Maquesta Kar-Thon

Chapter 1

"What do you think, Maquesta Kar-Thon?"

Lendle spoke deliberately, slightly formally, as gnomes are wont to do when talking to members of other races-even, as was the case in this instance, to someone he had known since she was a rambunctious child.

"What do you think?" he persisted, his black eyes wide and gleaming.

Maq knew by the jittery way Lendle was fingering the shiny cylinders and slender iron rods at the peddler's stall, coupled with-for him-his agonizingly slow speech, that whatever the objects were, the gnome wanted them with an almost desperate intensity.

Maq craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of her father's ship from the rough row of stalls that passed for a marketplace in the bustling minotaur port of Lacynos.

"I don't think anything about those things-what-ever they are. You know that, Lendle. If it doesn't have to do with masts and sails, I'm lost. Now come on. We've spent enough time here. We must get back to the ship. There's still much to be done to prepare for the race tomorrow." A hint of exasperation was creeping into Maquesta's voice.

But Lendle seemed not to have heard her. The gnome stood, almost transfixed, his stubby, deft fingers poking, probing, prodding, feeling every bit of the objects.

Maq sighed and decided to take another approach. "By all means, Lendle. These seem to be just what you need. I'm sure you can't do without them. In fact, I think you should buy them… if you think you can find the coppers to pay for them," she added under her breath. "After all these weeks without a decent job for the Perechon, I don't know how you have any coins left. I certainly don't."

"Yes. Yes, Maquesta Kar-Thon. I believe you are correct. These are just what I need." With that, Lendle reached into the sack he carried on his shoulder and pulled out a flat, rectangular leather box containing a number of small drawers and compartments. He pushed several colorful buttons on its top. Beaming, he explained to Maq that this invention of his had a drawer that would be opening any moment now-containing the exact amount of coppers the peddler quoted him. Instead, however, the box's bottom fell out, and the gnome's small cache of coins spilled onto the muddy roadway.

"Ohdearohdearohdear!" Lendle gushed, returning to his normal gnomish talking pace.

Maq stooped to help Lendle retrieve the coppers and watched as the suspicious stall owner, a stout human woman, examined each coin before handing over several rods and cylinders. Maq imagined the merchant didn't have much experience dealing with customers other than minotaurs. Members of foreign races were a rarity on the island of Mithas-unless they were slaves, in which case they weren't in a position to buy anything, or they were confined to lowly occupations, like peddlers. By the time she handed over the objects, Lendle had reassembled his mechanical wallet and stowed it away in his sack. In all the years Maq had known the gnome, he had never designed a device that performed as intended.

She steered him toward the dock where they had left the longboat they used to get from the Perechon to shore. The gnome was fairly skipping with excitement, moving so quickly through the crowd that Maq lengthened her stride a bit to keep up.

They made an interesting pair: the tall, lithe woman with ebony skin and curling hair the shade of midnight, and the diminutive, stocky, gnome with nut-brown skin and a mane the color of snow. As they made their way through the unpaved streets lined with massive, if unimaginative, stone buildings, few of the hulking minotaurs they passed gave them a second glance. In Maq's experience these bestial creatures had no interest in or use for other races-except as slave labor or sacrificial warriors in their gladiatorial entertainments.

Maq suppressed a shudder. She had no use for minotaurs either, and she was not especially fond of their city. Her attention, however, was caught by one of the city's natives striding toward her from the direction of the harbor. His curving horns shone as if they had been polished, and a gold hoop was affixed to the tip of one. The reddish color of the fur that covered his body was accentuated by the flowing red cape he wore thrown back over his massive shoulders. Straps of a leather harness crisscrossed his chest, holding a variety of knives and small axes with finely carved handles. The leather skirt that fit snugly around his slender haunches was studded with green and blue gems that winked in the sun. A sturdy chain trailed from his hand and ended in a thick collar around the neck of a creature Maq had never seen before. About the size of a dog, it looked like a giant rat, only with no fur or tail. It had six legs, and an upper jaw full of wide, deadly looking teeth protruded over its lower lip.

