Maquesta Kar-Thon Read online

  "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 L
endle'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.

  Chapter 2

  The Race

  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 hav
e 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.