by Tina Daniell
“I thought I’d find you at the festival, but I expected it would be at the sword-fighting exhibition, not lazing under the shade of this old tree.”
The voice at her back was good-natured, teasing. Kit looked over her shoulder to see Aureleen, well-turned out as usual, wearing a flowing petal-colored gown. Her figure had blossomed over the last year, and she was no longer a mere girl, but practically a young lady. As different as their natures were, Kit was always glad to see her friend.
“Hello, Master Majere,” Aureleen said, smiling prettily at Gilon.
Kit watched as her stepfather rose a little awkwardly, obviously charmed as well as discomfited.
“Er, would you like to join us?” Gilon asked. “Can I get you a bowl of stew?”
“Oh, no. I really don’t have much of an appetite,” Aureleen said, shaking her strawberry blond curls. “I don’t know where Kitiara puts all that food she eats.”
“The same place you ‘put’ those fried doughwheels you buy at the baker’s every day,” Kit muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Aureleen to hear. The two girls burst out laughing, joined in a minute by Gilon, who didn’t quite comprehend the joke, but was enjoying the high spirits.
Kit had already finished off her goat stew. Now she stood.
“Aureleen and I are going to go off and find some, er, jugglers,” Kit said to Gilon abruptly. A look of conspiracy crossed her friend’s face. “I’ll meet you at the crossroads outside the festival in four hours, to go back and get Raist. OK?”
Gilon, chewing a mouthful of stew, could only nod good-naturedly and wave them away.
“Mmmm, jugglers. Ah, yes, now where could those exciting fellows be?” Aureleen teased, smiling over her shoulder at Gilon as the two girls strolled off, arm and arm.
They hadn’t gone far, sauntering through the crowd and laughing, when another familiar voice brought them up short.
“Aureleen! We were supposed to meet at the dressmaker’s booth an hour ago.” Aureleen’s mother, hands on her hips, stood in front of the two friends. Unlike Aureleen, she was a homely woman with brown wavy hair and a downturned mouth. While her daughter wore finery, she usually dressed in plain household smocks.
Kitiara thought, as she often did when she encountered Aureleen’s mother, that her best friend must have gotten her looks from her father’s side of the family. He was a hard worker with a handsome, craggy face and an omnipresent twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, hello, Kitiara.”
Kit recognized the edge of coolness in the greeting. Aureleen’s mother had never fully approved of her daughter’s friendship with Kit, offspring of “that irresponsible warrior and his poor, crazy wife—before he left her.”
Aureleen shrugged and winked at Kit almost imperceptibly, before turning to placate her mother. Grasping the older woman by the elbow, she began steering her through the festival-goers toward the dressmaker’s booth. “I was coming to meet you, Mother, when Kit and I ran into Minna. You know what a talker she is, but you did teach me never to be rude to adults. Anyway …”
As they moved out of Kit’s hearing, Aureleen turned and gave Kit an apologetic little wave.
Now she was truly alone for the day. Well, good. Kit had little enough solitude.
On her own, Kit drifted away from the noise and crowds of the festival toward the commons adjacent to the fairgrounds, where the hundreds of itinerant visitors traveling to Solace for the event pitched camp. The grassy area was dotted with tents, lean-tos, boarded wagons, bedrolls, and hammocks. People congregated in groups, talking and laughing loudly, sharing drinks and food—peddlers and merchants, wandering minstrels, honest as well as dishonest tradesmen, illusionists, hucksters and the occasional warrior whose only allegiance was to the highest purse.
Kit moved away from a gaunt cleric who was standing on a tree stump and declaiming loudly to anyone who would listen about the power and omnipotence of the new gods. Few were listening to him, and Kitiara always gave clerics a wide berth.
She walked aimlessly around the perimeter of the commons, searching people’s faces and clothing for clues as to where they came from and where they were going.
