On Parole in Lisbon

Stephen nodded. He would leave des Sablières to think, and they were difficult things he would have to think about. "Wise or not, there is no choice in the matter. You are right, of course. I will clear away these shards - glass in the foot is a terrible thing - and then I will leave you in peace."

Raoul knelt and began to pick up the larger shards. He looked up at Stephen, and smiled: "I can do this, and without making myself more ill. Go - and come back when you can."

Stephen knelt down beside des Sablières and tugged the cuff of his shirt sleeve down past fingers to sweep the smaller shards into a pile. "There, now..."

Raoul stood up with the larger pieces of the glass, and dropped them onto the tray. "Leave it," he said again. "You will cut your hand, or have pieces of glass embedded in your shirt, scratching you for the rest of the day. It needs a dustpan and brush. Mr Dawson..."

Stephen leant over the tray, brushing his shirt cuff on his waistcoat. "No little slivers, so." He stood up. "Thank you Capitaine. I am sorry... you always seem to see me at my weakest."

Raoul grimaced. "I think the same is true for you. And I have no physical injuries to blame, only ... You have given me much to think about, since we first met. Most of it has been unwelcome, but that is not your fault. Now, are you still determined to go to Belem?"

"I am." Stephen gave a little bow. "Goodnight, Capitaine. I will be fine from here."

"Doctor." Raoul returned the bow, and then said on the way to the door: "Are you sure, sir, that you will not take me with you? I do not look like a Hussar, after all. No one will think it strange..."

"I am more sure of nothing in the world, Capitaine - your parole, the chance of observations; besides, you would have to make the return journey alone, and considering how we met this evening I do not think that would be wise. My pistol is loaded, in any case; I bid you adieu."

Raoul stood by the open doorway, looking out into the courtyard. "Au revoir, I hope."

Stephen waved over his shoulder and walked away into the darkness, the polite smile dropping from his face like a stone, and the look of tired despair returning. He gently rested his left hand on the thin hilt of his sword and turned in the direction of Headquarters to pick up Bethany.

Raoul watched Dr Maturin walk away and disappear from view. He turned back into the house, and thus did not see the figure that slid out from the shadowed entrance to a dark courtyard, and hurry after the vanishing figure.

The city was not as dark as when he and Sharpe and walked through it, being much earlier in the night, but still dark enough for Stephen to decided against putting on his tinted spectacles; he left them with his wig in the leather bag he carried. He had been wearing both of them while in Carneiro's house, and in leaving it-

The thought brought the dull pounding back to his ears, and he pushed it away; he could not afford that weakness again, walking through the city alone. He shook his head gently, trying the clear it, and strode forward with only the barest limp, determined to get back to Belem as soon as possible.

He settled down to wait, outside the house he knew the French Captain was lodged in. Damn Joubert and his big mouth and kind heart. They had given no details, he had been assured, but simply knowing that the escape was planned would be enough to have their parole rescinded. And it was probable that the Captain had already told the British all he knew. Quite why, he did not yet know, but the explanation he favoured was Royalist French, hand in glove with the British authorities to smoke out French sympathisers and spies.

Could they be trusted to keep quiet about the involvement of others in their plan? If they were taken, he might need to make himself scarce for a time. Annoying, but not fatal. What was more dangerous was the other matter. They would be running up to Oporto, and could take - whatever it was with them. He did not look forward to explaining that his courier had been arrested. Better if their departure was brought forward.

Eventually his wait was rewarded. Not the Captain, but the smaller man he had met - by arrangement? - and who had challenged him. It would be interesting to see where the smaller man went, and - once the Captain had finished bidding farewell to his guest - he set off in pursuit.

In the main road there were several men - British navy, by the look of them - surrounding a fighting pair and shouting drunkenly. Stephen turned into the smaller street that ran parallel to the main road, hoping to avoid a confrontation that, with the way he was feeling tonight, could only go badly for him.

He was thinking about his conversation with des Sablières - had he honestly given up his ideals about Bonaparte? It was almost impossible to believe; where did it put the young captain with regards to returning to the French army? - when a chill ran up his spine, instincts, experience and paranoia shrieking that something was wrong. He turned around.

The British were behaving as normal - fighting drunk, with onlookers too drunk to realize that their conduct disgusted everyone else. The little man with the cropped hair avoided them - as anyone sensible would - and turned off the main avenue into a quieter darker street.

He was not far behind, and hurried to reach the corner before the man could take another turning. He saw him, turning into another narrower road, running parallel with the main avenue, and then, at the next corner, he came face to face with his quarry.

Stephen reached for his pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at the man. "Why are you following me?" he asked fiercely in Portuguese.

He had known about the pistol, but he had not expected to find himself looking at it from such close quarters. He started to protest - He was not following the Senhor, except that like him he wished to avoid the English. His Portuguese tripped over itself and still the pistol was pointed at him. He was too close for the man to miss, too far to allow him to jump, to use the knife that could be in his hand in an instant - a knife is not faster than a ball from a pistol. His voice rose, he took a step backwards with his hands out, the knife sliding from his sleeve...

The man was shouting; Stephen tried to ignore it, and the pain it caused to his head. He saw the knife, and put his finger to the trigger - now that he knew the man was armed, he did not want to step forward in case he was stupid enough to jump. On the other hand, if there were others in the shadows, if he had been led into an abduction or an ambush, he was too far away to effectively use the man as a shield. "Drop it!"

The man had not fired - perhaps would not, although he could not be sure of that. But now there were voices in the street behind him. Loud English voices, all talking over each other, a raucous laugh and the voice of a woman. He took another step back, but did not dare look round. He held out empty hands: the knife would be risky with English witnesses.

"The knife, in your sleeve. Drop it now!" Stephen heard the voices as well, and like the man, he did not react to them. "You were following me - why?"

He dropped the knife into his right hand and let it fall. But he began speaking, in Portuguese, at the same time. "You are English, of course. I did not know that - I am charged with seeing who the French prisoner contacts, that is all, it is my job. I work for your English, sir. Do not shoot!" He flapped his hand, the empty right hand towards his chest. "I have a paper, authority."

"Stop!"Stephen was not going to allow the man to pull a pistol from inside his coat. "To whom do you report?"

He did not know the names of people in the Army Headquarters, but he did know the name of the man who supervised the paroled French naval officers, and that would do for now. "Scott," he said. "Tenente Scott - of the Navy Offices. I report to him, on the paroled officers."

Stephen remembered that des Sablières had mentioned French naval officers in Lisbon; he did not lower his pistol. "If you work with the Navy, why do you follow the captain? You are not charged with seeing who he contacts, for he is in the army's jurisdiction; it is not your job. For whom do you work?"