“Good evening, Pablocito. We’ve come a long way and are very tired.”

“Don Ambrosio!” He climbed down the ladder, stumped over and threw his arms around him in a warm abrazo, for they were old friends. “Come inside and we will drink some mezcal, the very best from the city of Tequila. Leave your animals, my men will take care of them.”

“I will go with them,” Miguel said. Don Ambrosio untied his wrapped bedroll from the horse.

“You will take good care of Rocinante while I am away,” he said.

“As always. Do you know when you will return?”

“Not yet. I will let Pablo know if I can, and he can get a message to you in your village.”

Pablo took the bedroll from him and led the way into the building.

Inside the well-lit kitchen Pablo opened a cabinet and took out a bottle, slammed it down and pushed forward the cut limes and the bowl of salt. Don Ambrosio nodded happily and reached for a glass. Put the salt on the web between thumb and index finger; licked the salt and then in a quick movement emptied the glass of mezcal. Bit the lime and sucked on it so that all three blended deliciously in the mouth. Derecho. The only way to drink the fiery maguey spirit.

Don Ambrosio smacked his lips with pleasure and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That is wonderful. Now tell me, it is most important — is the ship here yet?”

“Not only here but it has been waiting for three days now. I have talked with them but they will not listen. They say that they cannot stay in port any longer. The captain says they must leave at dawn.”

Don Ambrosio sprang to his feet, unconsciously touching the book in his pocket to be sure it was safe. “Then I must go now.”

“Will you not eat before you go?”