The people here were more interesting to Kit than the wares and amusements of the festival. She realized she was in a part of the campground where more drink was imbibed than food eaten, and fairgoers had to be careful of their purse and their person—or risk finding themselves with a cracked skull and empty pockets. But Kit already had empty pockets and was confident she could take care of herself in a tight situation. At the very least, she could run.
Kitiara was about to turn around when the sound of a harsh laugh and muffled argument caught her attention. To her right, between two storage tents, Kit saw four persons huddled together, talking heatedly. Some sixth sense told her to sneak closer and eavesdrop on their conversation.
Creeping forward, Kit made her way inside one of the tents until only a thin sheet of canvas separated her from the group. Through a tear she could see there were four men, mercenaries by the looks of their clothing and weapons. One of them, whom she could only glimpse from the side, seemed distinctly familiar.
“I say we don’t kill him. We kidnap him and later ransom him back. That way we can double the payoff.”
“No! Forget the ransom. We’re not supposed to kill him and we’re not supposed to kidnap him. I tell you, the payroll will be plenty. Plenty for all of us, and no complications, nothing to regret.”
The first voice was a whiny one. The second—Kit knew she had heard that voice before, but where? She shifted her position, but couldn’t get a good look at any of their faces, which were turned in a narrow circle toward each other. And she could only catch some of the words because the men spoke in low voices.
“How far is this spot?” asked a third man, his voice deep and mellifluous.
“About six days to the north,” replied the familiar voice. “I have the directions, but we have to keep off the roads. I figure six days, at least, which will give us time to set the trap. According to our informant—”
A guffaw of laughter from the whiny one made everyone pause.
“According to our informant, Gwathmey’s son has to make the delivery himself, on time and according to contract. So there will be no deviation in the schedule or the route.”
“I still say, if we ask for ransom, we’ll double—” began the whiny voice.
“Forget it, Radisson,” said the deep-voiced conspirator with some authority. “Ursa is right. We do it his way.”
Kit’s heart leapt. Of course! It was the rogue she had met that long-ago day when Rosamun gave birth to the twins—Ursa II Kinth. What was he up to?
Obviously the third voice had cast the deciding vote.
“Then it’s agreed,” Kit heard Ursa say. “We will gather at midnight three days hence, out beyond the oak tree grove on the north side of town. We will ride an hour or two by moonlight, until we are safe beyond the town and farms. After that, we can make camp.”
Another pause followed, then Ursa concluded, “Now break up, keep away from each other, and until then, stay out of trouble.”
After some grumbling from the whiny-voiced one, Radisson, the group split up. Kit crouched behind a crate, giving them some time to scatter. Then she dashed outside the tent and glanced around frantically. The others had melted into the crowds and campsites, but she was lucky enough to catch sight of Ursa’s broad back and tall shape some distance away.
Racing after him, Kit trailed Ursa for several minutes as he weaved through campsites without speaking to anyone. She had to be sure Ursa was alone. At last, when she was sure, she caught up to him and fell into step.
After thirty paces or so, Ursa finally noticed the little female figure in the green tunic and brown leggings walking alongside him. Nodding curtly in her direction, Ursa quickened his pace. Because of his long legs, Kit had to jog to keep up. After a minute they had reached the far south fringe of the commons, where there was a makeshif
t stable. Few other people gathered in that area.
Deciding that the risk was minimal, Kit called out his name, a bit breathlessly. “Ursa II Kinth.”
He turned slowly, legs apart, hand on the hilt of a dagger in his belt, to confront this strange girl.
“You must be mistaken,” he said warningly. “I don’t know you.”
“I have no apple to offer you today, but I have something better,” Kit bantered with a grin.
Ursa stared at her uneasily, as if recognizing someone he hadn’t expected to see. He recovered his composure quickly and let out a bark of laughter. “You!” He reached over and gave Kit a “friendly” cuff on the ears. “Why you’ve grown up—some anyway!”
“I’ve grown up a lot,” she said, bridling.
He laughed, his eyes appraising her. “So you have,” he said. “But what could Gregor Uth Matar’s daughter have to interest me?” he asked. His tone was dismissive, though his eyes were friendly.
