An Officer's Room in Belem

"It was not the sitting up that did it," Padstowe protested, though he knew by the doctor's expression and tone that he was already clutching at straws. "I... I was careless when I thougt to put the bowl back on the table. I used the wrong arm and overstretched myself."

Stephen stared at Padstowe for a long moment. "If by Monday morning you are able to sit up and lie down, and pour water for yourself without assistance, then I will request that you be moved that afternoon. But only if you can do those things. Would you consider this a fair compromise?"

He could get no better compromise from Maturin, and so the captain nodded.

"Yes, it is."

He would sit and and down and pour water on Monday even if it killed him...

Stephen nodded, saying nothing, and turned back to the codes. He was behind schedule, if he wanted to make copies as well...

Stephen turned back to his work, and Padstowe fidgited with the blanket. Maturin was grim this evening; tight-lipped, determined and distant, eager to get on with his decoding. There was none of the emotional turmoil of last night.

"Did you find him?" he asked quietly. He did not need to elaborate, for he knew Maturin would know who he meant.

Stephen did not look up from the page. "Our assassin? No, alas. Other than that, however, the day was relatively successful."

"How many more off the list?"

"One is outside the city. One insisted on staying within, but he has sense; I believe he will be safe in hiding now that he has been warned. One is dead. And I killed Jean-Hugues Pelletier," Stephen said with absolutely no emphasis.

Four. Two saved, one dead and one silenced.

"I take it, then, that Pelletier would not listen to reason. How many does that leave, including our assassin?"

"Pelletier was a French agent, working under the assumed name of Moniz. We did not exchange a word. He has been preying on the desperate for information," Stephen said through gritted teeth, the letters swimming. "Six remain."

The name Pelletier had meant nothing to Padstowe. He had only been handed a list of names and addresses this morning, and had no idea who informant, agent or assassin.

He looked back don to the blanket. It seemed that Maturin did not wish to talk tonight, an it would not be best for him to probe for more information.

"If you will tell me the details tomorrow, I will try to assist in any way I can."

Stephen put his pen down, and turned in his chair to face Padstowe. "I do not know if there is any way in which you can help. Tomorrow, after Mass, I will go to the remaining people on the list, and attempt to likewise dispatch Semedo - Durand, that is, Prideaux's other agent - come nightfall."

"Yes, quite." Padstowe did not pursue the subject any further. He edged his left forearm across his body, positioning the right so that he could push himself up again. The muscles were regaining their strength now that he had started exercising them a little, and he raised himself up against the pillows, before drawing back the blankets from his legs. The next stage would be difficult, and he steeled himelf before trying to twist so he could sit on the edge of the bed.

Stephen stood up quickly, showing some emotion for the first time in the evening. "For God's love, Jonathan, you cannot think to be standing?"

"No, I..." Padstowe did not look at Stephen, as his back was to Maturin and it would have cost him great pain to twist to face him. His ribs were protesting enough as it was. "No, I was going to..."

His cheeks flushed. Just sitting on the edge of the bed he had been confidnt of his aim enough not to have to disturb the doctor. Though that plan seemed to have gone out the window, as Maturin had disturbed himself.

Stephen sensed Padstowe's embarrassment, and guessed at the cause of it. "I think I shall go out for a cheroot. You will excuse me for a few moments, Jonathan? I do not wish to cause you to cough. Unless you need any assistance?"

There was a short silence before Padstowe spoke again, in a tiny embarrassed voice.

"Could you move it forward about seven inches?"

"I can, sure," Stephen said, pushing the edge of it with his foot. "Just so?"

"There. Thank you."

Stephen smoked his cheroot in the courtyard, looking up at stars. The night was clear, and his mind was clearer - he thought of nothing, nothing at all, but the smoke curling up into the sky. He sighed; he could not keep this up for long, this glass-act. He tossed the stub away, and went back in to Padstowe's room.

Padstowe was not in his bed, but seated on the floor the other side of it, the evidence pushed back under the bed. Despairing of get back up again he had pulled the blanket down from the matress and wrapped it about his shoulders. What Maturin would say when he found him so he did not like to think.

"Oh, Christ alive, Jonathan! I asked you if you needed help..." said Stephen, rushing to the side of the bed, cursing himself for an optimistic, neglectful idiot. "Let us get you cleaned up, and I shall call for an orderly to help me lift you back up."

Padstowe's guts knotted inside, the stew he had eaten earlier sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, staring down at his feet.

"Please," he moaned. "Don't fuss so. I am alright."

"You are obviously not," Stephen said with an admirable imitation of patience. "Come on, now, up. You shall feel better when you are back in bed; it is cold here, at night. I will just go and fetch someone."

The indignity of it! Padstowe curled up further as Maturin went to fetch an orderly, feeling incredibly wretched. He had only wished to try and not be an inconvenience to anyone; yet he had ended up making more trouble than had he asked.