Under guard in Lisbon

Stephen's mind was going along much the same route as des Sablières', but with much simpler, starker lines. Brissac must not reach Porto. If he did, and somehow managed to relay a confirmation of Maturin's actions, and give a detailed description, one matching the description of Domanova he knew was circulating the higher echelons of the agency in Portugal...

Stephen shifted his weight, taking it off the crutch for a moment. The pain in his leg was diminishing, but he was certain his axilla would be callused by the time it was fully healed. "Then we shall leave. Do you know how far we have to walk?"

Raoul noticed the movement. Somehow he had not imagined that Dr Maturin would contemplate walking to Belem.

"I am told that it can be done in an hour, or perhaps an hour and a half. It's about four miles. But a most scenic route, with views out to sea. And for me, that would not be a problem. I have been in this room for too long, and would welcome the exercise and the fresh air. But for you, the walk would be too much."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Will it now? I have covered easily that distance thrice in the past two days, running about all over Lisbon. The wound is a superficial one, and is healing charmingly."

Raoul bowed his head in acknowledgement, and pulled on the coat. Washing had made it stiff, and he left it undone. "We will walk, then." He looked at the man. He no doubt knew his own capabilities. "I would be most unhappy if you do not let me carry your bag for you, at least."

"It is not so heavy." Stephen was reluctant, but it would make the handling of his crutch much less awkward. "You have your pass?"

"For the hospital?" He produced the paper. "And a copy of my parole document, though... I shall be glad to be with someone who can vouch for me."

"Good. And I have no qualms about 'vouching for you'. I told Dr McGrigor to expect a visit from you as soon as you were able." Stephen lifted his wig and scratched at his head. "Will we come back this way, do you think? If so, I will leave my knapsack here."

"I will have to come back," Raoul said. "I am to be found lodgings, but it has been difficult until now." He could hear drums. "Some regiments are leaving today, which should make it easier, and I can leave this place."

There was still a guard at the door of his room, who looked at them curiously but made no attempt to stop them. Once the room was empty he would presumably stop guarding it.

Stephen nodded, saying nothing. The stairs took him a while - for all his practice they still took up an undue proportion of his time and effort. He thought about the phenomenon of parole - had it come about through kindness, or laziness? Would he take parole, or Jack? He compared the captivities he had known, the very many prisons, as he dropped from one step to the next.

The stairs were too narrow to allow them to walk abreast, and Raoul reached the bottom and waited for the doctor. On the stairs his difficulties were obvious, and Raoul wondered if he could indeed manage the four miles - thei eight miles, if you counted the return journey. But he would not insult him again by suggesting that it would be too much for him.

His status was obviously known to the other occupants of the house, some of whom stared at him, while others glanced once and ignored him. It was an uncomfortable sensation. He was glad when the doctor joined him.

des Sablières was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, but he made no fussing comments, thank the Dear. Stephen scribbled a quick note, tore the page from his notebook, and tucked it into the strap at the top of his haversack, saying it belonged to him, and he would pick it up later. Thinking for a moment, he decided to take the canteen with him.

"Now, to Belem. The hospital is in the Torre, yes?"

Raoul nodded and followed the Doctor, adding: "The prisoners are there too - and I suppose the others will move from hospital to prison as they recover sufficiently. I doubt that their accommodation will be as good as mine. Poor Broussard is already there, and ... I do not know, but now I will be able to do something for them, perhaps."

He was doubtful. The British were pressing the war now, and it was unlikely that they would send back to the French soldiers who could be used to fight against them. His own exchange would be delayed, as the Earl had warned, and possibly only Thierry, with half an arm missing, might be allowed to go home.

"Perhaps. I will leave instructions for their care, in case the more competent surgeons go north with us. But do not fear - from what I have heard, the Torre is clean, airy, comfortable - necessary in a hospital, despite what some battlefield surgeons might think, but as a prison it will not be so very dire."

They passed through the courtyard and into the street. Soldiers were moving, mainly heading towards the main square, in units, even in companies, sergeants and officers chivvying them, inspecting them and their equipment, and taking quick headcounts. Raoul hesitated, feeling out of place and conspicuous.

"You are going north with the Army? Then - - then I doubt that I shall see you again, after this. You have been good to me, and to my men. Despite everything." And everything was something he did not want to think about.

"I am a physician. It was my duty." It was somewhat ungracious, but it was the truth. He felt cold, as though all the emotion had been wrung from him. Stephen had been looking at the ground, but he looked up. He thought of Christy-Pallière. "The war will not go on forever - it will end, for good or ill. Maybe then."

