Maquesta Kar-Thon

by Tina Daniell

  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.

  Chapter 4

  Caught

  "Luckily for Fritzen Dorgaard, his wound was apparently not from a sea hag. He was dazed, but he managed to tell me that his arm caught on a piece of the reef when he was knocked overboard. I've made a poultice, and it's already started to heal." Lendle showed Fritzen's forearm to Maquesta, then went back to mashing a concoction of foul-smelling herbs with a mortar and pestle.

  Maquesta looked at the wounded half-ogre and decided they had a lot in common—aside from having mixed parentage. Fritzen's ship had been dashed against rocks. Her hopes for the future had been dashed just as harshly, and soon her father's ship would belong to someone else. They were both pretty much homeless.

  While still immobile and flat on his back, the halfogre's eyes were closed, but the lids twitched slightly
, and he did seem to be resting more comfortably. A little of his color had returned, which the gnome was quick to point out. Thankfully for anyone who ever became ill on the Perechon, Lendle's medicinal creations always worked better than his mechanical inventions.

  "Did he say anything else after you gave him the chatterwort?" Maq asked the question idly, preoccupied with her scheme for bringing Melas, Averon, and the minotaur lord, Attat, together. Perhaps if she plotted well, the Perechon might not be lost to them after all.

  "He is ashamed." Lendle stopped his mashing to regard Fritzen. "Ashamed and wounded where a poultice can't help him. He tried to tell his captain not to steer too close to the rocks, but his argument wasn't convincing. Not only did he lose the Torado to the sea hags, he wasn't able to save his captain. And in the end, he grabbed on to one of the hippocampi. He's cursing himself for abandoning the ship and the crew to save himself. I don't know if he will ever recover from that."

  Yes, thought Maquesta, perhaps there are some wounds too deep to ever heal.

  "Melas, Averon, I, and a few of the others will be going back into Lacynos later today. Is there anything else you need to take care of Fritzen?"

  Lendle looked up at her sharply. "What business do you have in Lacynos? Your father does not seem of a mood to find the Perechon work so he can pay our wages. And more drinking of ale would not, I think, be to anyone's advantage."

  "Don't worry, Lendle. We have a few things to straighten out, matters that might even lead to a payday in the near future."

  Maq gave Lendle a tight-lipped smile that failed to reassure the gnome, then left the armory to arrange the shore visit with Melas. She strode quickly to his cabin, determined to make everything work out all right.

  "Father?"

  Maquesta pushed open the door to her father's quarters. Sunk in a black mood of despair, Melas had not left his cabin since the previous evening. She found him now seated once again at his desk, with Averon pulled up alongside him on a stool. Whatever the two had been discussing, they stopped when she entered the room.

  Maq had not anticipated that the first mate would be with Melas. Unprepared, she feared the hurt and anger she felt showed plainly in her face as soon as she saw him. But Averon, sitting in profile to the door, did not look at her. He stared off, behind Melas's head, gazing through a porthole at the sea. She inwardly continued to fume at her father's best friend—a man she once considered a close friend, too.

  "Father, I've found out who holds your markers. It's not the betting master. It's a minotaur lord named Attat Es-Divaq. Do you know him?" Perhaps, Maq thought, unknown to her, there was some bad blood between Melas and Attat.

  Melas shook his head silently.

  "I think you, Averon, and I should go to see him before he comes to collect his debt. We should offer to work off our obligations. It would mean being in the employ of a minotaur, but at least we would be able to keep the Perechon. And maybe there would be some extra steel involved to pay the crew."

  It was only logical that Averon, as Melas's closest friend and first mate, should come along, and by making the suggestion in front of both of them Maq didn't see how he could avoid it. She felt certain that if she endeavored to bring Melas, Averon, and herself together in front of the minotaur lord who held her father's markers, she could provoke Averon into revealing his duplicity. But she expected Averon would try to avoid such a situation.

  "Yes," Melas paused, reaching out to the idea tentatively. "Averon was just suggesting the same thing."

  Why would Averon have made that suggestion? Could she somehow be wrong? That development troubled Maq. Yet she could glean nothing from Averon's current attitude. His attention remained fixed on the porthole. He wouldn't even look at her.

  Melas, however, ever an optimist and a man who preferred doing anything to nothing, had begun to warm to the idea of visiting Attat.

  "Yes, let's seize the bull by the horns, so to speak. We can make a good case for ourselves." Melas spoke to himself as much as to Maq and Averon.

  "The Perechon is a prize—none better—but she's a much richer prize with the best crew on the Blood Sea. Yes!" Melas rapped the flat of his hand down on the desk, startling both Averon and Maquesta from their separate musings. The sparkle had returned to his eyes, and he was quickly shaking off the effects of all the drink he had consumed the previous night.

  "We'll go after lunch," Melas continued. "Get a few of the men together to come along. The wisest course is not to be too outnumbered when we venture into a minotaur stronghold."

