by Tina Daniell
The crowd liked the fresh attraction. They erupted in new laughter, taunts, and yelling. As for Bronk, he stared in disbelief. “Aw, she has to have help from her little baby brother. Isn’t that cute!”
“Pssst!” whispered Kitiara, and not much of a whisper at that. “Back off, Caramon. This is my fight.”
“It would not be honorable,” intoned Caramon solemnly, trying to sound baritone and warriorlike. The sturdier of the two Majere brothers waded forward to meet Bronk, who had paused with uncertainty as to who, or how many, he was going to have to fight.
There was another push from behind, and this time Caramon went sprawling head over heels, jolting a nearby vegetable cart and tipping it precariously. The owner, who was interrupted in the middle of a promising sales pitch, shrieked a curse. He picked the boy up by the nape of his tunic until Caramon’s legs dangled off the ground. This the swelling number of onlookers thought the funniest thing yet.
“I’ll let you know what’s honorable, and what’s not, little brother,” scolded Kitiara. “Especially where my honor is concerned.”
Caramon broke away from the vegetable man and, with dignity, dusted himself off. He glared at Kit balefully.
“I was trying to be chiv … chiv …”
“Chivalric!” muttered Raistlin half to himself, before sitting down on an outcropping of stone. His watery eyes did not look as fascinated as the rest of the crowd’s.
“Chivalric!” exclaimed Caramon, with a look of gratitude at his brother. He marched up to Kitiara, nose to chest, his look determined and fierce.
“Try being chivalric somewhere else,” said Kitiara tolerantly. She pushed him off.
“Ingrate!” Caramon said, stepping forward again.
“Squirt!” she retorted, a glint in her eyes.
By now the crowd had forgotten Bronk, and the troublemaker had safely melted—with some relief—back into the throng. All eyes were trained on Caramon as he made the first move, bringing his stick up and whacking Kit hard on her right arm. He followed that swift assault with another one, which caught her across the knees. She bent over, wincing.
Up rose a huzzah from the spectators—now as many adults as young people—as they gathered in a half-circle around the two squabbling siblings. Caramon somehow managed to leapfrog over Kitiara’s doubled-over form while delivering a backblow with the knob of his amateur weapon. For such a youngster it was an impressive display of agility.
But even as Caramon turned to grin smugly at the crowd, Kit straightened up and whirled toward him, grabbing the boy by the waist and hoisting him over her shoulders like a bag of potatoes. She spun him in a circle, then tossed him through the air to land on his back in the brackish water of a nearby trough.
The crowd erupted with glee. Their cries were cut short when Caramon sprang out of the trough and, dripping water and sediment, hurled himself at his sister with what he believed to be a Solamnic war cry. It was something Caramon dimly recalled hearing once, which was really more a kender insult cry.
Whack! This time Kitiara blocked his swing with an outstretched arm, another with her hand, so that Caramon had to spin around—Where did he learn to do that? Kit wondered fleetingly—in order to deliver a shot to the back of her shoulder.
Kitiara rubbed her shoulder ruefully, amused in spite of her pain. They had wrestled like this many times in the forest. Good thing that stick was not particularly thick or heavy, she decided. That Caramon was sure getting feisty, though. “Ouch!” she yelped as something caught her on the ear. “Now that stung!”
“Sorry,” said Caramon, panting. He was grinning like a drunken kender and plainly having fun, too.
Kitiara flipped around, dove to the ground, and grabbed the upstart by the feet. As Caramon rained blows on her head, Kit thumped him to the ground. He dropped his stick, and she managed to kick it away. In doing so, she pinned him down, got a hold on one of his legs, and bent it back toward his head. But at the same time he was able to reach behind him and grab her head in his hands. They were all pretzeled up together, grunting and sputtering, she twisting his leg, he bending her by the neck.
“Give up!” Kit demanded, pulling his leg so close to his back that the crowd groaned in sympathy with the pain.
“No way!” Caramon roared.