“Quick-witted help.”
“I have all the wits I need. Thank you, young lady.” Ursa drew out the word mockingly.
“You may, indeed, but what about your three companions? Robbery and kidnapping are serious business, and it might do to have someone along with brains as well as fighting skills.”
Ursa grabbed her by the arm, all traces of amusement vanished from his face. “My three friends have brains enough not to shout out their plans in a busy campground,” he snarled at her, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone had overheard.
He dragged her closer to the roped-off stable, then leaned into her face threateningly. “What do you know?” Ursa demanded, maintaining his rough grip on her.
“Little enough, and that’s the truth,” she said furiously, trying to shake off his grip and staring back at him in kind. “But I know you’d have to be a fool to turn me down. I’ve got skill with a sword and I’m no dunce like, like … Radisson!”
He glared at her in outraged silence.
“Make me part of the gang,” she insisted.
Ursa snorted. “My partners are greedy. They would not look kindly on dividing the pot with one more person, especially—” he ground out the word “—a girl. Forget what you heard. Forget Radisson. And I’ll do you the favor of forgetting we had this little chat.”
His eyes softened slightly. “Ask me again the next time we meet,” said Ursa, stepping back from her. “They say the third time’s the charm. Until then, farewell, Kitiara.”
Ursa gave a shout. His horse, the same muscular gray that Kit remembered from years earlier, detached itself from a cluster in the roped-off pen, easily leapt over the makeshift fence, and trotted up to the mercenary. Ursa swung smoothly up onto the horse’s unsaddled back—just like before—and was gone.
Kit stood for a minute looking after him, rubbing her arm ruefully. Unlike the last time they’d met, she knew where to find Ursa now, and when. Clenching her hands at her sides, she slowly turned back toward the fair, toward the crossroads where she was to meet Gilon.
Chapter 5
RAISTLIN’S EXAMINATION
———
For Caramon, it was a good day. All morning his mother baked batches of sunflower seed muffins, and he helped. Well, sort of. He attached himself to Rosamun, chattering like a monkey, and every time she was through with a mixing spoon or bowl, he licked it clean. His face and little tunic were splotched with batter; there were streaks of the honey-brown stuff in his hair. And when the muffins were done, he helped out by eating twelve or seventeen of them. Caramon wasn’t keeping track—he wasn’t so good at counting anyway.
After this major effort, his stomach started to feel stuffed.
“Owwwww,” he said, rubbing his round belly. “Mother, don’t you think going outside and playing might make me feel better?” He grinned at his frail mother, who smiled back sunnily. Rosamun was in the best possible mood.
“Fine, dear, just don’t wander too far. I have a little sewing and straightening up to do, and I don’t think that would help your stomach at all.”
Remembering his vow to look after her, Caramon glanced over his shoulder to make sure his mother was fine before heading out the door. Rosamun was humming to herself as she cleaned up the pots and utensils that were scattered around the kitchen.
Outside, the six-year-old climbed down a rope ladder to the area just below their cottage, where he and Raist sometimes played, within earshot of home. Nobody else was nearby, although the occasional wayfarer could be spotted through the vallenwood trunks on the main road. Stomping around, Caramon kicked away sticks and stones and cleared a space for digging.
He hunted around and found several big sticks that he judged suitable for use as picks and wedges and makeshift shovels. He knew he needed a good supply, because they tended to break.
For about an hour Caramon was thoroughly happy digging for buried treasure (he had been told by his father that treasure could be located, sometimes, in the most unlikely places). After which time the little boy stood, sweat-drenched and covered with scratches and dirt, up to his waist in a hole that was almost two feet deep. He surveyed his work with satisfaction. He hadn’t found any treasure, but he was still optimistic.
Just as Caramon was going to resume digging, a horde of little boys his own age, some of whom he knew from school, went running and shouting by on their way to somewhere.
“Where you going?” called Caramon to one he recognized.
“Crab apple war!” replied the boy, a freckled lad of eight, taking the opportunity to stop and catch his breath. “Come on!”
