 Sharp's Fury by Bernard Cornwell, read by Paul McGahn. You were never far from the sea in Cadiz. On the city's southern side, when the wind was high and from the south, the waves would shatter on the seawall and spray would rattle on shuttered windows. After the Battle of Trafalgar, storms had battered the city for a week and carried the sea spray to the cathedral and torn down scaffolding about its unfinished dome. Waves had besieged Cadiz and pieces of broken ship had clattered on the stones and then the corpses had come. But that had been almost six years ago and now Spain fought on the same side as Britain, though Cadiz was all that was left of Spain. The rest was either ruled by France or had no government at all. Guerrilleros haunted the hills, Poverty ruled the streets and Spain was sullen. February 1811. Another storm beat at the city and monstrous waves shattered white against the seawall. In the dark, the watching man could see the explosions of foam and they reminded him of the powder smoke blasted from cannons. The man was a priest, Father Salvador Monseni, who now waited in the small shelter of an archway. He had been a chaplain on board a Spanish ship captured at Trafalgar and in the darkness above him the sound of battle crashed again. The sound was the boom and snap of the great canvas sheets that protected the cathedral's half-built dome, but the wind made the huge tarpaulin sound like cannons. The canvas, he knew, had once been the sails of Spain's battle fleet. But after Trafalgar the sails had been stripped from the few ships that had limped home. Father Monseni had been a prisoner in England then. As chaplain to an admiral, he had accompanied his master to a country house in Hampshire where he had learned hate and patience. He was patient now. His hat and cloak was soaked through and he was cold but he did not stir. He saw another wave break at the street's end and then a man came running from the kayak companion. Father Monseni saw the man go through the door opposite and followed fast as the man tried to close it. Gracias, Father Monseni said. Though in an arched tunnel that led to a courtyard, a lantern flickered from an alcove and the man seeing that Monseni was a priest looked relieved. You live here, father? He asked. Last rites, Father Monseni said. The man made the sign of the cross. It's a dirty night. We've had worse, my son, and this will pass. True, the man said. He went into the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the first floor balcony. You're Catalonian, father. How did you know? You're Axan, father. The man unlocked his front door then pitched forward as Father Monseni pushed hard. Sprawled on the floor, the man tried to draw a knife but the priest kicked him under the chin. Then Father Monseni knelt on the man's chest and put his own knife at his victim's throat. Say nothing, my son, he ordered. He found the trapped man's knife and tossed it up the passageway. You will speak, he said, only when I ask you questions. Your name is Gonzalo Horado? Yes. Horado's voice was scarce above a breath. Do you have the whore's letters? No, Horado said, and squealed because the knife cut through to his jaw bone. Do you have the letters? Yes! Show them to me. Father Monseni let Horado rise. He stayed close as Horado went into a room that overlooked the street. Steel struck flint and a candle was lit. Horado could see his assailant more clearly now and thought Monseni must be a soldier in disguise because his face did not have the look of a priest. It was a dark, lantern-jawed face without pity. The letters are for sale, Horado said, then gasped because Father Monseni hit him in the belly. I said you will speak only when I question you, the priest said. Show me the letters. The room was small but very comfortable. Two couches faced a fireplace above which a gilt-framed mirror hung. There were rugs on the floor, three paintings hung on one wall, all showing naked women. A bureau stood under the window. The frightened man unlocked one of its drawers and took out a bundle of letters. Father Monseni spread the letters on the bureau. Is this all of them? All, Horado said, but he saw the knife blade reflect candlelight and feared to speak. Go on, Father Monseni said, picking out a letter at random. How do you know about the letters? I told no one except— Sample complete. Ready to continue?