The crowd signaled its approval of the defiant standoff. Kit bent Caramon’s leg back even farther; she could almost hear the bones popping. In reply, he tightened his hold on her head. While his face was being pressed into the ground, hers was being bent back to face the sky.
“Give!
“You give!”
“I won!”
“I won first!”
“Let Raist be the judge!”
Pause. “OK.”
“Raist? Raist?”
Kitiara managed to swivel her head enough to see that Raistlin had vanished. Caramon’s twin had observed this entertaining spectacle a few too many times in his short life, and he was quickly bored by the variations on it. Raist had given up and wandered away.
Kitiara jumped up. “Raistlin!”
Caramon jumped up too, rubbing his face. His tunic was ripped in places. Kitiara’s ear was showing a drool of blood. “Aw c’mon,” muttered Caramon, “where can he have got to now?”
Kitiara wheeled on him vehemently. “How many times do I have to tell you? You’re his brother! He’s your responsibility as much as mine!”
Caramon looked not only somewhat beat up but contrite. “Aw, why do I have to look after him all the time? You’re his big sister, aren’t you? Anyway, I—”
Kitiara practically spat out the words. “You’re his twin brother, his twin brother. You’re two halves of the same whole. And he’s not as strong as you. You know that. I’m not going to babysit the two of you for the rest of my life. So go find him, and hurry up about it!”
She aimed a kick at Caramon but missed by a narrow margin. He had taken her words to heart and was already dashing away to locate his missing twin.
In exasperation Kitiara sank to the ground. Realizing the fun was over, most of the onlookers had moved off into the larger crowd. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her anymore. Kit felt her ear and reached over to adjust one of her boots that had somehow almost wriggled off.
“You should have let him best you!”
She looked up to see a girl her age, with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Aureleen Damark, the coquettish daughter of a local furniture-maker, was one of Kit’s few friends. They were practically opposites, but Kitiara had to admit that Aureleen made her laugh.
“Who, Caramon?” Kit scoffed, as she flashed a welcoming grin at her friend.
“No, Speckleface!” answered Aureleen earnestly. “Why do you think he’s always picking on you, anyway?”
“Probably just mean and dumb,” said Kit flatly.
Aureleen sat down beside Kit and spread her gangly legs out. “Not at all,” scolded Aureleen. “Although I won’t argue with you that he’s dumb.” She giggled. “He likes you!”
Kitiara looked sternly into the eyes of her friend, finding it hard to believe Aureleen wasn’t kidding. “Speckleface?”
“He’s not so ugly really,” said Aureleen decidedly, arranging her pink and white dress so that it spread out around her like a coral shell in the dirt and dust. With her rosy cheeks and long-lashed eyes, Aureleen was the picture of femininity. “Guys like a girl who acts tough, Father says. Although,” she paused and thought for a moment. “Mother says they prefer one with a soft heart. Hard outside, soft inside. What does your father say?”
Kitiara sighed. She could never keep up with the line of Aureleen’s prattle. “Did say … did say. I haven’t seen my father in almost six years, Aureleen. You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” said Aureleen reprovingly. “I mean Gilon—your stepfather, if you want to be technical. What does he say?”
“He doesn’t say much, thank the spirits,” said Kitiara. She glared fi
ercely at her friend. “Life isn’t just about getting a man anyway,” she declared.
“Oh, I disagree,” said Aureleen, fluffing out her hair prettily. “My point is that Bronk likes you because you act strong and tough. But it would be better to let him win if it comes to wrestling or fighting. Men have their pride, and boys are worse.”
With that, she reached into a fold of her skirt and brought out a thick square of fruit bread, broke it in half, and offered Kitiara a share.
Kit had to smile. Soon the two girls were whispering and laughing as they ate the treat. The fairgoers simply walked around them; the Red Moon Fair was casual if nothing else.
“Miss Kitiara …”
This time Kit looked up to see Minna, her mother’s former midwife, staring down at her with a most calculating expression. Kit hadn’t seen the old biddy in several months. Aureleen jumped to her feet politely, and Kitiara reluctantly followed suit.
