Maquesta Kar-Thon

Chapter 3

"Com'n."

The invitation was slurred. Maquesta had expected her father to sample the ale on board-liberally sample it. What surprised her was that he had retreated to his cabin alone after the Perechon had slipped, unheralded, into the Lacynos harbor-just in time to see a bedecked minotaur barge bearing away a group from the Katos, presumably to accept their prize for winning the race. He drank in solitude, accompanied only by a couple of large pitchers of the heady brew. She took one look at him and whirled around and left. She'd come back later when he was sober or sleeping it off.

With a book and an oil lamp in hand, Maq retreated to the upper aft deck. Her perch near the helm was predictably deserted now that the Perechon was moored in Horned Bay. However, though secluded on the opposite end of the ship from the galley and the sailors' quarters, Maq was able to hear much of the wake they held to mourn the Perechon's loss and drown their sorrows.

Several hours later, most of the noise had subsided. A few of the sailors had stumbled up on deck and passed out, including Vartan, whom Maq could see sprawled on the main deck. Those remaining in the galley had settled down to some even more serious drinking. But Melas had still not emerged from his cabin, nor had Averon joined him, both of which Maq found odd. Normally the pair would be in the thick of it with the rest of the men. Maq rarely drank and never in the midst of the crew. She didn't want to risk losing control and opening herself up to ridicule.

Maq preferred reading as an escape, anyway. Her mother, a teacher from her elven village, had read to Maq often in both the tongue common to humans and in the lilting Elvish language-and Maq always associated the activity with her mother. She derived considerable comfort from it, even when her reading matter was an old sea map or mariner's journal. However, that night, brooding over the Perechon's loss, Maq read very little before deciding to check on her father again.

When she pushed open the door to her father's cabin, Maq hesitated. The cabin was dark, lit only by the light of Krynn's moons, which entered through portholes on two sides of the cabin. Melas was slumped over his desk, its top strewn with pieces of paper, two empty pitchers by his feet.

Approaching him, Maq hoped her face didn't betray the sudden anguish she felt. Her father was crying. She hadn't seen his tears since that first year after her mother had disappeared. He had cried so much then, Melas once said, he had used up all his tears. But he was crying now.

"Father, what's wrong?" Maq knelt by Melas's feet, looking up at him. "It was only a race. There'll be other races to win. Other prizes to claim. The crew will wait for their pay. They've done it before. They won't leave you."

Melas turned his face away from her. "Ah, no, Maquesta. It was more than a race. It was the Perechon herself."

Melas's entire frame convulsed with a wrenching sob, then quieted. He swiped a burly forearm across his face, wiping away the last of the tears. He turned back to look directly at his daughter, seeming to have sobered up. "Now I've said it."

She looked at him and brushed her hand gently across the top of his head.

"Said what? What do you mean?" Maq regarded her father with a puzzled expression. "There's nothing wrong with the Perechon. She's as sound as ever. Nothing could have raced through that squall. All she needs is a new topsail." A twinge of guilt flashed over her at the recollection of her role at the helm, thinking perhaps she could have done something as the Katos passed them by a second time. Maq shook it off.

"Why, I was just reading in the Manual for the Maritime-Minded about a tremendous squall that…"

"No, Maquesta. The Perechon is still the best ship on the Blood Sea, and you did as well as anyone could have at the helm."

Even in his current state, Melas had known how she must be feeling, Maq thought with a rush of affection.

"It's just that the Perechon won't be our ship anymore," Melas continued, his voice sinking to a whisper. Once again, he averted his eyes from his daughter's.

Maq's stomach somersaulted. "What?"

"Averon and I were so sure; we were certain we would win the race, so we bet everything we had-we bet more than we had. You know how few coins we had between us. And it had been too long since the last time I paid the crew" Melas's words jostled up against one another, so quickly was he speaking.

"The minotaur betting master in Lacynos wouldn't take a signed pledge from us. In the event we lost, he wanted more than our names on a piece of paper. But we knew we wouldn't lose. Couldn't lose. And then, Maquesta, with the prize money plus our winnings…" A hint of the excitement that prospect created for him entered Melas's voice even now.

"With our winnings we wouldn't have had to worry about money for a long time," Melas finished. "Only the betting master wouldn't accept just our pledge. So we signed over the Perechon."

"I think it was not Averon's to sign over," Maq whispered, her voice strangled by emotion.