The thing scurried along behind the minotaur, who occasionally jerked the chain to speed its progress. Now and then the creature hissed menacingly when someone they were passing drew too close. This prompted an even harsher jerk on the chain by the minotaur. Maq could see that the iron collar had created a raw, oozing wound in the thing's almost colorless hide. Its close-set brown eyes stared with obvious malice at its master.

Maq's strides had slowed as she took in the pair. Lendle, oblivious to anything but his purchase, which he fingered even as they walked, was forging ahead of her. Maquesta reached out and grabbed him by the collar, gave him a quick shake to get his attention, and motioned with her head at the minotaur and his "pet." Lendle, looking for an instant as if he had been awakened from a dream, turned his attention where Maq indicated.

His eyes narrowed with momentary interest. "Osquip. Nasty creatures. Haven't ever seen one outside an underground ruin. In fact, can't say as I've ever seen one at all. Just pictures of 'em. Heard about them, though. They're supposed to be carnivorous, voracious eaters. I think. Hmmm. No, I could be thinking about otyughs. Now they are truly terrible things to behold. I never saw one of them either. But I had an uncle who came face-to-face with one when he was exploring an underground cavern. Much nastier than an osquip." The gnome's words started pouring out faster.

Just then, the osquip let out an angry hiss. Maq didn't know what had prompted it, but the creature leapt, snarling, at its master's throat. The heavy chain and collar limited its mobility, though. With surprising agility and speed, the minotaur stepped away from the attacking animal, pulled a short sword from his harness, and with a powerful lunge sliced off the creature's head. Blood spurted from its neck as the osquip gave a few feeble kicks with its legs and fell heavily to the ground.

"Take care of that," the minotaur ordered as he wiped his bloodied weapon on the osquip's hide. Satisfied the blade was clean, he sheathed it. Two mangy-looking human slaves who had been trailing behind their master moved up to the osquip's still-twitching body. One grabbed the creature's rear legs and started dragging, leaving a trail of blood behind. The other picked up the head and cradled it in his arms. They continued to follow their master down the muddy roadway that crossed the edge of Horned Bay. Maq stood watching and saw the slaves toss the body parts into the harbor-where the animal's remains joined the variety of other garbage that helped give Lacynos its distinctive aroma.

"Um. Well, that was pleasant. Minotaurs. In any event," Lendle continued babbling, "my uncle narrowly avoided the otyugh's tentacles-or arms I suppose, depending on your perspective. Though one of the tentacles had eyeballs on it. A half-dozen eyes, he said. So I suppose you couldn't call that one an arm. Well, I guess you could, since its eyes weren't on its head. So my uncle said, and he should know. Anyway, the beast had three or four legs and moved fast. But my uncle was able to outmaneuver the thing, and he found his way out of the cavern without having to kill the creature." Lendle smiled, finished with his tale.

Maquesta resumed her walk to the longboat. "Why have a pet if you're just going to treat it poorly and then kill it?" she muttered, shaking her head. "These minotaurs are the ones that are nasty and should be at the end of leashes. I'm glad we'll be leaving their company after we win the harbor race. I don't want to have to come back here for a while."

They walked along in silence, the incident having thrown Maq into a reflective mood. But when a salty breeze off the open sea managed to penetrate the dank atmosphere, hitting Maq in the face, her spirits improved. Stepping onto the wharf, with the twin masts of her father's ship, the Perechon, now in full view, she crossed the line into exuberance. Her gait picked up along with her disposition. She'd be at the Perechon shortly. She'd be home.

"Hurry up, Lendle. I'm sure Father is anxious for our return."

"I'm hurrying," the gnome replied, still inspecting his purchases.

