Tina Daniell: Maquesta Kar-Thon

Maquesta resumed her walk to the longboat. "Why have a pet if you're just going to treat it poorly and then kill it?" she muttered, shaking her head. "These minotaurs are the ones that are nasty and should be at the end of leashes. I'm glad we'll be leaving their company after we win the harbor race. I don't want to have to come back here for a while."

They walked along in silence, the incident having thrown Maq into a reflective mood. But when a salty breeze off the open sea managed to penetrate the dank atmosphere, hitting Maq in the face, her spirits improved. Stepping onto the wharf, with the twin masts of her father's ship, the Perechon , now in full view, she crossed the line into exuberance. Her gait picked up along with her disposition. She'd be at the Perechon shortly. She'd be home.

"Hurry up, Lendle. I'm sure Father is anxious for our return."

"I'm hurrying," the gnome replied, still inspecting his purchases.

Melas Kar-Thon's Perechon , with her patched sails and peeling paint, was not the prettiest ship on the Blood Sea-though her sleek lines and graceful bow kept her in the running-but the ship unquestionably was one of the fastest on Ansalon's waters. The Perechon was a two-masted pentare. Similar to a schooner, it was a warship that boasted sails for swift movement and oar ports that would help it maneuver in battle. It had a keel length of nearly one hundred twenty feet and had a ballista mounting on the bow. The weapon itself, a large crossbow that fired harpoons, bolts, spears, and any manner of other objects with a force harder than a man could muster, was being stored in the hold. Weapons were not allowed in the upcoming race. Despite its design, the Perechon had seen little fighting, being used most often as a cargo ship, and occasionally as a passenger vessel for individuals wishing to get somewhere quietly and quickly. Lately, the captain had been sailing the ship from port to port looking for work.

The Perechon's railing was of fine mahogany, the posts carved to look like ornate columns, miniature versions of what might be found supporting temple roofs. The bowsprit, the spar extending from the bow of the ship, was made of hardened walnut. The main deck was stained oak that was forever being polished and swabbed, and the poop deck at the rear of the ship was made of white oak imported from an elven glade. Maquesta was nearly as proud of the ship as her father was.

Maq slipped the rope holding the Perechon's longboat from the piling where it had been tied while they took care of their errands and pushed off, rowing strongly toward the ship. As they neared the Perechon , they glimpsed several crewmen polishing the rails. Others were hard at work repainting the trim. Maq suspected her father wanted the ship to look her best during the race. She grinned broadly-there would be time for her and Lendle to pitch in, too. She wanted everything to be perfect for her father, as this race was very important to him.

Melas's father had been a sailor and his father before him and his father before him. The Kar-Thons' blood was more seawater than anything else, the family liked to say. Melas knew his profession well. The modest dowry Maq's mother, Mi-al, had brought to their secret marriage-plus a lucky win at the gaming tables and proceeds from the sale of the Kar-Thon family's sloop-had given Melas the funds he needed to build his own ship. He knew what he wanted and what he needed to create: the most seaworthy and fleetest ship anyone had ever seen. He named it the Perechon , after a small seabird his wife loved to watch.

Mi-al was an elf, and Melas was confident a life at sea would keep her safe from those who hunted her kind. He hid her in voluminous hooded robes when she moved among the Perechon's crew, and she ventured into ports with him only at night, when the shadows disguised her features. Only Lendle knew their secret-and shared Melas's sorrow. Mi-al had vanished fourteen years ago, shortly after Maquesta's fourth birthday, leaving Melas devastated and ending the possibility of a son to carry on the Kar-Thon sailing tradition. Still, Melas was determined to teach everything he knew about the science, art, and love of sailing to his only child. And so he had-after he had the child's ears trimmed. Maquesta, in all respects, looked wholly human, though she was well aware of her elven heritage. Melas wanted her to be safe, and Maq had no problem with the ruse. She wanted to stay alive, and she wanted to keep her father happy.

"You'll never guess who else is going to race tomorrow," Maq said to Averon, the Perechon's first mate, as soon as she hauled herself over the side. She waved a partial list of names she had received in Lacynos when she registered the ship for the event. "The Torado ," she sputtered, referring to another vessel that originated from Saifhum.

"Well that should make things interesting." Averon grinned, the mischief in his eyes more pronounced than usual.

"We'll have to fly our special colors to let everyone know that we're the ship from Saifhum to beat. I made the new flag myself. What do you think?" Averon motioned with his head toward the top of the Perechon's nearest mast.

Maq suddenly realized that the rest of the crew had stopped what they were doing and were watching her and Averon with suppressed laughter. Her mouth dropped open as it always did when she realized one of Averon's practical jokes was upon them-and she was the intended victim. Maq's gut tightened. She looked skyward.

Flapping in the sea breeze at the very top of the mast, unmistakable in the rays of the late afternoon sun, hung Maquesta's bright yellow silk undervest-one of the few truly feminine pieces of clothing she owned, cherished because it was also one of the few items of her mother's that had survived years of seafaring. With a sharp exclamation, Maq leapt onto the rigging and skittered up the ropes to retrieve it, first shooting Averon a reproachful look.

How could he? Averon of all people!

Averon and Maq's father had been friends since childhood. They had been frequent rivals for the same women-until Melas met Mi-al when he was alone on a trading mission. Melas married her, ending the rivalry. Averon had been a frequent companion to the newlyweds, and often Melas wondered if Averon guessed that his wife was an elf. Averon had been with Melas on the sea voyage during which Mi-al disappeared, had comforted a four-year-old Maq when her father, for a period, had been too grief-stricken to remember he had a child. Averon, always impetuous and full of mischief, had been like a second father to her.

A sudden gust of wind caught at Maq, nearly tugging her from the rigging. She clamped her teeth together, grimaced, and shook off her foul mood. She couldn't afford to cry, couldn't spare a hand to wipe away tears, couldn't climb with her vision blurred. The sea winds had shifted, picking up power and causing the Perechon to rock. Maq needed all her senses, all her strength, and all her skill to continue climbing. Nor did she want any of the crew watching her to see that she was upset. Maq had grown up more or less as the Perechon's mascot, indulged when crewmembers had time, affectionately regarded by all.

But as she'd left childhood, that changed. The sailors didn't know what to make of Maquesta as a young woman-sometimes she didn't know herself. They pulled back, not unfriendly, but watchful. And that wouldn't do. Not if Maquesta wanted to take over as captain of the Perechon someday. And she did. So she knew that any occasion could turn into a "test," as this surely had.

Glancing down, Maq realized none of the sailors could see the sad expression on her face. They clustered below her like toy figurines, laughing and pointing. The rough hemp of the rigging rope cut into her palms and drew blood, and the wind tugged harder at her body. But then she had the fluid silk of the undervest in her hand, and a smile crossed her lips. The garment was undamaged. Averon had carefully tied it to the mast rigging.