"Maquesta, you can't blame this on Averon. I did it. I wanted to do it. I just knew…" Here Melas shook his head, overwhelmed. "Averon feels terrible, just terrible."

"Where is he?" Maq roused herself from a grim line of reflection, heading toward the inevitable conclusion that she was to lose the only home she'd ever known. "Why isn't he here with you?"

"I sent him away. I didn't want to be with anyone. I needed-I need to sort some things out by myself," Melas said haltingly. His chin dropped down to his chest.

Maq circled her arms around Melas-though indeed they could not completely gird his immense bulk-and laid her head against his chest. Melas placed a hand on his daughter's wiry curls. Thus linked, father and daughter found some brief comfort.

She stayed with him until she was able to convince him to rest. "We'll think of something in the morning. Don't worry. Somehow things will work out… they always do." Then Maquesta gently closed the door to Melas's cabin, turned, and came face to face with Averon. The first mate reached past her to open the door.

"Don't go in. I finally got him to get into his bunk. I think he's asleep." Maq fixed her eyes on Averon, who was doing his best to avoid her gaze, shifting his weight from foot to foot and shuffling backward as they spoke. Watching him, the gravity of what had happened crashed down on Maq.

"Averon, how could you have used the Perechon to guarantee those bets? How could you possibly have talked my father into it? He's your best friend. And now he's lost everything."

"Ah, girl, it seemed like the perfect plan," Averon responded lamely, continuing to edge away from her.

Anger left over from the undervest incident and frustration from the Perechon's loss boiled up inside Maquesta. "This is how you repay Melas for being your friend, for always giving you a home and work to come back to after you've been gadding about for weeks-by roping him into one of your ill-considered schemes? And now soon none of us will have this ship to call home. We'll be stranded in this minotaur city!" She continued to sputter and advance on him.

Averon stopped his slow retreat, drew himself up, and thrust out his chin. Something she had said had touched a nerve. "I have done a great deal through the years for Melas and this ship, not that anyone has ever given me any credit. I won't stay here and be lectured!" Averon turned on his heels and stalked off.

Still seething, Maquesta stomped over to her cabin, located next to Melas's. Once inside, she paced back and forth, trying to calm down-without great success. Then she pulled out a book, lit a lantern, and sat down at her reading table. It was only a few minutes later that the tinkling of a bell suspended from the ceiling interrupted her. Maq glanced up at the bell, sighed, then stood. The small brass bell, which had continued to ring, dislodged itself from the spring that held it and fell, striking Maquesta in the head. Maq stooped, picked up the bell, and threw it, with all her strength, into the corner. "Lendle!" She spit out the gnome's name, following it with a string of muttered curses, as only a young woman raised around seaports could. She headed for the door, taking her foul mood with her.

Fritzen Dorgaard lay on his back on a cot Lendle had set up in the armory, which was occasionally used as a temporary infirmary since it was next to the galley where the gnome concocted his remedies. Maq leaned over the stricken sailor. Fritzen's green eyes were wide open, but unseeing.

Melas had said Fritzen was half merrow, or sea ogre, and Lendle insisted his sun-bronzed skin should have a hint of green to it. Instead, it seemed his skin had lost all color.

"Odd combination, sea ogre and human," Maquesta said, then pursed her lips into a straight line. "Well, I should talk."

She laid her hand against his forehead; it was cold and clammy. The skin around the gash on his face was puffy, pulling against the stitches Lendle just finished sewing.

"VerygraveverygraveIneedsomechatterwort," Lendle began, speaking at the typical gnomish pace, "orhecannotmakeitunlessIgetsomechatterwortsoon."

"Hold on, hold on. Your stupid summons bell fell down and hit me in the head. I've had some very bad news. It's late. I'm tired. In other words, I'm in no condition to keep up with your conversational speed records," Maq grumped.

Lendle pursed his lips in mild disapproval of his favorite crewmember. With a motion of his head, he indicated Fritzen.

"A simple slow down, please would have sufficed, Maquesta Kar-Thon. I also am tired and have no special liking for being lectured. I've spent the past three hours tending to our guest."

Maq flushed. Now she'd received two reprimands for lecturing, not that it was an unknown quality in ships' captains, which is what she expected to be someday, or had expected to be until the news earlier tonight.

"I'm sorry. How is Fritz? And what do you need me for? I'm not a healer."

"His condition is very grave. See this gash on his right forearm?"

