Maquesta Kar-Thon

Chapter 2

With her sails unfurled to speed her course, the Perechon greeted the early morning waves with eager grace, responding to every breath of wind under the firm guidance of Melas, who had taken the helm.

Maquesta, checking a line on the mizzenmast, marveled at the weather. They had been racing since dawn, and the sky had never held more than a few white puffs of clouds. The sea breezes had blown steadily and reasonably strongly. Without storms or lack of wind to worry about, Melas and his crew had been able to concentrate on their main challenge-the course. Maq grinned. It would be her turn at the wheel soon, and she couldn't wait to prove herself. She'd steered the ship hundreds of times, of course, but not in a race-at least not in one as important and potentially fruitful as this one.

The course would take them north and east, out of deep Horned Bay then around the island, past the Cracklin Coast with its strong currents and unfriendly bullsharks, and past the Blade, where the sea floor fell away to an immeasurable trench, creating unpredictable turbulence. The trench served, it was rumored, as a home for a colony of ghagglers-or sligs, as most sailors called them-large, distant cousins to goblins who breathed water as easily as air.

The Perechon had been increasing her lead when the lookout noticed one of the racing ships closest behind had fallen foul to something over a coral ridge. The Waverunner, a schooner from the Somber Coast, stood dead in the water.

"The crew's working with the sails, Cap'n!" the lookout called, a spyglass pressed against his right eye. "Looks as if they hit a bit of bad luck and the rigging's tangled. I don't see anything in the water that would've stopped them. No rocks or reefs, and not much turbulence today-no more than what we passed through. There's another ship farther back though. She looks under full sail, having no problems. But it doesn't look as though they can catch us!"

The Perechon would have to sail through where the treacherous Eye of the Bull narrowed between Mithas and Kothas, then around the rocky southwestern tip of the island, called by many sailors "Slim Chance." Then the course would take them back to Horned Bay-all before nightfall of the second day if they wanted to win the race-and they did.

The rules were wind power only, no oars, and every ship entering had to be at least a hundred feet from bow to stern, regardless of keel length. The Perechon had begun the course as one among a dozen. It didn't take long for their ranks to start thinning, though other ships were catching up during the late evening of the first day. But Vartan adjusted the rigging, and the Perechon pulled even farther ahead of her competitors.

Shortly after dawn Maquesta saw a merchant carrack, the Saburnia, and a slightly seedy privateer, the Vasa, driven off course into the northern Courrain Ocean by strong and unpredictable currents near the Cracklin Coast. Whether they would get back into the race, and what would happen to the other vessels that had dropped out of sight, Maq didn't know. The Perechon held her lead and began putting greater and greater distances between herself and the rest of the ships. She made good progress until midmorning, when the winds between a section of high banks that the Perechon was passing through dropped to almost nothing.

It was in that lull that two other ships, still benefiting from stronger winds, were able to draw near. Now, with the morning sun shining brightly and the wind about the Perechon picking up, Maq could see that there were no other contenders beyond the Perechon and those two-the Torado of Saifhum, captained by Limrod, who was well known to the crew of the Perechon as a worthy, though still inadequate, opponent; and a handsome ship that was a stranger to all of them, the Katos. A minotaur vessel, she had slipped into the Lacynos harbor in the last minutes before the race began, apparently already registered.

Maq watched her now with growing respect. She was just off the Perechon's starboard stern, pursuing them with determination but, Maq was pleased to note, seemingly unable to close the final gap. Minotaur vessels were not particularly known for their speed. It would be a rare one indeed that could match the Perechon. The Torado sailed almost abreast of the Katos, but to the port side of the Perechon.

"Reef the topsails and everybody-mind your posts!" As much as he hated the idea of slowing down and risking the Perechon's lead, Melas knew it would be foolish to come round the southeastern edge of Mithas and attempt to pass through the Eye of the Bull at full sail. He felt confident that any time lost could be won back sailing up the west coast of the island.

