told him such a blatant lie—one he would be sure to catch almost the instant he saw that del Valle had come to his senses.  Had she been deliberately trying to taunt him?  Or might she be counting on him, even now, to figure out that her betrayal was merely a stratagem—a ploy to win Magaña’s trust?

Perhaps it was only his own wishful thinking, but Zorro began to watch her very carefully.  She was, after all, still free to walk around.  But even so, what could she do?  She had no weapon and no way, really, even to get her hands on one.  Still kneeling at his father’s feet, she added, "You have said these things yourself, Don Alejandro."  But she probably knew well enough that the old man wouldn’t deign to let himself be swayed by the pleas of a frightened woman.  He ignored her and addressed his reply to Magaña instead.

"If you were offering religious council, I would agree," he said stiffly.  "But this is not advice.  This is blackmail."

"This," said Magaña, "is an inquisition, Señor, conducted in accordance with the law and the official sanction of the church.  It is precisely the sort of council you would do well to heed."

"And if I do not?"

"Well, then, you would surely be deemed unrepentant," said Magaña, his tone growing just a bit more chilling.  He had been standing a little to Alejandro’s right.  Now he walked casually to the other side of the chair and stood beside a table on which had been spread a green linen cloth.  On the cloth lay several delicate tools with ornately cast and polished silver handles.  One of them looked like a pear shaped flower with a threaded bolt for a stem and five razor sharp petals that curved slightly outward at the other end.  Another looked like a spider with long curved blades for legs.  Nervously, Oreana got to her feet and backed away, only to circle around behind Alejandro’s chair again, hovering over him like a skittish mare tied to a stake.

Magaña held up what looked like a small knife with a sharp crescent blade whose polished surface caught the light.  Then, setting it aside, he picked up another piece that had been cast to resemble the head of a crocodile, with a heavy threaded bolt that would gradually close its broad serrated jaws.  Zorro winced, trying hard to obliterate the image it suddenly evoked of Guillermo del Valle’s fingers.  "You know," Magaña mused, studying the object, "some of these are really quite old and rare.  This one, for instance, was used in France hundreds of years ago."

Then, setting it aside, he picked up another piece, long and slender, that looked a little like an awl or perhaps an old-style fishhook, straight but with a tiny barb at the end.  "Now this one," he went on, "this one is modern.  I find it most effective.  Unfortunately, it often brings on too quick a death—unless it is properly used.  Then, men can sometimes take a week or so to die, depending.  Sometimes, unfortunately, they do lose their voices from screaming."

Zorro noticed that Endicott, who had been standing casually near the big outer doors, had taken a few steps into the building, toward the grain sacks near the stalls, as if to get a better view of what was happening.  He looked a little like a dog watching for scraps from a kitchen table.  Oreana’s two guards also seemed fascinated, like sheep before a rattlesnake.  No one, not even Magaña, noticed her as she edged back toward the forge.

And for a moment, not even Zorro saw the gleam of the sharp crescent blade she had somehow managed to snatch from the table as she let it fall, as softly as starlight, onto the floor near his hands, leaving him just a little in awe of its redemptive powers.  It made quick work of the ropes at his wrists, but he knew he would soon have to deal even more quickly with those at his ankles.

The only thing he couldn’t figure out, as he searched the area for anything else he could use as a weapon, was why Magaña hadn’t yet told his father who he was.  At the moment, the old man only stared into the smoldering pit of the forge, but he would have relented instantly to save Diego from the ghastly death Magaña’s words had conjured up.

Then Zorro realized that Magaña wasn’t really interested in getting an agreement from his father.  It was the son who had to agree.  Even now, as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, he seemed surprised that Zorro hadn’t interrupted his lecture yet, despite the apparent generosity of his earlier offer.

Nor did he really want to unmask the outlaw.  In fact, it was probably in his best interests that Zorro continue to lie to his father, for that way Magaña could continue to blackmail and manipulate him.  Zorro had no trouble meeting the sorcerer’s quizzical gaze, but he had some trouble holding it rather than letting it stray to Oreana, who was watching them both intently now, poised to act, though he had no idea what she meant to do.  Suddenly she rushed toward Magaña, taking him by the arms, then sank to her knees at his feet—and at Alejandro’s.

"Oh, please, Padre Eusepio," she burst out.  "Please let me have some time to talk to him."  If he hadn’t been paying exquisite attention, Zorro might never have seen her cut the ropes that held his father’s ankles together.  She did it so quickly that Alejandro himself didn’t seem to realize she had done it—not until she reached up to put her arms around his waist, then cut the ropes behind him that bound him to the chair.  "Oh, please, Don Alejandro," she sobbed, sliding down to take him by the knees.  "Please—get out of here as quickly as you can."

And it was probably her distraught tone of voice rather than her words that first sunk in on Magaña—which was probably why he hesitated just long enough for her to plunge a small dagger, probably his own, as hard as she could into his thigh.  Then she scrambled to her feet and headed off after his father.  Luckily, Endicott was too far away to stop them, and the guards outside were caught completely by surprise.  Casually Zorro reached for the blacksmith’s hammer that had been left beside the forge and, standing up, flung it backhanded.  It caught one soldier just above the right ear.  The man crumpled to the ground.  His cohort drew a saber, but Zorro came after him with a long iron rod and quickly left him stretched across a bale of straw with a welt on his temple, snatching his sword in midair before it could hit the ground.

