Yet another posada in Lisbon

Padstowe stumbled forward with Cotton, not exactly straight or even steps - perhaps meandering would have been a better word? - but they were the best he could offer and they seemed to serve for now. It wasn't easy going along the streets, and once or twice his feet tripped and his legs threatened to fail him altogether.

"Why don' they make roads flat?" he complained after a while. "Make 'em flat at home, so why can't they?"

Cotton grinned. Drunk officers were all the same, really. "Because they were daft enough to build a town on the side of a hill. And hills ain't famous for bein' flat."

Well, the officer seemed to be mostly able to move his feet in the right direction, which was something. Cotton himself couldn't manage a straight line, so they were meandering on their way up the street, but at least it was up the street and not into the side of a building.

"Damn stupid place to put it," he grumbled, though not with absolute conviction. "E'en Tunbridge Wellsis flatter'n this! Bloody Cotswolds is flatter!"

Cotton grinned. Right before they meandered into the side of a building. "Now who put that there?" he said, trying to keep his balance and keep the officer more-or-less upright. "Stupid place to put a building, right where I'm tryin' to walk."

At the jolt of walking into the house, Padstowe slipped from Cotton's grasp and landed on his backside, legs spread out in front of him and sitting upright looking somewhat dazed.

"Why'm I on the floor again?"

"I hit a building, sir, sorry, sir," Cotton said, holding on to it for a moment to recover his balance before moving to help the officer back up. "Feet are good. Ground isn't. And it's all cobbles hereabouts, too. I hope you ain't hurt, sir?"

Padstowe blinked up at Cotton as the rifleman helped him back up.

"Hurt? No, don't think so... Damn building should have watched where it was going!"

"Don't try putting it on a charge, though. It's the courtroom." At least, Cotton thought it was. "Where your billet from here, sir?" He addressed the question to Padstowe, but looked at Sharpe for further directions.

"Next street along, turn left, then first left again." That much he could remember, if indeed this was the courthouse, which he seriously hoped it was. There was also some small part of his mind that worried about his being seen to be carried home plastered in the middle of the day, but it was a ver remote part of his mind and he pointed in the general direction of the next street on the left. "Aim for tha' one."

Cotton followed the line of the captain's pointing finger, to find it was actually pointing at another tavern. "I don't think so. I think you mean this one," he said, aiming for the street between the courthouse and the tavern.

It was only mid-day, the officer was completely lushed, and they were a little too close to both the courthouse and the Headquarters building for Cotton's comfort.

Somehow he got Padstowe to the lane he thoguht the officer had meant to indicate. "Left again, sir?" he said.

"That's righ', turn left!" he mumbled. His head had slumped down onto Cotton's shoulder again and he had closed his eyes.

Sharpe was still following them, holding the Captain's belongings. "Good lad," he murmured, seeing how Cotton helped the officer up after they walked into a wall. "Next left," he told Cotton. It seemed Padstowe wasn't going to be with them much longer, his head was resting on Cotton's shoulder.

"Want a hand, lad?" Sharpe asked, trying to work out how he could actually manage to offer one if Cotton accepted.

"Please, sir, if it's not too much bother," Cotton said. Though Mister Sharpe had several inches on his own height, and he hoped it wouldn't unbalance the Captain too much.

Sharpe tucked hat and folders under his arm and wrapped his free arm around the Captain, taking some of the weight. He grinned as Cotton shot him a grateful look.

"Nearly there now, Jon, then you can have a nice kip, just like you want."

Padstowe was momentarily reawakened by the shifting between Sharpe and Cotton.

"Don' want kipper... don't like 'em..."

"Kippers? Kip. Sleep. Or a nap, if you prefer." Bloody hell, he really was out of it. "How much did he drink?" he asked Cotton.

"Best part of a bottle, I think, sir," Cotton said, thinking. "He polished off the first one, with help from us, and then started the second one, but we only had half of that between us."

He shrugged. "Dunno. But he was asleep on his desk when I found 'im earlier, sir. Which ain't much help."

How much he had drunk was not really a concern for Padstowe, as he had once more rested his head on Cotton's shoulder and did not look likely to lift it up again without help.

"You stay there, then, nice and comfortable. There's a good officer," Cotton said, wondering precisely when he'd be arrested and shot for saying it. "One foot in front of the other, like that."

They stopped and Cotton looked up. "Are we there, then?"

"Aye, but you're going to have to do the knocking, or I'm going to drop everything," Sharpe replied, feeling it start to slip even as he spoke. "Damn." The folders slipped out of his hand and he only retained his grip on the hat by pure chance.

"Never mind. I'll knock," he said, staring down at the two folders before suiting the action to the word.

The building they had stopped in front of was a tall, narrow tenement, its door painted bright blue with a solid-looking iron knocker at about head height. Shortly after Sharpe had knocked the door was flung open and a squat, plump middle-aged Portugeuese woman looked up at them. Seeing Padstowe slumped between the two she glared at Sharpe disapprovingly and rattled off something scolding in very fast Portuguese.

Sharpe looked at the woman, then at Cotton.

Cotton shrugged. "You're the officer, sir. Me, I'm only a poor bloody Rifleman. Sir."

"Ah, sim, senhora, it were all my fault. Y'see, when I were in India, there was this Sergeant..." Sharpe began, as he and Cotton waited for the woman to move so that they could get Padstowe into the house.

Sharpe looked at Cotton. "If you can take him, I'll pick his papers up."

"Yes, sir," Cotton said, taking the captain's weight again. He looked at the woman. "Been a long day, very hot, he needed a drink. Or two. I'm sorry. Muchas sorry, senhora. Didn't mean to get him pissed. Lushed." He sighed. "He need go to bed, understand? Sleep."

The landlady continued to scowl at Sharpe, clearly not impressed, and rattled off more scolding words at him, stepping aside and ushering Cotton into the building. Inside the hallway was a long, narrow staircase really only wide enough for one large person to get up. She pointed up the stairs and snapped something at him.