Lendle grasped the half-ogre's wrist and rotated his arm outward so Maq could see the soft underside. A jagged slash about six inches long cut deeply into the flesh. The raw edges oozed a greenish slime. Maq grimaced.

"One of the hags may have had poison on its claws and sliced him before the hippocampi were able to rescue him," Lendle explained. "Or it could be something else. In any case, I need to rouse him to ask him about it before I can treat it. A sea hag wound requires special care. Unfortunately, he seems to be sinking more deeply into a state of shock. He's been through an awful lot, and he might not make it. Chatterwort might bring him round, but I have none. I want you to go into Lacynos to buy some. I still have several coppers and a handful of steel pieces. They should be more than enough. I've invested too much time in him to see him die now."

"Can it wait until morning? I'd like to get some sleep, and I don't relish the idea of walking the streets of Lacynos in the dark with everyone there having a long night of drinking under their belts."

"Yes, but leave as soon as it's light. And take someone with you, Maquesta. I'd go myself, but I think I should stay here with Fritzen Dorgaard."

Maq nodded, suddenly overwhelmed with weariness. She made her way back to her cabin, threw herself down on top of the bunk, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, Maquesta threaded her way through the streets of Lacynos, trying to stick to the drier ground and at the same time avoid the occasional drunken minotaur who staggered by. Even at this early hour, the air was heavy with heat and humidity, constant facets of the weather in this part of Krynn-and one of the reasons the roadways never completely dried out from rainfall to rainfall.

Hvel followed Maq's lead, maintaining a brisk trot in order to keep up with her long strides. Not much older than Maq, Hvel was a full head shorter, and portly. He nonetheless could move quickly and was a good man in a fight, knowing how to use his weight and size to the best advantage. Maq had that in mind when she asked him to accompany her, that and the fact that he was one of the few crewmembers stirring and sober when she was ready to leave. When alert, as he seemed now, he was also a man of few words-which suited Maq's current mood just fine. She had a personal errand she wanted to pursue after buying the chatterwort. Hvel was not the type to ask too many questions if she arranged to split up with him and rendezvous back at the wharf.

Nearly every block in Lacynos boasted a tavern or inn. And every one they had passed was open and occupied. They never closed in this port. Up ahead, Maq spotted the shingle she was looking for, the Bay Watch. Lendle had given her directions and said the innkeeper, a human named Renson, also sold medicinal and magical herbs.

Once they stepped through the doorway, Maq and Hvel paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. Only one candle burned in the half-dozen wall sconces. The dim dawn light, entering through the front door and two small rear windows, provided the candle little assistance. Maq scanned the common room for any sign of the innkeeper. At the back of the room, she observed a wooden ladder, which took the place of stairs in most minotaur buildings. This one led, presumably, to guest rooms. Unlike minotaur inns-that served only food and drink-the Bay Watch offered overnight lodging as well. However, from what Maq could see, most of the patrons had passed out at their tables, not bothering to spend a copper on a bed. Only one trio of well-armed human sailors-more than likely pirates, Maq thought-remained awake, still drinking.

Maquesta saw no evidence of the proprietor, but the sound of snoring drew her toward a rough wooden bar situated in the far corner of the common room. It offered a good vantage point on both the front door and the wooden ladder. As she and Hvel approached the bar, not only did the snoring grow louder, a spicy aroma cut through the stale barroom odor. Smoke wafted from small pots placed around the perimeter of the bar. Inhaling deeply, Maq leaned forward as she walked, only to smack her nose against a hard, flat surface while simultaneously stubbing her toe. She stumbled backward, cursing, saved from falling on her rump only by Hvel's steadying hand. Behind her, the pirates erupted into raucous guffaws.

"Wha-What happened?" Maq gingerly touched her throbbing nose to check if it was broken. No, just sore, she decided. Most definitely, she had run into something. Yet in front of her she saw nothing. From behind the bar, the snoring stuttered to a halt, replaced by a gravelly roar.

"Which of you thieving scoundrels was trying to pinch a free drink while I was catching me forty winks? I'll not put up with that! I charges me a fair price. I never cheats no one and no one had better cheat me!"

Brandishing an axe in one hand and a jagged-edged short sword in the other, the speaker-or roarer-of these dire warnings stood up behind the bar. A few stray hairs stuck straight up from his otherwise bald head. One eye glared at them from under a tufted eyebrow. Where the other eye should have been, a dark hole gaped.