Melas Kar-Thon's Perechon, with her patched sails and peeling paint, was not the prettiest ship on the Blood Sea-though her sleek lines and graceful bow kept her in the running-but the ship unquestionably was one of the fastest on Ansalon's waters. The Perechon was a two-masted pentare. Similar to a schooner, it was a warship that boasted sails for swift movement and oar ports that would help it maneuver in battle. It had a keel length of nearly one hundred twenty feet and had a ballista mounting on the bow. The weapon itself, a large crossbow that fired harpoons, bolts, spears, and any manner of other objects with a force harder than a man could muster, was being stored in the hold. Weapons were not allowed in the upcoming race. Despite its design, the Perechon had seen little fighting, being used most often as a cargo ship, and occasionally as a passenger vessel for individuals wishing to get somewhere quietly and quickly. Lately, the captain had been sailing the ship from port to port looking for work.

The Perechon's railing was of fine mahogany, the posts carved to look like ornate columns, miniature versions of what might be found supporting temple roofs. The bowsprit, the spar extending from the bow of the ship, was made of hardened walnut. The main deck was stained oak that was forever being polished and swabbed, and the poop deck at the rear of the ship was made of white oak imported from an elven glade. Maquesta was nearly as proud of the ship as her father was.

Maq slipped the rope holding the Perechon's longboat from the piling where it had been tied while they took care of their errands and pushed off, rowing strongly toward the ship. As they neared the Perechon, they glimpsed several crewmen polishing the rails. Others were hard at work repainting the trim. Maq suspected her father wanted the ship to look her best during the race. She grinned broadly-there would be time for her and Lendle to pitch in, too. She wanted everything to be perfect for her father, as this race was very important to him.

Melas's father had been a sailor and his father before him and his father before him. The Kar-Thons' blood was more seawater than anything else, the family liked to say. Melas knew his profession well. The modest dowry Maq's mother, Mi-al, had brought to their secret marriage-plus a lucky win at the gaming tables and proceeds from the sale of the Kar-Thon family's sloop-had given Melas the funds he needed to build his own ship. He knew what he wanted and what he needed to create: the most seaworthy and fleetest ship anyone had ever seen. He named it the Perechon, after a small seabird his wife loved to watch.

Mi-al was an elf, and Melas was confident a life at sea would keep her safe from those who hunted her kind. He hid her in voluminous hooded robes when she moved among the Perechon's crew, and she ventured into ports with him only at night, when the shadows disguised her features. Only Lendle knew their secret-and shared Melas's sorrow. Mi-al had vanished fourteen years ago, shortly after Maquesta's fourth birthday, leaving Melas devastated and ending the possibility of a son to carry on the Kar-Thon sailing tradition. Still, Melas was determined to teach everything he knew about the science, art, and love of sailing to his only child. And so he had-after he had the child's ears trimmed. Maquesta, in all respects, looked wholly human, though she was well aware of her elven heritage. Melas wanted her to be safe, and Maq had no problem with the ruse. She wanted to stay alive, and she wanted to keep her father happy.

"You'll never guess who else is going to race tomorrow," Maq said to Averon, the Perechon's first mate, as soon as she hauled herself over the side. She waved a partial list of names she had received in Lacynos when she registered the ship for the event. "The Torado," she sputtered, referring to another vessel that originated from Saifhum.

"Well that should make things interesting." Averon grinned, the mischief in his eyes more pronounced than usual.

"We'll have to fly our special colors to let everyone know that we're the ship from Saifhum to beat. I made the new flag myself. What do you think?" Averon motioned with his head toward the top of the Perechon's nearest mast.

Maq suddenly realized that the rest of the crew had stopped what they were doing and were watching her and Averon with suppressed laughter. Her mouth dropped open as it always did when she realized one of Averon's practical jokes was upon them-and she was the intended victim. Maq's gut tightened. She looked skyward.

Flapping in the sea breeze at the very top of the mast, unmistakable in the rays of the late afternoon sun, hung Maquesta's bright yellow silk undervest-one of the few truly feminine pieces of clothing she owned, cherished because it was also one of the few items of her mother's that had survived years of seafaring. With a sharp exclamation, Maq leapt onto the rigging and skittered up the ropes to retrieve it, first shooting Averon a reproachful look.