The surface of the sea roiled as they approached, not in regular waves but an uneven to-and-fro that intensified at the point the ships needed to turn west, which was where the underwater ridge extending from the island dropped off into the Blade's trench.

"Keep your eye on the Torado," Melas told Maquesta, who had joined him for a moment on the bridge. "She'll make her move now, or I don't know Limrod."

He was right. Her sails bulging with the wind, the Torado began gaining on the Perechon. She also started to cut in closer to the coast of Mithas, whereas Melas was taking the Perechon around the outside edge of the turbulence, closer to Kothas. The Torado's course would save the ship distance as well as take her away from the worst turbulence. But, Maq realized, the shallower coastal waters could prove dangerous for a ship as large as the Torado, especially because the rocky submarine ridge rose up at points very near the surface of the sea.

"Maquesta! Stop daydreaming and come give us a hand!"

The summons came from Averon, who with a few other sailors was struggling to tie down the mizzen topsail, a task made increasingly difficult by the freshening wind. The gusts, which often gathered force at this stretch of sea, contributed to the turbulence, as Melas had known it would. Embarrassed at her momentary inactivity, Maq glanced quickly at her father, but Melas's attention was now consumed with the handling of his ship. He hadn't noticed.

Maquesta scrambled up the rigging. By the time she reached the section where Averon and the others were working on the topsail, they had succeeded in securing it to the yard. She swore at herself under her breath, but checked the rigging while she was up there. It made her look busy, at least.

"Don't be so downhearted, girl," Averon said with a wink as he began lowering himself down one side of the rigging. "If you're looking for work, there's plenty to go around. Come with me."

At least Averon didn't hold a grudge. Maq had started down the other side when they were both stopped midway by an ear-splitting crash and keening wrench, like that of a giant limb being split from a tree. For an instant, Maq thought the awful sound had come from the Perechon. Then, with the advantage of her elevated perch, she saw its origin.

The Torado, pressing forward through the shallow coastal waters, had run aground, snagged by the submerged ridge. The great ship had pitched to its leeward side, and Maq could see a jagged hole just above the waterline and almost directly under the bowsprit.

"Ha! That will teach Limrod," Melas called out from the helm. "He and his crew will be twiddling their thumbs on the shore or hiking overland to Lacynos when we sail into the harbor to claim our prize! We might even sail back to pick them up-after the race is over." Sailors on the deck of the Perechon hooted and whistled in appreciation of their captain's prediction.

With the Torado stuck a couple hundred yards off the Perechon's starboard bow, Melas began gaining even more on his only remaining rival, the minotaur ship. As the Torado started listing, her crew began lowering a longboat over the side. The boat would have to make two trips to transport the more than twenty crewmembers to shore. Maq could imagine the sailors' mood. She almost felt sorry for them, but she quickly shook off the emotion, knowing a soft heart proved to be of little benefit on the open sea.

Having reached the bottom of the rigging, she was about to turn her attention elsewhere, to see where Averon had ventured to, when a strange turbulence in the water around the Torado caught her eye.

"Averon, what do you make of that?" she said, spying him over by the railing.

The first mate pulled a small, collapsing spyglass from his pocket and placed it to his eye. After a minute, he gave a low whistle. "Well, Limrod got more than he bargained for with his shortcut, that's for certain. Have a look." Averon handed the spyglass to Maq and called up to Melas to take his own out and point it at the Torado.

Maquesta could not, at first, divine what Averon meant. She could see Limrod still at the helm, gesturing at his crew. Then, scanning the ship, she noticed unusual seaweed formations clinging to the sides of the Torado. "Where did that seaweed…" Maquesta started to ask, then stopped, her attention riveted by what was happening on the Torado. "That seaweed's moving," she whispered.

Limrod was gesturing wildly now, his every movement communicating terror. His first mate, a handsome half-ogre, had a harpoon in hand and was spearing a piece of the seaweed that had oozed up over the railing. All the rest of the crew who were visible stood stock-still. The longboat dangled halfway between the deck and the water, swaying slightly.

