The lady of the house gestures again to the chair, and Melas can see that its overstuffed depths are not something from which he could rise in a hurry should that necessity fall upon him.
"Signora," Melas begins, "I think it highly charitable of you to take on these decayed mariners for your household staff. Do they give good service? I've yet to begin hiring any lackeys of my own and am anxious to find some chaps who'll get up before I do and not drain the cellar, if you take my meaning."
There is another little cough at his descriptor for her lackeys. The hand that isn't holding the letter moves a tatted kerchief up under the veil for a second, being careful not to jostle it enough to reveal anything.
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but my servants are hardly decayed. I would know." another cough. "I have considerable experience with mariners of all sorts and I can assure you that they are flexible men, with strong backs. Also, once properly broken are loyal unto death."
"I must admit I am surprised by your dear aunt's kindness in sending you with this missive. While she has always been a friend to the Erosas I had never suspected she was aware of my husband's death. Was my house your only port of call, or are you staying in town long enough to need lackeys?"
"Oh, I intend to be in Emirikol for some time. Staying with friends for now until I find a suitable house of my own. And, as I said, lackeys. So this is no mere flying visit. I'll be around, and I'd hate to defy my dear aunt's injunctions to look after her friends here."
Returning to the ostensible subject, "So, where did you find these nautical chaps?"
As opposed to her natural fetid croak of a laugh the Signora tries a charming giggle at this. The result is horrific - like the sound of consumptive children gagging - and she quickly covers for her mistake by a forced cough, which somehow makes it worse. "My apologies," she replies weakly, "I am afflicted by a slight cold."
"As for my servants, my dearly departed husband did run a shipping company, my lord, so I have been around 'these nautical chaps' my whole life. I have, had, always availed upon my husband to find employment for all of the sailors who might be injured through no fault of their own while on our books, and were you to go downstairs you would find that some of our clerks and runners bear the scars of martial encounters." She leans in a little, as if sharing a conspiratorial secret, "You show them a path to a better life and they are so charmingly loyal."
She claps her hands rapidly three times, and before the echoes had finished reverberating through the Spartan room the doorman had returned to the top of the stairs and two more equally sightless servants entered through swinging doors from sackcloth rooms. They take up positions inside the room, one doing something at the sideboard between the shuttered windows, directly behind Melas, the other two silently flanking their employer.
"As for these fine men, they were captured in a pirate raid in the seawall swamps to our west. The creatures there, you understand, are so much different from men, and these poor fellows came out changed by the encounter. So I asked myself, where else could they work? And finding no other answer, I brought them under my roof. And thus far they have fulfilled my every need. So if you are looking for some servants of your own, I would recommend such fellows very highly."
Melas gets to his feet. "You've been most terribly kind, Signora, but now I fear I have another appointment which I simply CANNOT be late for. Ta!" And with that he makes a run for the door.
"No, I insist you stay," comes Signora's voice, a now with some steel noticeable in the phlegm. Before Melas can make it very far in the dim room, she rotates the mesh over her candelabra and the room plunges into nigh-total darkness. It is all Melas can do to keep from losing his footing, and the stairs to the door are still several paces away.
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.
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