"I assure you, we were not trying to steal anything," Maq spoke up clearly, ignoring the pirates' drunken laughter. "I am Maquesta Kar-Thon and this is Hvel Gamon, from the Perechon. We came to buy some chatterwort from you."

Mention of a commercial transaction immediately calmed down Renson, for that was who the man behind the bar introduced himself as. He peered closely at them with his good eye, obviously sizing them up. After half a minute, the innkeeper blew out whatever was lit inside the small pots and beckoned Maq and Hvel forward.

They both held back. Then Maquesta finally stretched her arms out toward the bar. Nothing. She moved forward slowly, repeating the motion with her arm, Hvel following her cautiously. Renson cackled.

"Don't worry, don't worry. Just a little illusion I create with some of my herbs-invisible smoke wall. Keeps those with grasping hands and big thirsts from helping themselves to the tap. The herbs have stopped smoldering, see? You'll be all right. I'll start them up again when we're finished. Can't trust everyone." Here Renson nodded his head toward the pirates, who had resumed their drinking. "Otherwise I'd never get any shut-eye."

Resting her forearms on the bar, Maq saw that a narrow cot covered with a dirty blanket was set up behind it. Renson had stowed his axe in an easy-to-reach cubbyhole and stuck his sword into his waistband, freeing his hands to tie a ragged gray patch over his empty eye socket. "Now what was it you said you wanted to buy?" he inquired once he had the patch in place, rubbing his hands together and taking on the air of an unctuous merchant.

"Chatterwort, about five drams' worth."

Renson's expression soured somewhat at the meagerness of Maq's intended purchase. "I'll have to check my storeroom. I should be able to help you." With that Renson lifted a trapdoor located in the cramped floor space behind the bar, and dropped out of sight.

Maq felt Hvel, standing next to her with his back to the bar and his eyes on the pirates, tense up. She turned to see one of the trio, a tall, muscular redhead, approaching them. He held his and his friends' empty ale mugs in one hand. Maq watched him. He moved gracefully, though he'd obviously been drinking for a while. Only a certain heaviness in his eyelids betrayed the amount of ale he must have consumed. She glanced down at Hvel, who nodded almost imperceptibly. They both knew that a drunken sailor, in a port as wild as Lacynos, needed careful handling.

The redhead set his mugs on the bar for refilling and looked at Maq appreciatively.

"Greetings and good morning. Fletch's the name. Me and my comrades sail with the Bloodhawk. Maybe you've heard of her?"

Maq nodded. A pirate ship with a reputation for speed and ruthlessness.

Fletch swayed slightly, grinning at her. "Why don't you dump your pudgy little friend here and join us? I promise we'll show you a good time." He winked at her and banged one of the mugs against the top of the bar. "What do you say?"

Maq looked over and saw the two seated pirates leering at her. She smiled sweetly at Fletch.

"I'm sure you'd try your best, but I don't really enjoy wrestling. Anyway, my little friend here is terribly ill. I'm buying medicine for him now, and I have to take him back to the ship before he collapses. I hope he's not contagious."

Hvel, who except for a pair of bloodshot eyes exuded sturdy good health, stood placidly beside Maquesta. Fletch stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't get too close," Maq warned, stepping between Fletch and her companion. "I would feel just awful if you caught it, too. So I'll decline your invitation. I'm really very sorry. Maybe we can do it another time." She continued smiling at the pirate.

Too drunk to know he was being insulted and lied to, Fletch took a step backward. "Barkeep! More ale!" he shouted in the general direction of the trapdoor. After a few minutes in absorbed contemplation of his empty mugs, the pirate seemed to forget his earlier conversational gambit. He moved on to another subject.

"You're from the Perechon, you say?"

Maq nodded again, still smiling.

"Someone on your ship must be happy, very happy-" He paused for emphasis. "And rich." He winked at Maquesta.

What was this fool talking about? Maq wondered. Not wanting to reveal too much curiosity, either to the drunken sailor or to Hvel, who like the rest of the crew had no inkling of Melas's failed betting strategy, she reacted guardedly.

"No one's happy. We lost" Maq stopped and took a breath, finding it difficult to say out loud. "We lost the race."

