There was more than just things to buy, of course. Bards and entertainers of all sorts had come to ply their trades. Wandering about the fair, Caramon counted a dozen minstrels and storytellers, a company of acrobats, a puppet show, stilt-walkers, jugglers, jesters and a fire-eater. He and Tika stopped to watch, and left coins in hats here and there.
There were others, too: reminders of what the world had lost ten years ago. False prophets preached to the masses, seeking converts for their faiths. Caramon cast them a baleful eye—in his youth, he and his friends had run afoul of their like many times—but he left them alone. Some people needed gods to believe in, and the real ones weren't coming back soon.
It hurt more to see the magicians. To the delight of onlookers, they made coins dance in the air, conjured white birds out of nothing, and cut ropes to pieces, only to make them whole again. It was all fakery and flash powder, of course. Caramon's brother had performed most of the tricks when they were boys. For Raistlin, such illusions had been a means to the end of learning true magic. Raist was gone with the gods, though, and sorcery with him. Caramon was sure some of the "magicians" on the fairgrounds today had once been real wizards, wielding true spells. It saddened him to see them, reduced to roadside spectacles.
Besides watching the buskers perform, the townsfolk also made their own fun. A riddling contest was due to take place later on. On the far side of the square, human and elven archers feathered targets with lethal accuracy. Footraces, javelin throws, and other contests drew the skillful and foolish. Caramon and Tika stopped for a while beside one game, where two young men with quarterstaffs stood on a beam above a mud pit, trying to knock each other off. The crack of wood against wood sounded above the crowd's shouts.
The combatants traded blows, dodging and blocking, until finally one gained the upper hand. He struck his opponent's knee with the end of his staff, then swept his weapon up and hit him again in the chest. The stricken man toppled from the beam, landing in the pit with a splash that spattered mud on the onlookers.
Laughter and curses rose as bets were settled and young men yelled challenges against the champion. Soaking with mud, the defeated man rose from the pit and stormed off into the crowd.
"Look at this," Tika groaned, brushing her mud-flecked skirts. "We've been here an hour, and my frock's ruined. You'll have to buy me a new one."
Caramon grunted but said nothing, staring wistfully at the beam.
Tika groaned. "No," she told him. "I know that look. Just forget about it."
He sighed, not seeming to hear. "I used to fight in competitions like that, when I was young." He nodded at the champion, who arrogantly straddled the beam. "I could have knocked that whelp halfway to Haven."
Tika snorted. "That was fifty years ago, you dolt," she scolded. "I could have done the same, back then. But you're not seventeen any more, Caramon. That's a game for young men."
Reluctantly, Caramon turned to face her. "So what's left for me to do?"
Sensing another mood coming on, Tika looked around. "There's always the eating contests," she said, pointing.
Caramon's eyes drifted to a table where several large men were cramming a seemingly endless supply of sausages into their mouths while the watching crowd laughed. "I will not do that," he sulked, grimacing. "I'd look less of a fool if I locked myself in the pillory and let people throw rotten fruit at me."
"And you'd have looked better, getting knocked on your backside in the mud?"
Caramon looked down at Tika, saw the fire in her eyes, and grinned. "Point taken."
He turned, peering over the heads of the other fairgoers. At six and a half feet, he towered above nearly everyone. After a moment, he started shoving through the mob.
Tika hurried to keep pace. "What is it?" she asked. "I can't see a thing—"
He gave no answer, leading the way to a shouting knot of people, crowded about a table on a crude, wooden dais. As the crowd parted to let him pass, Tika saw what had caught his attention. A doubtful frown appeared on her face.
Atop the dais, two muscular, sweating men sat across from each other at the table. One was a young, beefy farmboy; the other was Japeth, a woodcutter and frequent patron of the Inn. Their right elbows were on the table, their hands clenched together. The arm-wrestlers grimaced and grunted, muscles bunching in their arms and necks as they pitted strength against strength.
"Well, this is exciting," Tika said dryly.
Caramon shushed her, his eyes on the contest. Japeth had a slight advantage, his quivering arm slowly pushing the farm-boy's over. The onlookers roared with approval, and Japeth started to grin.