How could he? Averon of all people!

Averon and Maq's father had been friends since childhood. They had been frequent rivals for the same women-until Melas met Mi-al when he was alone on a trading mission. Melas married her, ending the rivalry. Averon had been a frequent companion to the newlyweds, and often Melas wondered if Averon guessed that his wife was an elf. Averon had been with Melas on the sea voyage during which Mi-al disappeared, had comforted a four-year-old Maq when her father, for a period, had been too grief-stricken to remember he had a child. Averon, always impetuous and full of mischief, had been like a second father to her.

A sudden gust of wind caught at Maq, nearly tugging her from the rigging. She clamped her teeth together, grimaced, and shook off her foul mood. She couldn't afford to cry, couldn't spare a hand to wipe away tears, couldn't climb with her vision blurred. The sea winds had shifted, picking up power and causing the Perechon to rock. Maq needed all her senses, all her strength, and all her skill to continue climbing. Nor did she want any of the crew watching her to see that she was upset. Maq had grown up more or less as the Perechon's mascot, indulged when crewmembers had time, affectionately regarded by all.

But as she'd left childhood, that changed. The sailors didn't know what to make of Maquesta as a young woman-sometimes she didn't know herself. They pulled back, not unfriendly, but watchful. And that wouldn't do. Not if Maquesta wanted to take over as captain of the Perechon someday. And she did. So she knew that any occasion could turn into a "test," as this surely had.

Glancing down, Maq realized none of the sailors could see the sad expression on her face. They clustered below her like toy figurines, laughing and pointing. The rough hemp of the rigging rope cut into her palms and drew blood, and the wind tugged harder at her body. But then she had the fluid silk of the undervest in her hand, and a smile crossed her lips. The garment was undamaged. Averon had carefully tied it to the mast rigging.

Climbing down as quickly as the gusting wind permitted, Maquesta jumped lightly to the deck. Her composure complete, she shot Averon a lethal look, then deliberately swept her glance over the faces of the surrounding sailors, daring any one of them to make a comment. Averon, for an instant, refused to meet her glance. Then, bending over in an exaggerated bow, he swept off an imaginary cap. "Well done, Maquesta Kar-Thon," he pronounced, raising his eyes, which were once again twinkling with mischief. "Well done indeed!"

Maq managed to resist Averon's charm for the space of at least three minutes. Just as she felt her lips start to twitch upward in the beginnings of a smile, Melas Kar-Thon emerged onto the main deck from his cabin at the stern. Seeing a dozen or so crewmembers standing idly, observing Averon and Maquesta mentally sparring, he strode toward the pair and bellowed.

"What's this? In case you've forgotten, we have a race to prepare for. Averon-You dog! What mischief have you got up to that's keeping the crew from doing their jobs? Now back to work everybody-especially you two," Melas shouted, frowning at Averon and Maquesta.

Notwithstanding the harsh words, all of this was said with a good-natured gruffness typical of the Perechon's amiable captain. Before all the words were out of his mouth, the sailors had jumped back to their tasks, an overall satisfaction with their captain and their duty indicated by the minimal grumbling.

"Now, you two. What am I going to do with you? You're supposed to be setting an example," Melas exclaimed with mock seriousness, attempting to throw his arms around Maq and Averon. Maq neatly eluded her father's grasp, but Averon was less agile. Melas got his arm around his friend's shoulder and quickly turned the embrace into a headlock. Not that it was too difficult.

The friends offered a study in contrasts: Melas stood more than six feet tall and had glistening black skin, darker even than Maquesta's. He was completely bald, making his large head, set on broad, powerful shoulders, even more striking. His muscular build had begun only in the last few years to reveal, with a thickening in the middle, his fondness for ale. Averon stood a good head shorter, and was slightly bowlegged. He had dirty blond hair that he wore long these days, hoping to cover the thinning spot at his crown. A thick handlebar mustache was his only neatly groomed aspect. His bronzed skin was weathered by the sun, sporting wrinkles here and there and making him look older than he actually was.