The clumps of seaweed kept moving. Maq's stomach tightened; her knees felt weak. Even at this distance, she knew what the crew faced. Training the glass on a clump, she confirmed her suspicion. The seaweed was actually long, green hair attached to perhaps the most feared inhabitants of these waters: sea hags. Maq shivered, the appearance of the creatures filling her with fear. One of them turned to glance at the Perechon, and Maq saw its sickly yellow skin. Patches of green scales dotted the bony protrusions on its fingers, and its impossibly long fingernails looked like dirty claws. The thing's eyes were red pinpoints, the color of a sunset before a storm. For an instant it seemed as if the withered creature were staring back at Maq, but she realized the Perechon was too far away. The hags' ghastly appearance had the power to frighten intended victims into momentary weakness, allowing the creatures to move closer and cast a deadly paralyzing glance that rendered the victims helpless. Then they moved in for the kill. Sailors claimed the sea hags lived only to kill, and ate only a fraction of what they rended.

More hags crawled onto the deck from the far side of the Torado. There must be two dozen of them! Maq focused on one of the hags as it approached a sailor who had managed to fling one leg over the deck rail before being frozen in his tracks. Scrawny arms with hands that ended in nails like talons reached out from the curtain of seaweedlike hair and gripped the unwary man. Maq watched in disbelief as those seemingly decrepit arms snapped the sailor's neck with apparent ease, then ripped off the poor man's arm as though it were a leg of chicken and began chewing on it. The creature pushed the rest of the body into the water and began looking about the deck for another victim. The sea hags enacted similar attacks on every one of the Torado's sailors. Only the captain and his first mate seemed to be putting up any kind of a fight.

"Can't we do something?" Maq heard herself say. "We've got to do something." But her words went unanswered.

She watched Limrod use his curved blade to gut one of the hags. A green-black mixture poured out of the creature's stomach and onto the deck. Still, the hag did not die. It glared at the captain and raised its filthy talons, raking them across his face. Maq was too far away to hear what was transpiring, but she saw Limrod's mouth open, and she imagined that he was screaming in pain. The captain was determined, however, and he brought his sword around once again, this time sending the blade deep between the hag's neck and shoulder. The hag thrashed about wildly and fell to the deck. Limrod, not stopping, stepped over the body and began battling another one. The Torado's captain was strong, but he wasn't a young man, and even from this distance Maquesta could tell his sword swings were slowing with fatigue.

Maq chewed on her bottom lip and mentally urged him to move faster, to swing higher, to back up against the poop cabin for defense. She gasped in relief as the second creature he fought fell to the deck. But there were three more to take its place. The trio moved in slowly, perhaps relishing the moment, or perhaps being apprehensive of the big man who seemed immune to their paralyzing gaze. They started to circle him, and he danced around furtively. Choosing a target, he swung his sword and cleaved off the smallest hag's leg. The creature fell, writhing, and its two companions moved in, seemingly oblivious to their fellow's predicament.

One grabbed the captain's sword arm, digging its claws in, biting down hard with what Maq imagined were foul, sharp teeth, and making Limrod release his weapon. The other came at the captain from behind, raking its talons down his back. Maq looked away for an instant when she saw Limrod's skin and shirt shred like paper. When she glanced back, the captain was on his stomach, and the two hags were fighting over him. He wasn't dead, Maquesta could tell, for he was struggling to rise.

In that instant another sailor moved into her view, the Torado's first mate. The tall half-ogre kicked one of the hags off his captain, then drove a belaying pin between the shoulder blades of the other. He helped Limrod off the deck, then the two stood back-to-back, keeping an ever-increasing number of hags at bay. For a time, Maquesta believed they might actually be able to drive the hideous creatures away, but the hags were too numerous for the pair to handle. After three more hags were killed by the two, she watched with horror as the captain fell to his knees, at last succumbing to his horrid wounds. She scanned with the spyglass to see other parts of the Torado. A lump formed in her throat-the ship's deck was awash in blood. A red stream trickled lazily over the port side.