He knew even before he turned around that Endicott would already be blocking the door, leveling the pistol at him, but he didn’t try to dodge the shot.  Instead, he only dropped the iron rod, stuck the sword point into the chair where his father had been sitting, then placed his foot on the seat beside it and casually rested his forearm on his knee.  Magaña was trembling with rage.  He winced painfully as he pulled the bloody dagger from his thigh, then hissed at Endicott, "Kill him, for God’s sake, kill him, you fool."  But Endicott didn’t pull the trigger.

Zorro smiled his most charming smile.  "The devil loads pistols," he said, "but you know who fires them, don’t you. (1)  Oh, I see you meant what you said about not wanting to shoot me.  But if you think you can deal with me some other way, now might be a good time to try."

His own grin widening, Endicott set the pistol down.  Then he shrugged off his tailcoat, doffed his hat and slipped on a gauntlet.  "Oh, I suppose you’ll be wanting this," he said, nodding at Zorro’s sword, which was leaning in its scabbard against a small cart near the doors.

Zorro shrugged.  "I do not mind giving you a sporting chance," he said, glancing at the military weapon.  "I have used one of these before."  Endicott drew Zorro’s saber, then examined it carefully from guard to foible, flexing the blade.

"Well," he said, sheathing it again, "I suppose it is better to fence with a weapon you’re used to—even if it isn’t much to look at," and he casually tossed it to the outlaw, who caught it, belted it to his side, then drew the blade and brought its guard level with his chin in a polite salute.

By now, the front of Magaña’s cassock was stained with blood from the wound in his thigh, and he had begun to call for the guards outside.  Zorro suspected they had all gone off to chase his father and the girl.  With luck, they would return too late, and empty handed. Still, he wanted no further interference.  He nodded at the man, then said to Endicott, "Not much for sport, is he?"

Endicott shrugged.  "He thinks discipline means self-denial."

"Would you mind?"

"Please."

Placing the tip of his saber under Magaña’s chin, Zorro said, "I would keep quiet and try to concentrate on bandaging that wound if I were you, Señor.  Here, let me help you."  And with a quick jerk of his left hand, he yanked the green linen cloth out from under the ghastly collection of tools and handed it to the man.  Then, turning to place himself between Magaña and the table, he picked it up by one leg and backhanded the objects themselves into the forge.

Finally, keeping his blade pointed steadily at Magaña’s throat, he took the man’s dagger and threw it left handed across the room, leaving it stuck neatly—and deeply—in a heavy stud at the back of one of the stalls.  Then he loosened the point of the army saber from the seat of the chair and thrust its blade between the slats of a straw-filled cart near the forge where Magaña had retreated, letting it come just a hair’s breadth from the man’s ribs before he snapped it in two and dropped the guard and what was left of the forte at their feet.

"You will regret this," said Magaña quietly.  "Both of you."

Zorro sheathed his own sword.  Then he dragged the heavy straight backed chair out of the middle of the room and over against the side of a wagon with a broken wheel.  "Sit down and be quiet," he replied evenly.  "Or I shall kill you."  And as the man sat down, he added, "Now stay there."  And suddenly, for some reason, the image flashed through his mind of Magaña actually being tied there as his father had been.  And rather than just dismissing it, he decided instead to bring it more clearly into focus, just for a second or two, as if by doing this, he were actually somehow fixing the man to the spot.  Magaña himself looked a little surprised, but he didn’t move, other than to press the green cloth harder against his thigh.

Studying the outlaw carefully, he said, "Very well."

Zorro strode casually to the nearest stall, removing some of the clutter as he went, setting aside a water bucket, moving a stray bending iron, kicking a small pair of angle tongs out of his way.  Then, removing his cloak, he laid it neatly across the railing and knelt to examine the soldier he had hit with the hammer, relieved to find him out cold but still breathing.  Gently, he dragged the man over to lie on the bale of straw beside his cohort.  Then he turned back to Endicott, who was watching him now with unqualified amusement.

"You would have made someone a wonderful housekeeper," he said.

"Well . . . ," Zorro shrugged, "it is just that I did not want you to be able to say later on that you were beaten only because the place was too cluttered and you tripped over something."

"If I am beaten," Endicott smiled, "then I will be in no position to say anything.  I’ll be dead."

"I hardly think so," Zorro replied, drawing his weapon again.  "I believe you should have to live with this humiliation.  A little humility might do your soul some good, eh?"

"Perhaps a taste of it would do your soul some good," Endicott chuckled, raising his blade to return Zorro’s salute.  "But I promise you it won’t help your body at all.  Before we met, how long had it been since you fought someone who really knew what he was doing? You might have been a champion in your day, Señor Zorro.  But if you underestimate me, I fear I won’t be able to resist the temptation to kill you.  It’s just a weakness of mine, I guess."

Zorro raised a quizzical brow.  "Oh?" he said pleasantly.  "And when was the last time you actually killed someone who really knew what he was doing?  My impression was that your real weakness is for killing unarmed women."

For the first time, the man’s amused grin faded into something that looked a little like real anger, though perhaps it also contained a trace of fear.  As he glanced at Magaña, Zorro noted the look that passed between them.  But then Endicott’s faint smirk returned.  "Whores deserve to die," he said, "as do their sons."  And Zorro tried very hard not to smile, knowing he had had exactly the effect he meant to have. Instead he took a slow deep breath, focusing his mind until he felt a kind of vacuum forming around himself and his adversary, letting his eyes narrow until the scene began to darken and glow.