“How’s your dear mother been?” Minna asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Kit said in a low voice.
“I haven’t seen her about much lately,” continued Minna, her eyes narrowing to slits.
No, and you won’t you old witch, Kitiara thought to say, but her tongue was tied and her eyes cast to the ground.
“Why, she’s right here, enjoying herself at the fair,” piped up Aureleen in an ingenuous tone.
“What? Here?” Minna looked thrown by this report.
“Yes ’m,” said Aureleen pertly. “She accompanied us here, and then … you know how it is, she had to go off with those two rascal boys somewhere. They were pulling her arms and legs—it was very funny to see—and she laughing and enjoying herself so very much.”
“Where? Where did they go?” Minna gazed over the heads of the crowd, avid for a new piece of gossip.
“Oh, you might look for them over by the games, if you just want to say hello, ma’am,” said Aureleen innocently.
“I might just do that,” Minna replied, suspicious.
She peered intently at Kit, but Kitiara’s mask of politeness betrayed nothing.
“If you do, please tell her we’re dawdling behind,” said Aureleen.
“Yes, yes. I will,” said Minna busily, looking over her shoulder at them as she hurried off through the crowd. The midwife was certain she had been gulled, but just in case, she would try to track Rosamun down.
When Minna was out of sight, the girls collapsed on each other. They were laughing so hard they could hardly stop for several minutes.
“That was royal,” said Kit finally, catching her breath.
They giggled some more. “Yes’m, laughing and enjoying herself so much, she was!” Aureleen mimicked herself.
Kitiara stopped suddenly and drew an intake of breath. “Oh, I’ve got to find the twins!” she muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Aureleen reassured her, “they’ll be—”
“I’d better,” said Kitiara, turning to go.
“Oh, all right,” grumbled Aureleen, following her. “Darned nuisances, both of ’em.”
While Kitiara was tussling with Caramon, a tall, thin man with piercing feline eyes, frosted eyelashes, and a dry, leathery face weaved through the crowd near Raistlin, handing out cards. Instinctively Raist reached out his hand, and the man put one of the cards in his tiny palm. On it was a weird inscription. The little boy could not read so very well yet, but he could decipher a symbol on the slip of paper—one of the many iconic symbols for a traveling magician.
When the man moved off, Raistlin got up and followed. In liquid motion the man threaded his way through the crowd, past this booth and that stall, around a patch of rocks and trees, down a path where people were clumped around, eating their lunches, to a small clearing that had been set aside for a presentation. The shambling man nodded at Raist conspiratorially and continued on his way, handing out cards. The crowd seemed to divide for him, then to swallow him up.
Raistlin looked to the center of the clearing. There, a circle of people had begun to tighten around a man preparing a show. When the man looked up for a moment, Raistlin had a flash of recognition. He looked behind him, to where he had last glimpsed the man with the cards, and then back at the other. The man setting up the show was almost identical to the one he had been following, except that this man was dressed in a yellow robe of somewhat faded grandeur.
Twins! thought Raistlin to himself, like me and Caramon. Intrigued by the coincidence, the boy moved closer. Soon he was only one of the dozen or so people who stood around, talking amongst themselves and waiting for the traveling magician to begin his act.
The man was arranging containers and scrolls and small objects on a stand that he had unfolded. As he did so, he murmured and cackled, seemingly to himself, but with some winking and nods to members of the crowd. One of the audience, a young maid with long, braided hair and a peach complexion, seemed to interest him particularly. When he cleared his throat to begin, for a moment his eyes rested on her.
Plucking a small coin from the recesses of his garment, the magician held it up to his audience, and then, with a flourish, carried it to the edge of the clearing and placed it against the forehead of a bowlegged farmer who stood gaping at him. “Think. Think hard,” intoned the illusionist. “Think of something important to you. One word or two. Don’t try to fool a clever old magician.…”
The farmer fretted his brow intensely, the job of thinking apparently every bit as arduous as that of plowing soil. “New cow,” proclaimed the magician with a flourish, and the farmer’s face flushed with an astonished expression that indicated the magician had got it right.
