Tina Daniell - Maquesta Kar-Thon

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.