"If those creatures weren't reason enough to leave these waters, that blood is," Averon warned. "As soon as it hits the water, every bullshark and barracuda within miles will be headed here. Melas, can't we put on some speed?" Averon called out to the captain.

"Wait!" Maq grabbed Averon's arm. "Shouldn't we try to help? Can't we do something?" This time she got someone to listen to her, but little good it did.

"Do what, girl?" Averon impatiently shook off her hand. "Once we got within thirty feet of the Torado, those hags could use their powers to paralyze us-and all we'd be doin' is presentin' 'em with their dessert, served up nice as you please. No thank you, Maq."

Averon signaled for a few nearby crewmembers to help him unfurl the sails they had just fastened. As scared as they were, and as eager to leave the area, the crew hesitated, waiting to hear the order from Melas.

As Maq continued to stare at the gruesome sight of the Torado, the race suddenly seemed very unimportant to her. "But we can't ignore that crew. I see a few sailors still alive."

"All we can do now is help ourselves by getting away as quickly as we can, before the sea hags start looking for another target and before the bullsharks arrive. When a pack of those sharks gets together with their appetites whetted, they can batter a hole in a ship even the size of ours. Let's get going!"

This last Averon addressed as much to Melas as to Maq. Averon kept his gaze fixed on his friend and captain. Maquesta pulled her attention away from the Torado to look pleadingly at her father. Melas had not budged from the helm. He still held the wheel firmly. But she saw that his face had lost color beneath its burnished surface.

"Father…"

"No, Averon is right. There's nothing we can do," he said grimly. "Not unless we want to die with them. And I certainly don't. Besides, by the time we got there, Maq, there'd be no survivors to rescue." Casting a final glance at the Torado, he tightened his grip on the wheel. "Vartan! You and Hvel raise the mainmast topsail. Let's see just how fast we can thread this needle. We'll have to be quick, the Katos is moving up fast. We need to beat them through it!"

Melas was swinging the Perechon to the west, to position her to enter the Eye of the Bull, when Vartan, at the top of the mainmast, called to him. Maquesta saw the Katos gaining on the Perechon, not bothering to stop for the Torado either, nor even to slow to see what was transpiring.

"Captain-to the starboard, off our stern. What do you make of it?" Vartan's voice held an edge of fear. When Melas, Maq, Averon, and everyone else on deck looked where he had directed, they saw a cresting wave that appeared to be pursuing the Perechon. Beneath its white foam, the wave shimmered aqua in the morning light. It moved at an incredible speed, gaining on the Perechon instant by instant.

"What say you, Captain, should we man the oars?" asked Hvel, who had been helping Vartan with the topsail. The crew paused in what they were doing, waiting for Melas's answer, and knowing that using the oars would violate the rules of the race. The crew of the Katos would see the oars extended and would win by default. The captain kept his attention fixed on the wave, using his spyglass to take a closer look.

"Vartan, take the helm! Averon, Maquesta-lower a rope ladder over the starboard side and stand by." Melas barked the commands almost angrily, then rushed down the steps from the aft deck as soon as Vartan reached the helm. Maq caught Averon's eye and she raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. He shrugged his shoulders in reply. Averon obviously didn't know what was going on any more than she did. Maq watched the approaching wave apprehensively. A sea hag? It certainly wasn't a bullshark; the fish didn't move that fast.

"Look, the Katos is even with us!" one of the sailors called. "We can't afford to be stopping. We've got to move!"

Melas ignored the cry, and with impressive agility, he swung over the side of the deck and began climbing down the ladder.

"Father, what on Krynn are you doing? Be careful!" Realizing she still had Averon's spyglass, Maq pulled the instrument out and was about to use it when a high-pitched neighing checked her hand.

"Hippocampi!" Averon called. "A sea steed!"

Relieved but still curious, Maq leaned over the side, her mood now one of eager anticipation. All sailors knew the stories, or knew someone who knew someone else who had been aided by the benevolent marine steeds called hippocampi, but Maq had never seen one. She strained forward, staring at the wave, certain it was being generated by hippocampi bringing something to the ship.