The magician moved down the row and came to the maid he had been eyeing. More gently, he held the coin to this one’s forehead, looking deeply into her fresh face. Her expression, unlike the farmer’s, was carefree. The magician seemed to ponder thoughtfully before crying out, “A young man named … Artis!” She clapped her hands in delight as he continued, a slight frown on his face as if he were a little disappointed at what her thoughts revealed.
Raistlin was startled to see the mage’s hand with the coin in it stretch out toward him. As he watched the man intently, the magic coin was planted against his own perspiring forehead. “Now, a child. Children’s minds are easy to plumb,” exclaimed the magician, bending over as if to listen with one ear to the message of the coin. Raistlin’s face was terrified. He squirmed a bit, but he stayed rooted to the spot, awaiting the revelation.
Probably no one but Raistlin noticed the surprise that flickered over the man’s face as he strained for the insight that did not come. The yellow-robed magician bent closer, and so did the crowd as it listened for what he would say. There was a suspense of nearly one minute.
“Candy!” declared the magician, straightening up with an impressive gesture. The spectators cheered and applauded. “Candy,” repeated the magician, turning back to his array of objects and stealing another furtive glance at the pretty young girl.
Nobody paid much attention to Raistlin. “I wasn’t thinking of candy,” he said irritably under his breath. But he had to admit the old professional was a crowd-pleaser. The boy moved closer, for the illusionist was already in the middle of his next stunt.
The man was waving his hands gracefully now, chanting a few words. He opened drawers and doves flew out, opened pockets and discovered sparkling trinkets, tore and shredded colored paper and then reconstructed the scraps. Raistlin knew, somewhere inside of himself, that it was only hocus-pocus, not very difficult, certainly not very meaningful magic. But in his almost five years, the boy had never seen such a wondrous show. The crowd watched in respectful silence. Raistlin himself was mesmerized.
“There you are, Raist!” Caramon came up beside him, huffing with importance. “Kitiara asked me to find you and bring you back right away.” He looked over his shoulder, a little disoriented. “Although I’m not quite sure where ‘back’ is right—”
“Shhh!” Raistlin gave him a stern glance, and then paid his brot
her no further attention.
Caramon looked up just in time to witness the climax of the traveling magician’s performance, probably the apex of the man’s knowledge and skill. As far as Caramon could tell, the tall, thin mage was juggling several balls of light in the air. Big deal, he thought. In all, Caramon was about as fascinated by magic feats as Raistlin was by his twin’s wrestling matches.
Caramon was glancing over his shoulder, looking for Kitiara, when a huge hurrah went up from the crowd. He looked back, but he was too late. The finale was over, and the mage was packing up his stuff. Another man—almost a ringer for the magician, Caramon thought with a frown—had begun passing a basket for donations.
“What did he do?” Caramon asked Raistlin. “What did he do?”
But Raistlin said nothing, and the expression on his face was almost beatific.
“There you two are!” said a hearty voice, and one hand clasped each of them on the shoulders. “You should be home. And where’s Kitiara?”
It was Gilon, Amber yipping at his heels. He gave both his sons a squeeze and hoisted Raistlin easily to his sturdy shoulders. “C’mon!” he shouted to Caramon. “Where’s Kit?” he asked again, looking around hesitantly.
“Uh,” said Caramon, looking behind him. “Back there. Or back somewhere. We got separated because Raist—”
Gilon scolded Caramon affectionately. “You’ve got chores to do, and you shouldn’t leave your mother at home alone. You know that.” He looked round again. “Well,” he shrugged, “Kit will catch up.”
Gilon set a vigorous pace. Caramon had to run to keep up. Raistlin, bouncing on his father’s shoulders, twisted his head to get a last glimpse of the magician in the faded yellow robe. But he and his look-alike had already vanished.
Peeking out from behind a tent, Kitiara and Aureleen observed their going. Aureleen pondered the situation, biting the nail of her thumb.
“I should really go,” began Kitiara.