"What did you find out when you paid our entry fee, Maquesta? Anything that will help us tomorrow?" Melas asked, tightening his grip on Averon, then releasing him with a playful shove. The first mate stumbled for a couple steps, turned, and threw all his weight into a low tackle that sent the bigger man sprawling. In an instant the two were rolling around the deck, wrestling.

"Stop it!" Once again chagrined at how quickly her father and Averon could revert to boyhood behavior, Maquesta put her hands on her hips and shouted more loudly, "Stop it at once! You both have to be in good shape tomorrow, or we won't have any chance to win. Now get up!" Honestly, sometimes she felt like their mother.

Her reminder brought the two to their feet, slightly winded. The coming race was important to both men, indeed to everyone aboard the Perechon. Solinari and Lunitari had cycled through the skies several times since the Perechon had seen her last well-paying customer. As usual, most of the crew had stayed with the ship. Melas, always content to "make do" from paying assignment to paying assignment-as long as he could sail while doing it-was not the most reliable paymaster. Sailors for hire on the Blood Sea knew that, but those who truly loved to sail loved to sail with him.

This recent dry spell had lasted long enough, though, that Averon had recently disappeared on one of his periodic departures "to seek my fortune," as he always proclaimed rather grandly. These jaunts were usually preceded by a scolding for Melas, whom Averon chided for not being ambitious enough. However, some time later, or sooner, he would track down the Perechon, bringing with him a bellyful of outrageous stories about his adventures and little else-with often not even two coppers to rub together. Then it was Melas's turn to offer some constructive criticism. Despite the ribbing back and forth, no serious disagreement had ever disrupted Melas and Averon's friendship. It ran too deep. And Maq always welcomed Averon's return, both on behalf of her father and herself. He was part of the only family she had ever known.

This last time, Averon had returned with news of the race in connection with the minotaur circus-no doubt the event was being held with the idea of minotaur crews inflicting humiliating defeat on non-minotaur entrants, all the while displaying their skill as sailors. Sort of a preparation exercise for the deadly-in-earnest circus contest. The purse was good-sized, Averon said, and it would carry the Perechon and her crew nicely for quite some time.

Now safely out of Melas's firm grasp, Averon took himself off to attend to preparations, voicing a mock-disgruntled rant about being under-appreciated by the Perechon's captain-and his daughter.

"What was that all about? Between you and Averon?" Melas asked Maq when they were alone. "And what is that you're holding? You looked ready to skin Averon when I came on deck."

Maquesta crumpled the silken vest into a ball, hiding it behind her back in her fist, somehow embarrassed to show the undergarment to her father.

"Averon…" she began, then hesitated and only shook her head. "Nothing. It was nothing." She knew, however justified her complaint about Averon's behavior might be, Melas would shrug it off. He always did.

Melas placed his arm lovingly around his daughter's shoulders and drew her toward him, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"Everybody's tense before a race. Whatever he did, I'm sure it was meant to give everyone a little fun. You have to understand, Maq," Melas said, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze, "there aren't many friends as true as Averon. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."

Maquesta hugged her father in return. "I know. And I'm fine." She pulled away from him and grinned. "But I am hungry; I'm going to track down Lendle and see what he's cooking up for supper. I hope it's not another version of dried eel stew."

Maq watched her father stride off to join a group of sailors checking the rigging on the mizzenmast, the smaller of the ship's masts, then she turned and headed forward toward the galley. "Sure, Averon wanted to give everyone a little fun-except for me!" she muttered to herself as she walked away.