Then the farmboy smiled too. The crowd fell still as, with a burst of new strength, he pushed back. In a heartbeat they were deadlocked again; in another, Japeth was faltering. He held out a few moments longer, but in the end it wasn't enough. Still grinning, the farmboy pushed him all the way over, slamming his arm against the tabletop. Japeth slumped as a short, bald man came forward.
"Uwen wins!" shouted the bald man, raising the farmboy's hand. "That's three in a row, lad. Want to try for a fourth?"
The boy nodded, grinning, as Japeth's friends led the woodcutter away.
"All right, then!" The bald man turned to the crowd. "Who's next?"
Tika slumped. She didn't need to glance at Caramon to see the look on his face. He'd mope the rest of the day if she didn't let him wrestle. With a small shrug, she let go of his arm and shoved him forward.
"Right here!" she called.
Caramon stared across the table at the farmboy—Uwen, his name was. The lad was blond and sunburned, with a face so guileless it was almost comical. He looked fairly intimidated. He knew who his opponent was, though his father had been a boy when Caramon was fighting in the War of the Lance. The contest's judge checked their hands, making sure their grip was good—Caramon was left-handed, but had offered the boy his right—and stepped back.
"Remember the rules," the judge declared. "Keep your other arm at your side, and if your elbow comes off the table—or your arse off your seat—you're out." He turned to shout at the crowd. "Next round! Uwen Gondil against the challenger, Caramon Majere. Bets, please."
Caramon offered Uwen a friendly grin. The boy bit his lip.
"Go," said the judge.
Caramon moved quickly, pushing with all his might. Uwen's arm dropped halfway to the tabletop before he recovered—then, muscles bunching, he shoved back. To both men's surprise, he slowly pushed Caramon's arm back upright. They ground their teeth and groaned with effort. Before long, Uwen pulled even. Then he pushed even harder, gaining the upper hand.
Caramon couldn't believe it. He'd wrestled stronger men than this: trained warriors, gladiators, even half-ogres. He'd defeated them all, too. But this apple-cheeked lad—he couldn't have seen more than eighteen summers—was beating him!
The onlookers shrieked furiously, most of them as amazed as Caramon. Tika's voice carried above them all. "Rip his arm off!" she hollered. "Make him cry for his mother!"
Caramon found the strength to shove harder, stopping Uwen and forcing him back an inch, then another, until they were even again. They stayed that way for a long moment, trembling, then Caramon shut his eyes and gave another push.
Uwen faltered, his strength suddenly flagging. Startled, Caramon seized the opportunity. Uwen never had the chance to recover: Within seconds his hand hit the table, and he grabbed his arm with a pained grimace. The crowd cheered, thrusting their fists in the air.
Caramon didn't rejoice, however. As the judge came forward, his eyes met Uwen's, and he knew the boy had thrown the match. Sorry, Uwen's gaze said. I thought you'd be able to win without my help.
Before Caramon could say anything, though, Tika climbed onto the dais and threw her arms around his neck. When she let him go again, Uwen was already gone.
The crowd was chanting Caramon's name. The judge grabbed his hand and raised it, proclaiming him the winner. Feeling no satisfaction at all, Caramon rose. "Come on
," he told Tika. "Let's go."
"No!" the judge said, grabbing Caramon's elbow. "Don't leave! You're the champion."
Caramon looked to Tika for help, but she shook her head. "You wanted to do this," she said.
Scowling, Caramon looked out over the clamoring crowd. "All right, who's next?"
The cheering stopped. The onlookers fell silent, none willing to speak a word, lest it be misinterpreted as a challenge. No one was eager to take Uwen's place. The crowd began to thin, moving on to other parts of the fair.
"Hey!" the judge snapped. "Don't walk away! Somebody has to have the guts to—"
"I'll do it!" called a loud voice.
The onlookers froze, turning. Caramon followed their gaze, and saw the man who'd spoken. He was hard to miss.