"Yes," Fletch wagged a finger in Maq's direction. "Too bad you weren't sailing with the Bloodhawk. We never lose once we set our caps for something. Why once, two years ago…"

Maq, eager to hear more about the harbor race, steered Fletch back to the subject at hand. "Yes, I heard about that. Remarkable. And it was someone from the Bloodhawk's crew who was pleased about the outcome of yesterday's race?" she asked innocently.

"Not the Bloodhawk, the Pere… Perek…" Fletch gave up. "Your ship. I heard about it at the betting master's, over at the Breakers. Now that's a place where a fellow can at least get served a drink," he said loudly, looking around vaguely for Renson. Maq tugged at his sleeve. Fletch stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"The Perechon?" she prompted.

Fletch frowned, then perked up. "Right. Someone from the crew bet on the winning ship and came in to the Breakers to collect his winnings. Little guy. Bowlegged. Very happy. And rich."

He peered with renewed interest at Hvel, who had moved some distance down the bar after Maq's impromptu diagnosis of his condition, and consequently had not picked up much of the conversation. "Is everyone on the Perechon little?" Fletch asked.

Disconcerted by the pirate's description of the winner as someone closely resembling Averon, Maq was unable to make any response. With relief, she saw Renson's head pop up out of the cellar. Fletch's attention immediately shifted. "Barkeep!" he bellowed.

Maquesta joined Hvel at the far end of the bar, where they waited for Renson to serve the pirates before selling them the chatterwort.

"That sailor was quite a bit drunker than he looked," Hvel observed. "What was all that about one of us betting against the Perechon? Did I hear that right? And then he called me short?"

Maq managed to compose herself. "His mind was so fogged by drink, he didn't know what he was talking about. That story changed about ten times in the course of our five-minute conversation."

Hvel chuckled, returning his attention to a plate of sweet rolls on one of the shelves behind the bar. "Short. Hmpf!"

"Here's your chatterwort." Renson laid the herb wrapped in a twist of paper on the bar. "That will be twelve steels."

"Twelve!" Maq reacted indignantly, commencing the ritual of bargaining. Years of making ends meet on the Perechon had made Maquesta a very adept bargainer. In this instance, preoccupied by what she had just heard, Maq went through the process by rote and was not at her best. Nonetheless, she still achieved a significant reduction in Renson's asking price.

"And how much for one of those stale rolls back there?" Maq added. Hvel brightened. After a minute more of haggling, he had one of the sticky buns in his hands. Maq counted out the coins, and they turned to leave. But after a couple steps, she stopped.

"You go ahead, Hvel. I forgot to ask Renson something Lendle wanted me to find out about brewing the chatterwort. No use you standing through all the directions. I'll meet you back at the dock. This shouldn't take more than an hour."

Occupied with his sweet roll, Hvel nodded and continued out the door. As soon as he was out of earshot, Maq beckoned Fletch over.

"Can you give me directions to the betting master's at the Breakers?" She had intended all along to find the person or persons who held Melas's markers and try to negotiate an arrangement that would allow her father to keep the Perechon. Now, with what Fletch had told her, she had another reason to find the betting master. And find him soon.

Memorizing the crude instructions, she hurried out the door, her anger and curiosity mounting with each step. Several minutes later-and after making a few wrong turns-she was there.

"It's a miracle anyone can find this place to make a bet," Maq muttered under her breath. "There's not even a sign. And it looks abandoned."

She stood in front of a squat, narrow building sandwiched between two larger ones, having threaded through a maze of streets and alleys to get there. The paint around the windows was peeling. Weeds grew in profusion about the front of the place, and a lone window box held dead flowers. Still, the well-trampled roadway leading up to the betting master's threshold indicated the establishment's popularity. However, at this early hour Maq appeared to be the only customer.

Once she stepped inside, Maq saw that a bar cut diagonally across the far corner. Other than that, the long room less resembled a tavern than it did an empty storeroom. There were no tables and chairs for the patrons, only two chalkboards, one hanging from each side wall, obviously for posting the odds for given events, Maq suspected. Also, there was no betting master.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Maq cautiously paced the length of the packed dirt floor. After getting no answer, and trying several more "hellos," she headed for a door set into the back wall. She knocked, and in response the door was pulled open so rapidly and forcefully from the inside that she had to jump back to avoid getting knocked flat on her stomach.