Within a couple of minutes, Maquesta could make out three horselike creatures speeding toward the Perechon. Their equine heads, topped by manes of long, iridescent fins, rose gracefully out of the foam, appearing at first to be carried along by the wave. As they drew closer, Maq realized that it was the hippocampi themselves churning the water with their powerful front limbs. They were creating the crest.

The wave subsided as the hippocampi slowed their pace in their final approach to Melas, who now was at the bottom of the rope ladder, one arm linked through the rough hemp, the other swinging free. Maquesta could make out their features better with the water calm about them. One creature, closest to the ship, was aqua. Another was ivory, while the third was pale green, nearly the color of the sea. Their forelegs and torsos were horselike, covered in short hair. But their front hooves were webbed fins. Past the hippocampi's rib cages were long, thick fishtails. It was as if the gods had combined the best features of a horse and a fish to make the creatures. The tails, with their triangular-shaped dorsal fins, waved slowly back and forth in the water and kept the hippocampi's heads above the chop.

Two of the creatures hung back while the largest rose up through the water on its beating tail, trying to reach Melas. Its aqua-colored coat caught the sunlight and reflected back, so that the exposed pelt shimmered wildly. Three gills cut deeply into the skin on both sides where the creature's head joined its muscular neck, enabling it to breathe water as well as air. Up close, Maq could see that the mane was actually a flexible membrane that looked like a fin and that grew down the center of the hippocampus's neck.

The creature paused in front of Melas, fixing its intelligent eyes on the Perechon's captain as it dipped its head down in greeting. Melas returned the gesture. Lifting its head to utter a gentle whinny, the hippocampus swung around to the side, presenting its flank to Melas. A tangle of wet clothes clung to the steed's back. Melas bent down and, with a powerful arm, scooped it up. Only then did Maquesta realize that inside the clothes was a person! Melas and the hippocampus bowed at each other again, then the hippocampus rejoined its companions and sped off. Melas shifted the person's weight to his shoulders and slowly climbed the ladder, a feat that would have been impossible for a smaller, weaker man.

"Call Lendle," Melas grunted as Maq and Averon helped him and his burden onto the deck. Maq's mouth fell open in surprise as her father laid the man on the deck. It was the Torado's first mate, the handsome half-ogre she had watched battling the sea hags. His clothes were in tatters, and his bronze skin was crisscrossed by cuts from the hags' nails. In the center of his chest was a deep bite mark, where one of the hags had gouged him with its teeth. The half-ogre's hair was long and blond, braided from the nape of his neck to the middle of his back. But it was crusted with blood, and the leather thong that held it was frayed. A thin mustache was plastered by the sea water across his angular face, and a broad gash that still bled cut down through his right cheek and stopped at his jawbone. Maq mused that it would probably scar.

"His name's Fritzen Dorgaard," Melas announced. "He's sailed with Limrod for the past three years." Maq saw her father look about the deck, then point to a couple of muscular sailors. "Take Fritz down below to the crew's quarters and see what Lendle can do for him. I'm surprised the half-ogre would leave the ship. Of course, maybe he didn't. Maybe the steeds pulled him away. In any event, he must be the only survivor."

Melas and Maq looked down at Fritzen. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes were wide open and glassy. "Poor man," Melas said sadly. "He's probably seeing only what is playing out in his mind. If he makes it, I'll take him on. I've heard he's a good man, an acrobat who gave up the circus life for the sea."

The captain padded away from the half-ogre and strode toward the center of the Perechon. "As for the rest of us, let's get this ship moving! We've got a race to win, and time is a'wasting." After casting a last, concerned glance at the Torado's first mate, Melas bounded up the steps to the aft deck, taking the helm from Vartan and shouting orders to the crew. Lendle, summoned from the galley, dragged Fritzen forward with the help of the other two sailors. Maq shook off the shock and amazement she was feeling and focused once again on winning the race.

