At thirty he gave up the ghost. He stopped his search, forgot to eat, slept only on occasion. He had his wine for company and that was enough.
He was a shell. The greatest fencing machine since the Corsican Wizard was barely even practicing the sword.
He was in that condition when the Sicilian found him.
At first the little hunchback only supplied him with stronger wine. But then, through a combination of praise and nudging, the Sicilian began to get him off the bottle. Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Turk’s strength plus the Spaniard’s sword, they might become the most effective criminal organization in the civilized world.
Which is precisely what they became.
In dark places, their names whipped sharper than fear; everyone had needs that were hard to fulfill. The Sicilian Crowd (two was company, three a crowd, even then) became more and more famous and more and more rich. Nothing was beyond or beneath them. Inigo’s blade was flashing again, more than ever like lightning. The Turk’s strength grew more prodigious with the months.
But the hunchback was the leader. There was never doubt. Without him, Inigo knew where he would be: on his back begging wine in some alley entrance. The Sicilian’s word was not just law, it was gospel.
So when he said, “Kill the man in black,” all other possibilities ceased to exist. The man in black had to die…
Inigo paced the cliff edge, fingers snapping. Fifty feet below him now, the man in black still climbed. Inigo’s impatience was beginning to bubble beyond control. He stared down at the slow progress. Find a crevice, jam in the hand, find another crevice, jam in the other hand; forty-eight feet to go. Inigo slapped his sword handle, and his finger snapping began to go faster. He examined the hooded climber, half hoping he would be six fingered, but no; this one had the proper accompaniment of digits.
Forty-seven feet to go now.
Now forty-six.
“Hello there,” Inigo hollered when he could wait no more.
The man in black glanced up and grunted.
“I’ve been watching you.”
The man in black nodded.
“Slow going,” Inigo said.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” the man in black said finally, “but I’m rather busy just now, so try not to distract me.”
“I’m sorry,” Inigo said.
The man in black grunted again.
“I don’t suppose you could speed things up,” Inigo said.
“If you want to speed things up so much,” the man in black said, clearly quite angry now, “you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find some other helpful thing to do.”
“I could do that,” Inigo agreed. “But I don’t think you would accept my help, since I’m only waiting up here so that I can kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship,” the man in black said then. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”
Forty-three feet left.
Forty-one.
“I could give you my word as a Spaniard,” Inigo said.
“No good,” the man in black replied. “I’ve known too many Spaniards.”
“I’m going crazy up here,” Inigo said.
“Anytime you want to change places, I’d be too happy to accept.”
Thirty-nine feet.
And resting.
The man in black just hung in space, feet dangling, the entire weight of his body supported by the strength of his hand jammed into the crevice.
“Come along now,” Inigo pleaded.
“It’s been a bit of a climb,” the man in black explained, “and I’m weary. I’ll be fine in a quarter-hour or so.”