As soon as she approached the galley's threshold, Maq knew that tonight's menu would, indeed, consist of dried eel stew, though it was mixed this time with some spices she couldn't identify. The tall pot simmering securely between brackets on the wood-fired stove emitted the fishy, oily aroma that unmistakably signaled the stew. Lendle, however, was nowhere in sight. Maq ducked her head as she moved over to take a closer look at what was cooking in the pot. The gnome had rigged up the galley so that virtually all his cooking implements-large spoons, soup ladles, double-pronged cooking forks, pots and pans-hung from a maze of movable belts suspended below the ceiling, with various leather pulls trailing down within his reach. Lendle insisted he knew precisely which thong to pull to set the belts in motion, bringing whatever utensil he needed to the stove or trestle table, with another tug releasing it from its latched hook into his waiting hands. In Maq's experience, however, this rarely occurred. More often than not the implement tumbled clanking to the floor-across the room from where Lendle was standing-or fell directly into whatever was being cooked. On several occasions, one tug from Lendle had sent all the paraphernalia loudly crashing down and bringing everyone running to see what had happened. And in one or two instances, a sharp cooking fork had slightly wounded an unwary visitor to the galley-but Maq suspected Lendle had contrived those "accidents" for crewmembers who had offended him or insulted his cooking. A fork hadn't fallen for quite some time.

She stood over the pot, considering whether to take a taste. The appearance of several slimy orbs that looked like peeled grapes but undoubtedly were not, and what Maq was certain was a tentacle roiling on the stew's surface, discouraged her. Instead she grabbed a piece of hardtack that lay on the trestle table next to a few wizened oranges and exited the galley.

Not quite ready to join in the race preparations after the undergarment episode, Maquesta made her way aft, back toward the raised poop cabin that contained separate quarters for her and her father. Lendle's quarters were just below theirs. The Perechon's engineer-cook occupied a relatively spacious cabin, its size representing Melas's concession to Lendle's passion for tinkering and his relentless accumulation of potentially useful objects. Maq rapped loudly at the door, paused, then pushed it open and stuck her head in, knowing Lendle was sometimes too absorbed in his tinkering to hear a knock. As it always did, the cabin caused Maquesta to fight the feeling that she was trapped in an incredible, shrinking compartment. Every inch of wall space, most of the floor and ceiling, and any other flat surface was taken up by a vast assortment of miscellaneous objects, all labeled, boxed, and organized according to Lendle's private system.

Spools of twine and thin metal wire, loops of heavy hemp rope, and coils of chain links hung from hooks on the walls. Wooden boxes filled with everything from jagged-tooth gears to wooden slats to pulleys to bolts of cloth stood in neat rows on the floor. Nets filled with wicker baskets of varying sizes and more rope brushed Maq's head as she leaned into the cabin. The only exception to the organized clutter was Lendle's bed, which was bolted to the wall. It was a typical seagoing berth with high sides, foot, and head to keep him from rolling off during rough seas. Bolted to the floor was a small table with raised sides to prevent objects from falling off, illuminated by a hurricane lamp suspended over it from the ceiling.

Lendle typically stored his toolbox under the table, where it fit securely between four brackets he had pounded into the floor. But it wasn't there now, nor was the gnome. Inspired more by a vague curiosity than any burning, particular need to speak with Lendle, Maq closed the cabin door and headed toward the cargo hold. It had not in fact held much of anything in recent months. But Maq knew that Lendle sometimes made use of the space when he was diagramming one of his ideas for a particularly elaborate invention, or working on a project where he needed room to spread out.

"Fire!" Maq yelled the warning loudly, spun around, and began pulling herself up the cargo hold ladder before she was more than halfway down. Smoke was billowing wildly below her, and she hoped one of the crew would hear her and start bringing buckets of water.

"Fi-"

Maq felt one of her legs being jerked downward and away from the ladder rungs, causing her to lose her grip. As she fell, someone clamped a hand over her mouth, and also broke her fall. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering light released by the flames, and she blinked back tears brought on by the smoke.

"Lendle!" she scolded.

The gnome released her with a sharp admonition: "Quiet!" He stood over Maq, glaring at her.

"Lendle! What in the name of the Graystone of Gargath is going on? This time, you're going to destroy the ship!"

"The Perechon won't burn! I'm a good engineer!" Lendle seemed both hurt and excited. His words came very slowly so Maq could understand.