“Yeah! But don’t bring that droopy brother of yours!” added another boy, who screeched to a halt, almost bowling the first one over.
Caramon scampered up the rope ladder to check on Rosamun. He found her on the small porch outside the cottage, sitting in a chair next to a pile of clothes, basking in the sun as she hemmed a dress. With a smile on her face, his mother waved him off unconcernedly.
He hurried to catch up with the gang of boys, who had gathered around a little thicket of trees some ten minutes away from Caramon’s home. Tiny, firm green crab apples hung from the low-slung branches, and the boys had picked and collected dozens of them in piles on the ground. They stuffed this “ammunition” into their pockets and pouches and backpacks, while carrying as many as possible in each hand.
“There you are Caramon. Hurry up! You be commander of our side,” shouted one group of the boys, who had divided up into two armies.
Caramon, who was greatly liked—as opposed to his twin brother—and greatly feared in war games, was chosen over a number of eight -and even ten-year-old candidates. Indeed, the other “general,” a hulking ten-year-old named Ranelagh, was two heads taller than Caramon.
Taking up their positions at opposite ends of the crab apple thicket, the two sides rushed each other at the agreed upon signal. Caramon was in the forefront of his army, which numbered about a half-dozen boys, yelling and directing them.
“Willem, you go around that way. Lank, watch your backside. Wolf, take some of those crab apples and get up in that tree.”
He led the charges, throwing the little crab apples as quickly and hard as he could. Caramon had a good arm, and he nimbly dodged the hail of apples that hurtled in his direction. The object was to land as many of the missiles as possible, and then to retreat before being whacked on the shoulder, shins or, worse, noggin. It was not a game for the fainthearted.
The crab apple war went on most of the afternoon. There were occasional defections, when a boy had to quit and go home, and occasional time outs when everyone took a break and sprawled around, taking bites out of the sour fruit. But mostly it was attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, over and over, until the sun was waning.
Caramon had proved himself a worthy and brave tactician. More than the other boys he was dotted with bumps and bruises from well-aimed crab apples, not to mention pieces of pulp and gobs of juice. During the time outs, the commander had sampled
a few too many of the crab apples, so his stomach was kind of hurting again.
He and Ranelagh, who had a good-sized, bloody bulge on his forehead owing to one of Caramon’s better throws, decided that the war was a draw. They shook hands on a truce.
“It was a good fight. May we do battle again some day,” said Caramon with the gravity he imagined a real warrior would feel at the end of a fiercely fought combat. Then he let out a whoop, setting off loud cheers by survivors on both sides.
Realizing that it was almost suppertime, and that he had been gone for a good part of the day, Caramon tried to hurry along toward home, half skipping, half running. He was sore and tired and, in truth, getting a little hungry again. His clothes were torn; shaggy, golden brown hair was plastered against his brow. Dried cookie batter, dirt, crab apple sludge, cuts, scrapes, and purple bruises told the tale of his eventful day.
As Caramon came around a bend within sight of the high vallenwood that bore his home, he heard a distinctly feminine scream for help. He immediately thought of his mother, but the cry came from another direction, near a clump of smaller trees, not from his cottage.
Running over, he saw a girl about his own age, standing and looking up toward the higher reaches of one of the trees. She was cute and dimpled, but her face was marred by tears. Looking up, too, Caramon saw that a small tabby was lodged in the branches near the very top of the tree.
“My kitty!” the girl said, pointing upward for Caramon’s benefit. “My kitty is stuck in that tree!”
Caramon looked up again, a frown on his face. He was awfully tired, and the tree looked awfully high.
“It’s such a tall tree,” the girl continued, turning to give Caramon the full benefit of her pleading expression. “I would climb it myself, except that I can’t reach the branches to get started. My kitty’s name is Cirque. I’m afraid he’s going to be stuck up there forever.” She started to wail, then quieted to a few sobs and sniffles. Caramon stood there awkwardly, wanting to comfort her but not knowing what to do.