Maq stepped over a raised threshold into a room, not as long as the first, but just as narrow. It was lined by minotaurs armed with the spiked clubs they called tesstos. Facing her from behind a massive, slate-topped desk that was tall enough to allow him to stand-and with its surface inclined inward, preventing someone in Maquesta's position from seeing what it held-stood the one Maq assumed to be the betting master. In the uncertain light cast by two flaming torches set in wall sconces, his horns appeared to nearly touch the ceiling after first sweeping outward to cover half the breadth of the room.

He was a massive minotaur, regardless of the tricks the low lighting played. He was at least seven and a half feet tall, and his coat was a deep black, as dark as Nuitari. His head sat on broad shoulders, down from which extended long, muscular arms. Hands that were large and encrusted with rings fingered a knife lying on the counter. Maquesta found herself drawn to his eyes, which were bright blue, unusual for his people. They nearly matched the large sapphires that circled his neck on a thick, gold chain. The betting master wore a silky gray tunic that did nothing to conceal his well-defined chest. Everything about him was expensive, Maq decided.

He eyed her sternly, harumphed, and turned his attention to a piece of parchment. The contempt these creatures felt for her was palpable. Maq swallowed, squared her shoulders, and marched forward. The betting master himself ignored her, but Maq sensed the guards observing her every movement. When she had come to within about three feet of the desk, one of them stepped out, barring her way with his tessto. The betting master continued to attend to the parchments on his desk, not looking up at her. At this close range, Maq noticed that his fur was actually mottled with bits of dark brownish red here and there. Mottling only occurred on minotaurs well older than one hundred. Maq regarded him with intensified curiosity.

Minutes passed, and Maq begin to shift back and forth on her feet. The betting master gave no indication he was about to conclude the business at his desk and speak to her. Unfamiliar with the niceties of minotaur etiquette, but conscious of the need to return to the Perechon with the chatterwort for Fritzen, Maq decided to risk speaking up.

"Excuse me. I seek the betting master. Are you he?"

Finally, the minotaur looked up from his papers.

"Those without the sense to speak up when they have business with me are not worth my time. What do you want?" The betting master spoke the human common tongue with a fluency unusual for a minotaur. Yet years of reaping a profit as the fates parceled out wins and losses had left him even more arrogant than was typical for that bestial race, lending a harshness to his every utterance.

"I am Maquesta Kar-Thon, daughter of Melas Kar-Thon, captain of the Perechon. I-"

The betting master cut her off. "Then you have no business with me. I have paid the one from the Perechon who placed the winning bet, and I no longer hold your father's markers."

"But surely…"

He returned to his paperwork and snorted.

That fool from the Bloodhawk had told the truth! Even more than the name of the person who now held Melas's markers, Maquesta wanted to know the name of the Perechon crewmember who had bet against the ship. However, she doubted the betting master would simply tell her who the winner was.

"Who does hold my father's markers?" she asked, thinking quickly. "Averon sent me here to see if his winnings could be used to cover my father's bets."

"Oh?" The betting master allowed the question to hang in the air for a minute. "I would not have thought that was his inclination. But no matter. Not even the handsome purse I paid him would cover your father's foolish bets. Happily, that is no longer my concern. You need to take your case to Attat Es-Divaq. He bought your father's markers before the race. So I am now saved the trouble of having to dispose of your ship."

The betting master briefly looked down his snout at her, his disdain for humans obvious. He signaled one of the guards, then began gathering up his papers.

Maquesta barely registered the name of the minotaur who now held her father's markers. Her mind spun round and round the same name-Averon! Anger, hurt, betrayal, confusion threatened to overwhelm her. Maquesta had started to tremble so violently that she was afraid she would collapse in this room full of sneering strangers. A sharp prick in the small of her back refocused her attention. One of the guards had prodded her with his tessto in the direction of the door. Summoning every ounce of willpower, Maq turned, walked the length of the room, and stepped through the doorway. Once in the front room, Maq leaned her back against a wall, using the rough brick to support herself. No longer trembling, she was drained of all strength.

After a few moments, she began to think clearly. If this was how she felt at the news, she considered, it would devastate Melas. No, Maq realized, he would never believe it. He would refuse even to listen to such talk about his best friend. She needed a plan-not only for approaching this new minotaur lord, Attat, but for confronting Averon so he would openly admit what he had done. Only then would Melas believe it. Maybe then they could use the money Averon had won to cover some of Melas's bets and appease the minotaur lord.

Maquesta pulled away from the wall and hurried out of the betting master's, toward the harbor, her heart pounding in time with her quick footsteps.