Raoul felt Maturin's distaste, and looked away. "One day, then. But today - Belem lies to the west, on the river - so..." He had no idea of the way. His brain seemed to have stopped working.

"It was your duty," he said. "But they are in the care of others now. What you do for Thierry, you do for kindness - to him, at least." It was, he thought, going to be a very uncomfortable walk, and not just because of Maturin's leg. There were no words, and insufficient time, to express his own feelings, and he could not face the doctor's contempt if he tried. Better to walk in silence, commenting only on the light on the sea, and the antics of the birds.

"This way," said Stephen, indicating a street that took them away from the crowds. "Once we are outside the city, we should be able to see the Torre." They walked on a little in the silence, Stephen feeling pleased that his limp was genuinely diminishing along with the pain to his leg. He would soon be able to do away with the crutch. With the tendrils of a good mood, the complete aversion to talk waned.

"As for Thierry, sure, it is no very great service. It is the least I can do considering the risks he took on our behalf with Brissac and Dumoulins. He is kind, and honourable, and he is loyal, and loyalty to persons is a quality I esteem greatly. Besides, I gave my word."

Raoul nodded. The doctor did seem to be moving more easily now, and perhaps what he had taken as distaste had simply been a reaction to the pain of movement - or rather, a feeling magnified by that pain. The doctor's comments, and the drums, reminded him.

"I had a visitor," he said. "Did Captain Padstowe tell you of him? He is leaving today too."

"He did not - I have not seen him these past two days. A welcome visitor, I hope?"

"Oh." It did not matter. It was not a secret to be kept, or even delayed.

"It was My Lord Edrington. He is Colonel of the 62nd Regiment, which is leaving Lisbon today, so... I knew him from England, and he had heard of my - my being a prisoner. He will let my parents know that I am safe."

"That is good." There was little else he could say to that, for he found questions like "How did you know him?" so oppressive, and would not inflict them on another. And yet something else was needed.

Stephen was puzzled. des Sablières was trying to make conversation - was it the silence of the walk, stretching ahead of them that made him anxious, or was this need for a confidant deeper than that? The young man was obviously troubled, but Stephen did not know what was being asked of him in this instance. "It may be that I meet him at some point." Pathetic, pitiful, feeble, but something at least.

"He is a soldier," Raoul said softly. "He would not have understood, so I could not tell him. I could not tell him about what we were doing, or about you, or anything. Because if I had tried to explain... So I said we were a scouting party who ran into trouble." His eyes were troubled. "And he knows I lied to him. When he had gone, I realized that I did need to talk to someone."

Stephen did not. His words on such subjects as these were bottled - bottled in glass with his amber-coloured liquid relief, bottled in the pithy Latin phrases that fell from him inside the confessional box, bottled achingly deep within him until delirium released them - but he was used to the desolate tone of confession and confidence of this kind from the Protestants he was doctor to, and he was not an entirely unmerciful creature. "I thank you for your discretion," he said, a large part of his mind doubting that it was discretion that led to des Sablières to dissimulation. "And if you would speak on this, we have a long way to walk."

Raoul looked out over the river mouth, where ships were coming and going on the favourable tide. Now that he had broached the subject, it was difficult to begin. "It was not discretion on your behalf," he said. "But on mine. And on his. And it was true - scouting was one of our duties. Knowing more would have - I think it would have distressed him." He glanced sideways at Maturin. He did not look as though he welcomed Raoul's confession either. "But you at least would understand how it started."

The words "not on your behalf" struck a chill through Stephen. He realised just how much he was trusting to the man's guilt and gratitude - if and when des Sablières was exchanged, he would be able to bring the full force of the the wrath of the French Intelligence Agencies down on Maturin's head, if he was unable by trickery and luck to evade them. He held the same power that Brissac held, and the acknowledgement of a need for discretion on Stephen's behalf was an acknowledgement of the fear that des Sablières must arouse in him. He searched the man's tone for a threat. Had they indeed been captured without any severely wounded, the inevitable outcome had Sharpe not been with them, it would have been des Sablières' duty to hand he and Padstowe over. Stephen wandered what, if any, qualms the captain would have had as he did it.

These thoughts flashed through his mind in a second, as des Sablières continued, and he kept his face impassive, forcing a look of sympathy when he spoke of not wishing to distress his friend. He nodded encouragingly.