The delay caused to the Perechon by picking up Fritzen enabled the Katos to achieve what it hadn't been able to do by means of its own power for a day and a half-take the lead. The ship had sailed well into the Eye of the Bull, putting almost a league between itself and the Perechon. These particular waters gave Melas little room to maneuver and regain the lead. Cliffs towered over the edge of the channel on the Mithas side so that waves pounding into their base were reflected straight back, where they often collided with oncoming crests, creating a thunderous crash and an almost vertical wall of water. On the Kothas side, the channel appeared calmer. However, Melas knew the surface hid treacherous currents and deadly reefs that sheltered sea hag coveys.

"We'll have to come up as close behind the Katos as we dare, then break for the lead as soon as we leave the channel!" Melas shouted, trying to be heard over the sound of the pounding water.

The Perechon pitched and bobbed as it followed the minotaur vessel through the Eye. The water churned and surged, and waves spilled up over the deck, sending sailors scrambling to find something to hold on to. Maquesta held on to the rigging and tried to climb higher on the rope ladder of the mainmast. She wanted to get a good view of how far ahead the Katos was. She gained about ten feet, then decided she had better stop. She wrapped her arms around the ropes and held fast while the Perechon continued to dance on the turbulent waters. Down below she saw one of the newer crewmembers latch on to the capstan and bend over and wretch from motion sickness. She grimaced. If her father saw the green sailor, she knew Melas would give him a stern talking to and force him to find work elsewhere.

A large wave crested over the bow of the ship, throwing a wall of water on the hapless sailor. Maq grinned, but then scrambled for her own purchase as the ship rocked and nearly dislodged her. She gripped the rope ladder even tighter, but her legs waved free below her, as if she were a flag blowing in the strong breeze. Glancing up, she saw the topsail strain against the masts, and she heard the tall timber creak, but she breathed a heavy sigh of relief when the ship passed through the Eye and the water began to calm.

The sick sailor regained his composure, and he busied himself checking the rigging. Smiling widely, Maq watched him for a moment, then climbed higher to get a better look at the Katos. Melas was maneuvering the Perechon close in behind the minotaur ship as they neared the end of the channel.

"Faster, faster," Maq urged as she climbed even higher and inspected the sails. The cloth and the rigging was holding, though she made a mental note to talk her father into a new topsail when they had the prize money in their grasp. This one had been patched too many times.

Finally the Katos and Perechon emerged from the channel, and Maquesta descended the ropes rapidly and rushed to her father's side. "Pull!" he barked at her,, thrusting her in front of the wheel. She gripped two of the wooden spokes that extended from the wheel and served as handholds and turned them rapidly to her right. The motion caused the system of pulleys attached to the rudder to move, and the Perechon pulled, to the starboard side of the Katos. "Keep it up!" Melas yelled. His voice was raised to be heard above the crackling of the sails in the wind. "I'm going to adjust the rigging to see if we can get a little more speed out of her!"

Maquesta tingled all over with excitement. She'd been given the wheel at the most crucial part of the race. The Perechon had been entered in many such contests, but this was the first time a ship was presenting a serious challenge. She breathed faster and felt her heart hammering fiercely in her chest. Her course took the ship so close to the Katos that she imagined hearing the conversations of the minotaur sailors on deck. Risking a glance to the side, she saw the captain and his mates working the wheel. Another group of sailors were laboring over the rigging. She doubted they had her father's skill.

With her hand on the king's spoke, the largest handhold that pointed up when the rudder was straight, Maquesta turned the wheel hard to the left, taking her farther away from the Katos and closer to the treacherous shore. Maq doubted her father would have tried this maneuver, and likely would have stopped her had he been within arms' reach. She didn't want to risk the two ships bumping in the unpredictable water, and she wanted to attempt what Limrod had-but in a little deeper water. She knew the Perechon didn't sit quite as heavy in the water as the Torado had, and secretly she wanted to impress her father and prove something to the crew. A spray of seawater splashed in her face, refreshing and cooling her. Taking another sidelong glance, she noticed the Perechon had made some headway-it was pulling ahead of the Katos. Her maneuver had caused the Perechon to regain the lead!

