Attat shrugged. "I've found Tailonna is more trouble than she's worth in terms of the amusement she provides me. If she helps capture the morkoth, once it is safely ensconced here, I have agreed to release her. Knowing how honorable the elvish people are, I believe I can trust her to help you." Again, Attat mocked his captive.
Melas looked askance at the sea elf prisoner. Nothing in his exchange with Attat had made him feel more uncomfortable. He held his fists clenched at his sides. Every aspect of his bearing conveyed tension, Maq observed with concern.
Again, Attat clapped his hands, this time saying nothing. Maq looked around the hall. Her search ended at an alcove just to the left of the minotaur lord's dais. A heavy red velvet curtain that covered the alcove's arched opening into the great hall was being pushed slowly to one side by someone or something standing behind it. A cloaked figure stepped forward from the alcove's dark recess, holding a tall staff that ended in a wicked-looking hook.
Maquesta stared at the figure, thinking she had seen it before. As she continued to gape, Attat motioned the figure to approach.
"Here is another useful addition for the Perechon crew during the morkoth expedition. Ilyatha, pull back your hood!" the minotaur commanded.
The figure had remained just inside the alcove's archway, declining to step into the main hall, which was well lit by the late afternoon sunshine streaming in through the windows behind the dais. A slender, clawed hand reached up and pushed back the hood. The creature's green eyes blinked rapidly, and it appeared to shrink away from the light.
Maq had no idea what she was looking at. It looked vaguely like a man, but short, smooth black fur covered its head and body, and under the voluminous cloak it was covered in an expensive-looking brocade tunic that looked more like a tabard because of its side slits. Its glance, as it surveyed Melas, Maq, and the others, suggested exceptional intelligence and commanded immediate respect. But the face, with its squashed-in appearance, pug nose, and sharp lower canine teeth protruding over its upper lip evoked the image of some sort of beast, perhaps an ape. Maq turned to Hvel and raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. But even Hvel looked perplexed.
I am a shadowperson.
Even though she knew she hadn't voiced her question about the nature of this creature, Maquesta once again felt she had been heard-and this time, answered. Hvel had heard, also. His eyes grew round, and Maq realized why. Shadowpeople were the stuff of legends, not real! She stared at the creature.
I am, to my dismay in this instance, indeed flesh and blood. In your tongue, the closest rendering of my name is Ilyatha. Like Tailonna, I also am a prisoner of Attat's. The reasons for my compulsory attendance here are perhaps more subtle than hers, but no less real.
Ilyatha spoke with great sadness. Only Maq was looking straight at him, and she hadn't seen his lips move! Maquesta furrowed her brow and started to open her mouth, a question burning on her lips.
"Yes, Ilyatha is a telepath," Attat explained. "He not only communicates his thoughts without speaking; it is useless to try to hide yours from him. An annoying talent, at times, but one that should prove invaluable in your quest to outwit the kuo-toa and bring back the morkoth."
Melas regarded the shadowperson suspiciously. "Can he sail?"
"Indeed, yes," said Attat, chuckling. "Ilyatha has a special proclivity for traveling by wind power. In fact, you saw a demonstration of it during the race. Ilyatha, show the honorable captain what I mean."
With apparent reluctance, the shadowperson drew a long, thin, delicately carved flute from inside his cloak. When he raised the instrument to his mouth, Maquesta, fascinated, saw that his arms were attached to the sides of his body by thin membranes, like the webbing of a bat's wing. He began to play a pure, high-pitched melody that soared and dipped and turned back on itself, tugging at Maq's memory. As the pace of the melody picked up, Maq noticed the curtains behind the dais begin to sway, the wall torches flicker. A light breeze tousled her hair, then a gust of wind caught Maq unawares, knocking her off balance and causing her to stumble into Vartan, who grabbed her by the arm and offered her a condescending smile. She could see he himself had planted his legs wide apart in order to maintain his footing against the wind that had inexplicably sprung up in the great hall.
Then Maquesta recalled when and where she had heard that music before-on the Perechon, during the race, when the Katos had finally overtaken them. Her fascination turned to fury at both Attat and Ilyatha. They had connived and used magic to make the Perechon lose! She looked over at her father and saw, by the storm gathering in his face, that he had realized the same thing.
The wind tore at a decorative metal shield suspended above Attat's chair, pulling it down and tumbling it off the carpeted dais onto the hall's stone floor with a loud clatter.
"That's enough!" a clearly vexed Attat bellowed. He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards rushed to pick up the shield.
Ilyatha took the flute from his lips. The wind died away instantly.
"You try my patience, Ilyatha, and that is not a good thing, as I shouldn't have to tell you." He glared at the shadowperson, who pulled his hood up over his head and stepped back into the dark alcove.
"What about my patience?" Melas demanded, his every word filled with unconcealed fury. "How can you expect me to take on this mission and sail the Perechon for your benefit with the aim of earning her back when you have so clearly demonstrated your untrustworthiness? You used magic to win the race! That is forbidden by the rules! I am going to complain to the Supreme Council!"
The minotaur threw back his head and laughed, the deep bass tones reverberating off the chamber walls. "Come now, Melas. Don't be foolish. I should simply deny it, as would every sailor on the Katos. Do you really think the highest minotaur ruling body would take the word of a human against that of one of its own nobles?" Attat asked, his nostrils flaring. "Oh, I suspect you'll go after the morkoth for me. I suspect you'll do it because it's your only chance, however tenuous, of getting back your precious Perechon."
For an instant, Melas stood erect with fury, staring at Attat. A pulse throbbed visibly at his temple. Then his shoulders slumped; his gaze dropped. The intricacy of Attat's plotting and arranging overwhelmed him. Was it possible the lord had this planned from the very beginning, intending to find a pawn for his creature hunt?
"Yes, I'll do it," he said, his voice pitched just above a whisper. "When do you expect us to leave? It will take a day or two to lay in supplies, and-"
"No!" The objection came from Averon, who had stood silently next to Attat throughout the meeting. Averon directed his exclamation not at Melas, but at Attat.
"We had an agreement! I paid you! I am to be the captain of the Perechon on the mission to catch the morkoth!" Averon shouted, thrusting himself forward to the edge of the dais.
Melas looked in astonishment at his friend. "Paid him? Why? With what money? What do you mean, you would be the Perechon's captain?"
"I wanted to help," Averon said, turning, wild eyes toward Melas. "Don't you see, I wanted to help you instead of you always helping me. I wanted to show I could captain the Perechon and help you get her back!" Averon pleaded, sounding more desperate each second. Melas stared at him in disbelief.
"Your friend here," Attat interjected sarcastically, "is the proud new owner of a tidy purse as a result of a bet he placed on the race, a large wager that the Katos would win."