He stood at the back of the crowd, towering head-and-shoulders above the tallest of the townsfolk. He looked like a barbarian: bare-chested, his skin a ruddy brown, and sporting a shock of long, ash-blond hair, with a short beard to match. His jaw was strong, his eyes dark. About his neck was a bronze tore, and matching bracers graced his wrists. A large ring hung from his right ear.
He smiled broadly as the villagers gawked. His teeth were huge and white. "I am Trephas," he said, tossing his head proudly. "I will wrestle thee, Hero of the Lance."
He strode forward, and the crowd parted, murmuring in awe. When the foremost onlookers stepped aside, Caramon and Tika caught their breaths in amazement.
The man wasn't a man at all. His sturdy human torso ended at the waist; below, where his legs should have been, was the body of a chestnut horse, with white fetlocks and a proud, ash-blond tail.
Trephas was a centaur.
As Caramon gaped, he heard the crowd's startled muttering begin to grow angry. While there'd been little trouble with the centaurs of Darken Wood in the past, things had changed in the past few years. More than once, their kind had waylaid folk on the Haven Road. Several people had disappeared, and stories had started about how the lost travelers had been murdered by the horsefolk. The tales grew steadily grimmer over time: They ate the flesh of their enemies, some said. They stole maidens and took them into Darken Wood to ravish. They coupled with horses, who died giving birth to twisted, misshapen foals.
The crowd was glaring at Trephas, but they hung back, seeing the broad-bladed spear looped through his war harness. From the way he carried himself, it was clear he could use the weapon well.
Either Trephas didn't notice the crowd's hostility, or he didn't care. He strode to the dais and bowed, a courtly gesture that didn't match his uncouth appearance.
"May I join thy game?" he asked. His accent was as formal and archaic as his demeanor.
The judge regarded the ornery crowd, then turned back to Trephas. "It'll be difficult," he ventured. "You can't get up on this platform so easy, built like you are."
"True," the centaur agreed. "But there's no need. I'm the right height where I stand, if thou wilt move thy table to the edge of the dais."
"Hmmm," the judge said. He frowned at the table, then shrugged. "All right, I've no problem with it—if our champion doesn't mind."
Caramon eyed the centaur: as tall as a small ogre, and nearly as broad, Trephas looked like he could have flattened Uwen the farmboy. But Caramon knew he couldn't refuse. The townsfolk wouldn't allow it, and he didn't want things to get any uglier.
"Sure," he said. "I'm game."
"Excellent!" boomed Trephas as Caramon and Tika helped the judge drag the table over.
The crowd was muttering excitedly, more passersby joining the mob every moment. When everything was in place, Caramon sat and rested his left elbow on the tabletop—he'd be damned if he was going to wrestle the horse-man with his off-hand.
Trephas flashed another toothy grin. "Mayhap we can make this more interesting?"
Caramon's brow furrowed. "A wager?"
"Aye. If I lose, I shall remain in Solace for a season, and keep the stables at thy Inn," Trephas declared. "Thy horses shall never know better care."
"And if you win?" Tika asked suspiciously.
"Then, madam, I ask thy husband to accompany me to Darken Wood."
The crowd's muttering redoubled. Caramon started, blinking. "What?" he gulped. "Go into Darken Wood? What in Paladine's name for?"
"I don't intend to leave this fair empty-handed," Trephas replied. "If I beat thee, thou wilt carry my goods to my home."
"Carry—" Caramon stammered, then shook his head. "But you're a horsel Can't you just get a wagon and haul it yourself?"
A haughty gleam sparked in the centaur's eye. "I am a chieftain's son. I don't haul wagons. That job," he added with a sneer, "is better suited to a common ox. Now, wilt thou accept my wager?"
Caramon glowered, fighting back the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to make such a bet… but on the other hand, if he turned it down… .
"Absolutely not," Tika snapped, coming to his rescue. She planted her hands on her hips, a dark line appearing between her brows. "My husband was smart enough not to want to go into Darken Wood when he was young, and he isn't so fuddled by age to think otherwise now. Right, Caramon?"
"Uh, right," he answered lamely. "But," he added, seeing the centaur frown, "I'll offer something else. I've just tapped my spring ale. If I lose, I'll give you two kegs to take back with you in my stead."