Cheers erupted from the sailors on the Perechon deck. A loud cheer behind her signaled the approach of her father. Melas slapped her strongly on the back.

"Good job, Maquesta!" he beamed. "And it was a good thing I gave you the wheel-I certainly wouldn't have done that." More softly, he added, "And I'd better not catch you trying to do something like that ever again. I made a few adjustments, and that should help us pick up even more speed. It will tax the sails and the rigging a bit, but I want very badly to win this one."

She grinned up at him and stepped back, returning the wheel to his control and forgetting his gentle scolding. Nothing could dim her spirits now. She had succeeded at the Torado's failed gambit-keeping the Perechon close to the Mithas coast. They had squeaked between the Katos and the shore, recapturing the lead with a vengeance.

The summer's evening sun still warm against her skin, Maq allowed herself to think about the celebration she knew would take place that night in Lacynos. Standing next to her father at the helm, Maq grinned up at Melas, who winked back. Maq had remained on the aft deck, within earshot of her father, while he continued to lengthen the lead they had on the Katos. As she had on countless occasions throughout her youth, Maq had performed tasks as ordered and listened as Melas explained his strategy to her: why the sails needed to be trimmed a certain way, what potential hazards or advantages particular waters held, how the king's spoke felt in his hand in certain conditions versus others. When she was younger, Averon would sometimes join them, and Maq and her father would spend hours discussing the finer points of navigation-with the boisterous first mate throwing in his opinion here and there. In more recent times, however, these had become exclusively father-daughter occasions. Everyone else, including Averon, was discouraged from interrupting unless the matter was extremely urgent. As Maq's knowledge and experience had grown, Melas had increasingly solicited her opinion, not Averon's. These times always caused a thrill of pride to course through Maq.

Now, once again, the Katos trailed the Perechon at a steady distance of about a league, unable to close the gap. With constant winds, Maquesta estimated they would sail into Horned Bay and claim their victory a good hour before darkness set in. She reminded herself to ask her father about purchasing a new topsail for the mainmast. While the minotaurs did not build their ships as well as other races did, she reflected, they were expert sailmakers-and certainly good sails were available in Lacynos.

Then an odd thought crossed her mind.

"Father, don't you think it's strange that we neither saw nor heard of the Katos before this race?"

"Krynn is not such a small place," replied Melas. "There are ports we have never visited in waters we have not sailed."

"Not so very many, and anyway, by its design the Katos appears to be a Blood Sea ship. I would not have thought there were any ships unknown to us here" Maq said, staring thoughtfully at the Katos. "At least it looks like a Blood Sea ship except for one thing. Did you notice?"

"Yes. It's a bit out of the ordinary, but not unheard of, Maquesta."

They both referred to a striped awning extending from the base of the upper aft deck over the main deck of the Katos, with three sides so that it looked like a small, closed tent.

"I would hate to have to work around that on our main deck," Maq said. "I wonder… Wait a minute!" Maq, who had been regarding the Katos rather dreamily, snapped to attention.

"Did the winds change?" She hadn't noticed any difference. Checking the Perechon's sails, Maq saw there had been no change. She looked back at the other ship. "Father, I don't know how she's doing it, but the Katos is gaining on us!"

"What!" Melas roared. "Maquesta, here!" He motioned her over to take the helm, then stood for an instant, hands on hips, staring back at the Katos. He pulled his spyglass out of his pocket, extended it, and raised it to his eye. A string of curses erupted from his lips. He shoved the glass back into his pocket, then vaulted down the steps to the main deck. "Averon, come help me here! Vartan, Hvel, to the foremast!"

Melas shouted one command after another, having the crew adjust first one sail, then the next, shouting directions to Maq at the helm. The sailors worked frantically. But still the Katos gained.

Maq grasped the helm, rendered nearly immobile. Her heart pounded wildly with joy-again she had been given the wheel at an important time. Her right hand gripped the king's spoke tightly. At the same time, a constricting band of nerves threatened to squeeze her heart to a dead stop. They were in jeopardy of being overtaken again!

