subplotkudzu | Emirikol, Part III scene 16

Melas freezes and tries to remain absolutely silent, holding his hand on the hilt of his sword both to keep it from rattling and to keep it ready to draw.

The blessing of his keen senses keeps Melas from panicking - his eyes are already picking out the outlines of light from the window shutters which, if they do not reveal the room's contents in any way, at least serve to orient him. His ears can detect the sounds of the blind pirates moving through the room. Their speed, while slow, is unaffected by this turn of events, and there is a ponderous confidence to their steps. One of the ones that had been flanking the Signora is moving on a path that will likely block the stairwell, while the other of that pair is closing on Melas' position. The third, by the window either has not moved or is exceptionally quiet.

For the moment, at least, our hero's position has not been reached, but that appears to be only a matter of time.

There is an ominous slither of steel on leather - one of the men drawing his knife, and the Signora tuts slightly. "We need him alive... to talk, and to see..." and then comes the croaking laugh.

"Okay, that's it. The Signora has officially crossed the line into Bad Manners." Melas thinks. He decides on a strategy of offense. He moves forward, towards the Signora, going as quietly as he can and waiting until the last instant to draw his sword.

The cat and mouse game continues, with Melas just barely avoiding one of the pirates on his path to the Signora. The hunchbacked noble moves on the balls of his feet grateful for his decades of fencing training and the complicated steps of the dances used around Greensward. Both served him well here as he approached his goal, but just as he felt prepared to draw his blade to press the attack, no more than a yard or two from the Signora in her chair, there was a subtle grate of metal on metal as the seated woman rotated the candelabra mesh again, returning light to the room and bring Melas face to face with horror.

Signora Huera had lifted her veil in the darkness, and the face it concealed was one of such indescribable horror that Melas felt his knees go weak and his grip slack - had he actually drawn his sword it would have clattered to the floor; instead it slid back into its sheath like a rabbit fleeing the fox.

Melas struggled to keep his feet in the face of the Huera's poxy, bloated, squamous features and her thin, mocking smile, her lips and eyelids the light blue that flesh takes when starved of all air in the sea's depths. His recent exposures to spider venom had taught him exactly how weak he can become and still fight, and there is a twinkle of respect growing in the contemptuous look on the widow's viasge. It is alas short lived as one of the pirates grabs Melas' shoulder and, using that to help his aim, lands a punishing blow on the distraught noble's kidney.

Collapsing to the floor is a relief for it removes Huera's features from his line of sight, but that is not enough to recover his strength, so thoroughly had the image burned itself into his brain. Another blow lands - a kick to his head that, while ill aimed is made brutal by the butler's boot. As Melas felt the explosion of pain, the Signora began to laugh in her croaking cough, obviously enjoying the display of the great laid low.

Seeing no way out of his predicament the hunchback went slack, feigning unconsciousness. He takes another kick to the leg but managed to avoid any outward sign of pain. The Signora claps her hands and the beating stops. "Now bind him up and carry him to the holding room. I'm sure there is much he can tell us before we risk the conversion."

His long arms wrenched behind him Melas felt the leather cord that was no doubt expertly tied about his wrists - these were sailors after all - and then suffered the indignity of being manhandled like a sack of meat or an old carpet out of the room, out of the light and into the darkness of the house. He does his best to count his lefts and rights, and based on the length of the travel he must have been moved from one of the interconnected houses to another - perhaps more than one - before being carried down into a basement, based on the cold and damp. Tossed into a room with a muddy floor he lamented the loss of his clothes while being grateful for the diminishment of the impact, and his keen ears are able to make out the click of the door being closed and the sliding of a bar to secure that door, leaving him utterly alone in the darkness.

To be continued