Maquesta peered at the source of the flames. They did seem to be contained in a brick enclosure, and the smoke was dissipating. A door in one side of the brick compartment stood open, with a pile of wood nearby. Nestled closely against the top of the bricks, which were built up around its sides, was a huge brass sphere, almost like a kettle, but closed at the top except for two pipes that connected to a large cylinder that angled upward, toward the trapdoor that led from the hold to the lower deck and the oar bay. In the dim light cast by the flames and a lantern near Lendle's feet, Maquesta couldn't actually see where the cylinder ended, or if anything was connected to it at the far end.

Closer to where she stood, Maq could see that the connection between the kettle and the cylinder wasn't complete. It sounded as if water were beginning to boil inside the sphere, and Maq noticed wisps of steam escaping on one side of the cylinder. She also noticed that Lendle was holding the pieces of pipe he had acquired in Lacynos.

"Steambenders," he said, indicating the pipe. "See this?" he added, waving a proud arm at his contraption. "This is for the times the wind dies and we're out at sea. This will help the Perechon!" Lendle nodded his head vigorously, agreeing with himself.

"We already have oars, ten pair of 'em, for when the wind dies down," Maq said, puzzled. Not that they were often put to work, she had to admit. The Perechon was well rigged and her crew skilled enough that the ship made good use of even the slightest breeze. There was that, plus the fact that none of the crew jumped at the opportunity for oar duty. It wasn't a point Melas pushed-one among many reasons for his popularity with his crew.

"It will help," Lendle repeated. "I will show you, Maquesta Kar-Thon. But not now. Soon. You must leave now. I have lots of work to do." Lendle started pushing Maq toward the ladder.

"All right, just be careful." Maq turned away reluctantly. "Wait a minute." She stopped with her foot on the first rung. "I came looking for you because I was hungry. We all are. When are we going to eat?"

"Maquesta Kar-Thon," Lendle said reproachfully, "I know my duties. I am not a wizard who can deftly conjure a meal at the last minute." Lendle wrinkled his rather large nose with disgust at the thought of magic. "Supper is already cooking. We will eat at the usual time. Now don't forget your duties. Go help your father prepare for the race. Be off!"

With that scolding, Lendle turned back to his contraption and Maq climbed up the ladder. She hated it when he talked to her as if she were still a little girl!

The Perechon's crew ate on time that evening, and the dried eel stew was more palatable than usual. Those unattractive orbs tasted better than they looked. Lendle called them Blood Sea potatoes, an organism unknown to Maq. She decided not to inquire more deeply. Whatever they were, they helped fill her and the rest of the sailors, proving Lendle's inventiveness sometimes could produce good results.

Averon, however, missed the meal.

"Maybe he's off buying Maquesta some new articles of clothing. I understand the minotaurs on Mithas turn out some very fine and dainty garments that undoubtedly would look well on her," suggested Vartan, the helmsman, who originally hailed from Saifhum and was one of Maq's least favorites among the crew.

"Something in turquoise? I like turquoise," another quipped.

Several of the sailors snorted with repressed laughter at this. Vartan kept his tone light, but regarded Maq challengingly.

She fought down an impulse to blush. "Averon has more brains than to spend money on anything those ugly beasts could sew, and he uses his brains to think, not just as stuffing to give a nice shape to his pretty head."

Vartan, who was, in fact, good-looking and more than a little vain about it, flushed and turned his attention back to the stew as his mates hooted and laughed at Maq's response.

"Averon left to buy some good rum and a keg of ale, so we can start celebrating as soon as we cross the finish line tomorrow," Melas announced. "With the prize money we'll all get our pay-and our back pay. Let's keep our minds on that goal, not on anything else." Melas's eyes swept the galley, resting ever so slightly on Maq and Vartan.

With that, the captain bent his head over his bowl, and the others followed suit. Lendle, who had more fondness for ale than stew, downed a mug of the brew and started whistling as he spooned the last few servings of the meal into now-empty bowls.