Maq glanced back over her shoulder. Despite everyone's efforts, only an hour from Horned Bay, the Katos was steadily erasing the Perechon's lead. How ignominious! Maq felt ashamed, ashamed at herself for having such self-centered emotions. But she burned with a combination of anger and shame at the thought that she was helming the Perechon as it might be sailing down to defeat.

The Perechon's sails snapped loudly in the wind. Melas had ordered every scrap of sailcloth unfurled. He had directed their positioning to take utmost advantage of every puff of wind. The Perechon leapt and crashed through the waves with an energy rarely seen before. Sea spray dampened Maquesta's face and plastered her curls to the sides of her head. She was leaning every ounce of her body weight into the wooden spokes of the helm in an effort to hold the speeding ship to a steady course. Considering whether to tie a length of rope to the aft deck railing to aid her with her task, Maq cast her eyes around the deck to see what was available. When she looked up, she found her father standing next to her. His brows knit together in a frown, he was staring out to sea. One look at his face told Maq the news was not good.

But glancing backward, Maq nearly leapt with joy. The sea was empty! They must have completely outdistanced the Katos. But in the next instant, she realized the sea behind her was empty because the Katos sailed abreast of the Perechon. With a nod of his head at Maq, Melas took over the helm. Several moments passed, and both father and daughter shook their heads to clear out their ears. Yet each still heard it, though faintly at first: a high piping, for all the world sounding like a flute playing a rapid jig.

The Katos sailed quite near the Perechon now, still abreast but unable, it seemed, to finally pull ahead. The music grew louder, more insistent. Maq and Melas looked at each other with the same question in mind: where was the sound coming from? The slow realization that the source of the music was the Katos made Melas's brow furrow even more. Who in Krynn would be playing a flute in the final stretch of a race?

"If it's meant to improve spirits over there, I bet it's not working," Maq said excitedly. "I don't think they can outrun us! What do you think, Fa-"

She never completed the question. The jig stopped abruptly Maquesta thought she noticed a bit of tension leave the Katos's sails. Then across the waves the music resumed; this time the air carried a haunting tune, pitched in an even higher range than the jig. Inexplicably, contrary gusts of wind enveloped the Perechon, bringing with each blast gritty dust that stung the crew's eyes. The Perechon's sails snapped and cracked, filling with wind blowing first one way, then another. The tall wooden masts creaked ominously as if they were in pain, strained almost to their limit.

"Take down the sails," Melas bellowed from the helm. "Take down the sails or we'll lose our masts!"

Holding her forearm in front of her face to try to shield her eyes from the blowing dust, Maquesta fought her way against the wind to the mizzenmast where Averon and several others were attempting to lower both sails.

"Someone's going to have to climb up to the boom," Averon shouted in her ear. "Part of the topsail rigging has snagged on something. Here, take my place holding this rope and I'll go."

Maq shook her head without saying anything and began climbing the rigging. She knew where the problem was, because she had fretted over the topsail before. She also knew Averon was saying something to her because his mouth was open-but the sound was carried away by the wind. Maq was one of the best climbers on board. She was certain she would be better at unsnagging the sail than at holding a rope, which demanded more strength than skill. And, as ever, she felt she had something to prove to the rest of the crew.

Buffeted by the wind, Maq inched her way up the rigging, by feel rather than sight. The dust was blinding and forced her to close her eyes. Then, when she had almost reached the boom, the wind squall died as suddenly as it had begun. Blinking her eyes to clear them, Maq observed that the sky was still cloudless, the sun shining, and the Katos now sailed far ahead, apparently unhindered by contrary winds. She worked the topsail until the fold was free, then she looked at the minotaurs' ship again.

On the deck of the Katos, she spied a lean figure, heavily cloaked and hooded. Not a minotaur, she judged, realizing that the outline of horns would have shown beneath the material. Before Maquesta could study the figure further, it stepped back beneath the striped awning.