subplotkudzu | Emirikol Part III, scene 20

"Make a sound and I'll kill you," Melas hisses. He closes the door most of the way and approaches the man warily, gripping his sharp wood splinter. He stops about six feet away and whispers, "Who are you?"

The man stammers soundlessly at this insane apparition - Melas can see in the mirrors that he is in quite the state, with tattered, mud stained clothes and the bruise on his temple a livid mark - but follows instructions and closes his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth.

When Melas speaks again, the man's response is quiet and rushed, trying to hide the look of obvious fear of the repercussions of an unacceptable answer. "Antonio. Antonio Andres. Signor Andres." He recovers some of his bearing as he tries to ingratiate himself with his new visitor "I'm a merchant captain, taken by pirates, much as you likely were."

"No, I was fool enough to walk into this house. But now I must walk out again. Why are your hands wrapped?"

"Bound?" Antonio looks at his hands and begins to giggle in a way that gives Melas sever concerns about his companion's sanity. That turns into wracking sobs as the fellow struggles to control himself. Ultimately he does so, managing the stammer out, "My... the signora of the house does not... want me..." the giggles start again, but he suppresses them, "to do myself an injury."

"Well," says Melas as he undoes the bindings, "if I were you, I'd be more interested in doing some injuries to those ruffians upstairs. Indeed, even though I'm not you, that's what I'm interested in anyhow. I'm Melas Beliseca, by the way; delighted to make your acquaintance. Now let's get you out of here. Is there anything heavy, sharp, or otherwise dangerous in here?" He looks for oil lamps or volatile perfumes -- and for something sustaining to drink.

The bindings prove remarkably resilient - it takes the use of his small pocket knife to cut them off, and the bandages were literally sewn into his wrists to prevent them coming free. The rope around his neck collar proves somewhat easier to deal with, weak as it is at the junction point.

"N...No, no weapons in here." Antionio shakes his head forcefully, then falls into a reverie looking at his hands, atrophied as they are from disuse. Melas cursory search of the room reveals a pair of storm lanterns - both full, one lit - and, gods be praised, a decanter of port with a pair of glasses. The perfumes, he notes with an expert eye, are not flammable, but - as he knows from sad experience with his cousin - that if sprayed in the eye will do more harm than good.

He fortifies himself with a couple of glasses of port, and takes up the storm lanterns. Not only will they offset the blind pirates' advantage in the dark, but they pose a fire hazard. The perfume he leaves behind after reflecting that spraying perfume in the eyes of eyeless men seems deeply pointless.

When he feels suitably fortified, he recorks the port and hands the bottle to Antonio. "Can you hit someone with this? Your wife, perhaps?"

Antionio takes the bottle in one hand and almost immediately drops it. He bends down to grab it again, this time getting a firm grip on the neck with both hands. His face jerks up in surprise at Melas' comment concerning his wife. "N...n...no, you can't...can't fight her. Too strong. Flee. We have to run far away, hope she never sees..." he sobs for a second, "finds us again. Inland. Mountains. You can't...I won't...Better to die."

Melas decides that Antonio, mad as he is, has a point. Even his own opinion of his abilities doesn't suggest he's capable of taking on a whole houseful of armed men, especially when he still doesn't quite know what's going on. The prudent course is to get Antonio to safety and come back in force. He takes up the lanterns and his improvised wooden dagger.

"Very well," he says. "Do you know the way out?"

The man shakes his head. "N..N...No. This isn't our house. Up. Up. Away from water."

Melas himself, by virtue of playing possum, knows that they were moved through the interconnecting house structure of Scornbul, and Antonio is almost certainly right that they are now underground. With luck, he Melas might be able to backtrack to at least an above ground area, or striking off in another direction might prove fruitful.

"Well, then, let us search. Can you walk? Because I must confess I cannot imagine we will get far if I have to carry you."

Assuming Antonio is mobile, Melas leads the way to the corridor and tries to guess which way might lead to the stairs.

Antonio shuffles after him, his tread sounding more like that of a ragged monster in a 'Pierre and Pedro" production than a human but Melas' need for quiet lets the weakened man keep up. Lacking any other clues the hunchback heads back the way he had been carried - it might be more dangerous, but it will get him back to the surface.

With the light off the storm lantern Melas can confirm his original assessment - he is in the basement or sub basement of what was once a fine home. Given the lax building codes of Scronbul the home was likely surrounded on all sides by other structures and ultimately consumed, a fine ship run aground and encrusted with barnacles and reef. The chamber that held Antonio was original construction, and judging by the door so was the one next to it - it shares a very similar lock, and would likely be opened by the key he currently holds - while those on the other side were a crude subdivision of an unfinished storage space. Further along he can see where the wall had been knocked out to provide access to the next buildings basement, and to his left, past whatever finished room lay behind the locked door, was a set of open wooden stairs heading up.

The stairs are very shallow, nearly a ramp (as was the fashion centuries ago) with a landing after 12 steps, doubling back towards the center line of the house. The banister separating the two has finely carved dowels whose paint is all but faded and flecked away. Melas can make out the tread of heavy boots - he has had close contact with the blind pirate's footwear - heading in this direction, and his stomach rumbles as his gourmand's nose detects a whiff of what is no doubt foul stew used to keep the prisoners alive. Lunch, perhaps, but for his body to crave such disgusting nourishment he must have lost track of time, or perhaps slept in the mud of the second cell, at least until evening. The scent gets closer, and the hunchback revises

that - breakfast the next morning. Or perhaps the next month.

His stomach rumbles again, loud enough that there is a real fear of alerting the approaching pirate. Fortunately Antonio stands struck dumb with fear, and therefore does not give away their position.

To be continued