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
"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.