Trephas considered, still crestfallen at Caramon's refusal. At length, though, he nodded and rested his left elbow on the table. "So be it," he said, clasping Caramon's hand. "And let the best man win, four legs or two."
The judge raised his voice. "New round, then! Caramon Majere against the challenger, Trephas—er—"
"Son of Nemeredes the Elder," Trephas said.
"Sure. All right, then. Go!"
The centaur's grip was like a band of iron. He was every bit as strong as he looked. Right away, Caramon was straining and moaning and hissing through his teeth as he fought to keep Trephas from pushing him over. The crowd roared as he and the centaur struggled. Thus, between the noise and the pounding of blood in his ears, it was understandable Caramon didn't hear the shouting at first.
It started on the far side of the fairground, where the wealthier merchants had set up their tents. It quickly grew louder and closer, and heads began to turn. Someone—folk soon recognized him as Ganlamar, a rich gemcutter from Gateway—was yelling at the top of his lungs:
"Stop! Thief!"
Throughout the crowd, kender—there would always be kender at the Spring Dawning fair, no matter how much people wished otherwise—jumped up and looked around, trying to see who the gemcutter was talking about. Some were so distracted, they dropped the rings and money-pouches they'd been tucking, absentmindedly, into their pockets.
The thief and his pursuer were headed toward Caramon, but still he didn't hear. He focused on holding out against Trephas's strength. His muscles burned. Black spots danced before his eyes. The centaur hadn't even broken a sweat.
Then, in a blur, the thief darted past the crowd. Caramon only glimpsed a young, slender figure in a bright green shirt, but Tika stared as it passed, and choked in horror.
"Dezra?" she yelped.
"What?" Caramon blurted, looking up.
The moment's distraction was all Trephas needed. With one great shove, he slammed Caramon's arm down onto the table. Caramon grunted in surprise, then rose from his seat and turned to stare after the thief. About fifty yards on, a rope ladder dangled from a walkway high above, among the vallenwoods' boughs. The figure in green leapt, caught it, and scrambled upward, laughing all the way.
"Oh, gods," Caramon moaned, watching in disbelief as his youngest daughter made her getaway.
4
It bad seemed a good idea at the time.
Dezra Majere had woken before dawn, dressed quietly, and snuck out of her room, past her parents' chamber to the stairs. Her hand had been on the banister when she heard the dick of a door opening behind her.
She'd frozen, stomach clenching,
and glanced back, expecting to see her father. It was just Laura, though. Relieved, Dezra had raised a finger to her lips, then nodded down the stairs.
Soundlessly, the sisters had crept down to the tavern. Dezra had slipped into the kitchen to grab a wedge of cheese, given half to her sister, wolfed the rest down.
"What's happening?" Laura had asked. "Why are you up so early?"
"I'm going out," Dezra had answered.
Laura's face had tightened with concern. "Father's tapping the spring beer today," she'd said. "He's bound to miss you."
"Let him. I'm not running tankards to a bunch of drunks."
"He'll ask me where you went."
Dezra had thrown up her hands. "Laura, don't be hopeless. Just cover for me, and I'll never ask you again."
"That's what you said last week. And the week before that."
"And you did a good job, both times," Dezra had answered, flashing a lopsided grin.
Laura had sighed. "Sure, Dez. Whatever you say."
With a bow—a masculine gesture, to go with her men's clothes and short, brown hair—Dezra had padded out of the Inn.
The fairgrounds had already been busy when she arrived. Workmen built stalls and platforms for the festival; merchants set up their wares outside their tents. She'd walked among them freely, but not unnoticed. Dezra had always been a tomboy, but she was nineteen, and many of the men stopped to watch her pass. Instead of blushing, as Laura might have done, or glaring, like her mother would have, she played along, pouting and winking. One didn't grow up in an inn without learning to flirt.
She hadn't come to the square just to parade in front of a bunch of clods with callused hands, though. She had work to do. She'd eyed the stalls the craftsmen were setting up, and noted two in particular: a moneychanger and a gemcutter. Both tradesmen were from out of town, weren't particularly attentive, and had goods within easy reach.
Dezra's Quest Page 3