An Officer's Room in Belem

Stephen scrawled a letter in return; he read through it. It was not as elegant as he would have liked, but he hoped it would serve, and it was possible that plain sentiment, naked of any ambiguous eloquence, might indeed serve his purpose better. He reached for the guttering candle, but then pulled back, hastily adding a post script in pencil. He folded the missive, and let the wax drip to seal it.

"Is that all, sir?" The orderly asked hopefully as he saw the doctor applying the wax.

"It is, it is, thank you." Stephen looked around for anything he might use as a seal, not owning one himself, or even a watch key, his usual substitute. Scratching a seal would look too pathetic; he pressed the nip of the pen into the wax instead and quickly wiped it off.

"Thank you, sir." The orderly took the letter, glancing awkwardly at the doctor just before he made his exit. "And sir? You've... you have some ink on your face."

Stephen rubbed at his face, and stared down, stupid and surprised, at his blackened hand. He looked up at the door, but the orderly had gone; he looked down at the sheet he had fallen asleep on, and groaned at the smudged mass of letters. He rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, and began to copy it anew as the grey light slowly grew brighter.

A couple of hours later Padstowe stirred, the morning light having brightened the room considerably, and he stared groggily up at the by now quite familiar ceiling.

Out of his line of vision he heard the crinkling of paper, now and again the scratches of a pen and more shifting of paper; yet his neck was stiff and he could not turn his head to see who it was, although he was pretty certain he knew already.

"Stephen?"

"Jonathan," Stephen replied, smiling and putting his pen down. He spoke with barely controlled excitement. "You slept reasonably well, from what I saw - did you? How do you feel?"

"Yes, yes I did, thank you."

He regarded the doctor with a slight frown.

"What is the matter, Stephen? You seem... somewhat agitated?"

Stephen nodded, jittery and restless even without his longed-for coffee. "I am, I am - I have it! I have it, Jonathan - Prideaux's list of informers in Lisbon! Full names, addresses - even the real French names for two of them!"

Padstowe was awake in an instant.

"You have them? Really?"

In his excitement he tried to sit up, but then let out as cry as his ribs and shoulder flaredwith agony, collapsing against the pillows again with a moan and a series of wheezing coughs.

"Confound it!" he gasped when he could speak again.

Stephen hurried to the bedside, the sheet in his hand. "Handsomely, handsomely now..." he said gently, after placing the paper out of reach.

"Confound it!" Padstowe merely repeated, only with less conviction. "He took a shuddering breath, forcing himself to calm and the wheezing died down again. "I can't even turn my head this morning!"

"Do not worry, soul; be of good heart," Stephen said, pouring out a cup of water. "It is the most temporary of setbacks - you are merely stiff from lying down in the same position."

"Not as if I can get up," Padstowe said bitterly. "But I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"Nothing, nothing; I have the list, however, and so I will have to spend even more time in the city, sometimes at night. Will you be all right?"

"Fine. Please, what sort of number are we dealing with? Any important contacts or is it mostly petty informers?"

"I am dealing with thirteen of them," Stephen said pointedly. "I suspect ten informers, two spies - five would probably report to each - and then one assassin."

"Assassin?" Padstowe repeated. "Any mention who he was after?"

[OOC: Is that an Assassin or an assassin?]

"Oh, he will have been activated after Prideaux's death to kill the other people on this list. Now, the question is whether he will kill all twelve on his own, or whether the two spies, ignorant of each other, will each dispatch their own five informers, to be killed in turn by our assassin."

[OOC: I would think assassin - Assassin would be more specific, probably relating to the actual Hashshashin.]

"I almost feel sorry for the poor fellows," Padstowe said blandly. "Where were the spies placed?"

"All over the city. I do feel sorry for them - a number of these will have been forced into their position, through threats or lack of funds. One is a woman. I will see to her safety first - I doubt she will be killed for a few days yet, but I will see her gone from here."

A slightly more specific answer would have been in order, but padstowe was unsure whether he would get it.

"May I see the list?"

Stephen smiled. "I do not think so, Jonathan. You are not in a position to do anything; I should probably not have told you this much. Do not concern yourself."

"How can you tell me something like that and then deny me the rest?" Padstowe complained. "I shall be concerning myself for the rest of forever!"

"Jonathan, your whining about 'the rest of forever' hardly fills me with confidence. Besides, you are recovering, and not all of these informers will have been threatened - some will be volunteers. And if they are volunteers, they will not respond to help or coercion. It is far better if you do not know."