Vartan, who was, in fact, good-looking and more than a little vain about it, flushed and turned his attention back to the stew as his mates hooted and laughed at Maq's response.
"Averon left to buy some good rum and a keg of ale, so we can start celebrating as soon as we cross the finish line tomorrow," Melas announced. "With the prize money we'll all get our pay-and our back pay. Let's keep our minds on that goal, not on anything else." Melas's eyes swept the galley, resting ever so slightly on Maq and Vartan.
With that, the captain bent his head over his bowl, and the others followed suit. Lendle, who had more fondness for ale than stew, downed a mug of the brew and started whistling as he spooned the last few servings of the meal into now-empty bowls.
Chapter 2
With her sails unfurled to speed her course, the Perechon greeted the early morning waves with eager grace, responding to every breath of wind under the firm guidance of Melas, who had taken the helm.
Maquesta, checking a line on the mizzenmast, marveled at the weather. They had been racing since dawn, and the sky had never held more than a few white puffs of clouds. The sea breezes had blown steadily and reasonably strongly. Without storms or lack of wind to worry about, Melas and his crew had been able to concentrate on their main challenge-the course. Maq grinned. It would be her turn at the wheel soon, and she couldn't wait to prove herself. She'd steered the ship hundreds of times, of course, but not in a race-at least not in one as important and potentially fruitful as this one.
The course would take them north and east, out of deep Horned Bay then around the island, past the Cracklin Coast with its strong currents and unfriendly bullsharks, and past the Blade, where the sea floor fell away to an immeasurable trench, creating unpredictable turbulence. The trench served, it was rumored, as a home for a colony of ghagglers-or sligs, as most sailors called them-large, distant cousins to goblins who breathed water as easily as air.
The Perechon had been increasing her lead when the lookout noticed one of the racing ships closest behind had fallen foul to something over a coral ridge. The Waverunner, a schooner from the Somber Coast, stood dead in the water.
"The crew's working with the sails, Cap'n!" the lookout called, a spyglass pressed against his right eye. "Looks as if they hit a bit of bad luck and the rigging's tangled. I don't see anything in the water that would've stopped them. No rocks or reefs, and not much turbulence today-no more than what we passed through. There's another ship farther back though. She looks under full sail, having no problems. But it doesn't look as though they can catch us!"
The Perechon would have to sail through where the treacherous Eye of the Bull narrowed between Mithas and Kothas, then around the rocky southwestern tip of the island, called by many sailors "Slim Chance." Then the course would take them back to Horned Bay-all before nightfall of the second day if they wanted to win the race-and they did.
The rules were wind power only, no oars, and every ship entering had to be at least a hundred feet from bow to stern, regardless of keel length. The Perechon had begun the course as one among a dozen. It didn't take long for their ranks to start thinning, though other ships were catching up during the late evening of the first day. But Vartan adjusted the rigging, and the Perechon pulled even farther ahead of her competitors.
Shortly after dawn Maquesta saw a merchant carrack, the Saburnia, and a slightly seedy privateer, the Vasa, driven off course into the northern Courrain Ocean by strong and unpredictable currents near the Cracklin Coast. Whether they would get back into the race, and what would happen to the other vessels that had dropped out of sight, Maq didn't know. The Perechon held her lead and began putting greater and greater distances between herself and the rest of the ships. She made good progress until midmorning, when the winds between a section of high banks that the Perechon was passing through dropped to almost nothing.
It was in that lull that two other ships, still benefiting from stronger winds, were able to draw near. Now, with the morning sun shining brightly and the wind about the Perechon picking up, Maq could see that there were no other contenders beyond the Perechon and those two-the Torado of Saifhum, captained by Limrod, who was well known to the crew of the Perechon as a worthy, though still inadequate, opponent; and a handsome ship that was a stranger to all of them, the Katos. A minotaur vessel, she had slipped into the Lacynos harbor in the last minutes before the race began, apparently already registered.
Maq watched her now with growing respect. She was just off the Perechon's starboard stern, pursuing them with determination but, Maq was pleased to note, seemingly unable to close the final gap. Minotaur vessels were not particularly known for their speed. It would be a rare one indeed that could match the Perechon. The Torado sailed almost abreast of the Katos, but to the port side of the Perechon.
"Reef the topsails and everybody-mind your posts!" As much as he hated the idea of slowing down and risking the Perechon's lead, Melas knew it would be foolish to come round the southeastern edge of Mithas and attempt to pass through the Eye of the Bull at full sail. He felt confident that any time lost could be won back sailing up the west coast of the island.
The surface of the sea roiled as they approached, not in regular waves but an uneven to-and-fro that intensified at the point the ships needed to turn west, which was where the underwater ridge extending from the island dropped off into the Blade's trench.
"Keep your eye on the Torado," Melas told Maquesta, who had joined him for a moment on the bridge. "She'll make her move now, or I don't know Limrod."
He was right. Her sails bulging with the wind, the Torado began gaining on the Perechon. She also started to cut in closer to the coast of Mithas, whereas Melas was taking the Perechon around the outside edge of the turbulence, closer to Kothas. The Torado's course would save the ship distance as well as take her away from the worst turbulence. But, Maq realized, the shallower coastal waters could prove dangerous for a ship as large as the Torado, especially because the rocky submarine ridge rose up at points very near the surface of the sea.
"Maquesta! Stop daydreaming and come give us a hand!"
The summons came from Averon, who with a few other sailors was struggling to tie down the mizzen topsail, a task made increasingly difficult by the freshening wind. The gusts, which often gathered force at this stretch of sea, contributed to the turbulence, as Melas had known it would. Embarrassed at her momentary inactivity, Maq glanced quickly at her father, but Melas's attention was now consumed with the handling of his ship. He hadn't noticed.
Maquesta scrambled up the rigging. By the time she reached the section where Averon and the others were working on the topsail, they had succeeded in securing it to the yard. She swore at herself under her breath, but checked the rigging while she was up there. It made her look busy, at least.
"Don't be so downhearted, girl," Averon said with a wink as he began lowering himself down one side of the rigging. "If you're looking for work, there's plenty to go around. Come with me."