  "I think you're right, Father."

  He rose from the table, and in three strides had his arms around her in a friendly bear hug. "We'll make this work, Maq." He released her and slapped Averon playfully on the back, then he turned and went to the door. He opened it with a flourish and extended his hand, indicating Maq should leave first.

  As she did, she heard her father speak to Averon. "Well, come on, isn't this what you have been asking me to do?" She did not hear the first mate reply, but Averon was close behind her.

  While the crew seemed gratified to have their captain out among them once more, even Melas's presence could do little to enliven lunch that day. A number of sailors remained too disabled by the aftereffects of drink to drag themselves to the table. Those who did dined on a thin bean gruel, which was all that Lendle, preoccupied with Fritzen's care and with very meager supplies at hand, could whip up. A mood of uncertainty in the wake of the Perechon's loss lingered over the entire crew.

  Melas ate quickly, then rose from the table, giving orders with most of his old energy and authority.

  "Averon, come with me. Maquesta, start lowering the longboat. We'll leave shortly."

  Maq had put herself in charge of selecting the shore party, not wanting to chance Averon's doing it. Immediately after leaving Melas's cabin earlier, she had talked to Hvel again, and four others—Canin, Magpie, Micah and Gorz—telling each to be armed and prepared for trouble. Such advice was a given for any visit into Lacynos, so her words didn't surprise the sailors. Maq was glad Averon had gone off with Melas. She intended to repeat the advice again as soon as they gathered at the longboat. She wanted everyone to be on guard.

  Standing herself, Maq signaled the others to rise. With irritation, she saw Vartan stand with Hvel. The two were best friends. When Maq approached Hvel, he had suggested Vartan come along. Maq had sternly vetoed the idea. The helmsman was an unproven commodity as far as she was concerned—just a pretty face. She shot Hvel a withering glance. He shrugged his shoulders, as if helpless. Maq decided not to make an issue out of it; she'd talk to Hvel about it later, after they'd returned to the ship. So now there would be an even half dozen coming along with her, Averon, and Melas.

  The trip from the Perechon to the wharf passed quietly. The crewmembers still knew nothing of Melas's wagers and the risk of losing the Perechon. Maq had decided to keep that information from them until after the confrontation at Attat's unspooled. As far as they knew, they were accompanying Melas to an audience with a minotaur lord at which, most assumed, the captain would be soliciting an assignment for the Perechon. Averon's attitude still bothered Maq. She found it difficult to gauge. As the longboat drew closer to the wharf, both Melas and Averon exhibited growing agitation.

  Once the longboat was secured at the wharf, Averon led the group off the pier, plunging ahead into the Lacynos streets.

  "Shouldn't we get directions to Attat's?" Maq called from behind.

  "Don't worry, I know the way," Averon called back, "just one of the many points on which I can be of service to you, Maquesta." Averon followed that remark with a joking aside to Melas which Maq could not hear. His bold assertion of the status conferred by close friendship offended Maq and steeled her determination to reveal him.

  Attat's palace, it turned out, lay a good distance from the waterfront, a distance made greater by the fact that there was no direct way to get there through Lacynos's haphazard streets. The great majority of minotaur
dwellings resembled the buildings Maq had been in earlier in the day—ramshackle, with ladders instead of stairs, never more than two stories high. A few of the very wealthiest nobles, however, had more elaborate homes. Maq had heard of the palace of Chot Es-Kalin, the self-proclaimed ruler of Lacynos, a veritable city within the city. Nonetheless, she was not prepared for Attat's palace.

  Though still within the city walls, it sat surrounded by its own immense stone wall, which Maq judged to be at least twenty feet in height. Two massive minotaur guards clad in leather greaves and bronze chest pieces stood at the front gate, blocking their entrance. Each was armed with a bardiche, a long polearm with a curved, axelike blade on the end. It gleamed wickedly in the sun. Melas tried telling the guards what they wanted, but the minotaurs apparently did not speak the common human tongue. Vartan, it turned out, spoke some of the minotaur's language and was able to make their intentions clear. He smiled mischievously at Maq when it was obvious the minotaurs could comprehend what he was saying. The guards summoned a wretched-looking human slave, who went off and returned shortly with the message that Melas and the others could enter.

  Melas led the way across a dusty courtyard, empty except for more armed guards, similarly dressed and equally as heavily armored as those at the gate. Maquesta wondered if there were likely other guards they could not see. Cautious, the group made its way to a pair of towering wooden doors inlaid with hammered silver, minotaurs' preferred precious metal. Maq was surprised at the doors' workmanship, which could have stood alongside the finest anywhere in Krynn. As she studied the panels, they swung open silently on well-oiled hinges—even before Melas could knock. The group entered a small anteway that gave onto a second entrance flanked by elaborately carved wooden columns. Two more guards, wearing breastplates made of steel, stood aside to allow them to pass into the palace's great hall.