by Tina Daniell
Snippets of their conversation floated back to her.
“Have you heard? How’s Camium doing today?” the stockier one asked. “The tournament must be nearly over.”
“What’s the suspense?” replied his companion. “Camium hasn’t lost a match in years.”
“What a fighter! Did you see the contest against the minotaur? Camium had the brute on his knees after thirty minutes, but the minotaur still wouldn’t concede—you know what a proud race they are—so Camium had to club him senseless. After the beast was unconscious, there was no question as to the winner!”
The guards turned onto a side street, leaving Kit on her own. She was all the more determined to get to the tournament before it was over, if for nothing else than to have a glimpse of this Camium, whose reputation intrigued her. Posters for the Wooden Weapons Annual dotted the streets, pointing to the north end of town. Dodging around people, she raced in that direction.
The Vocalion coliseum was small but impressive, a circular, arcaded building that stood above the low-slung houses and drinking establishments that surrounded it. The outside was thronged with scores of people, all talking and laughing. But from inside, Kitiara could hear the roar of hundreds, shouting and cheering and swearing.
Kit pushed her way up to a betting stall.
“What’re the best odds on one of Camium’s opponents?” she asked an unsavory character with a red, bulbous nose.
“Where have you been, girlie?” the bet-taker replied with a sigh. “It’s the last fight, and nobody’s betting against Camium. Camium’s not even winded. It’ll be over in a matter of minutes. Save your money.”
That took her by surprise. She stepped away from the booth and looked around disappointedly, spotting the coliseum entrance.
The noise from inside swelled. Well, she had come this far, she might as well catch the last few minutes of the event. Kitiara was about to head toward the entrance when she spotted a side door ajar.
Slipping through it, Kit found herself in a narrow, darkened hallway leading to the waiting room where the contestants prepared for their matches. Entering the room, she could see a young boy with a broom, a brush, and a huge, wooden bucket. He was scrubbing at what looked like darkened patches of blood.
At the far end of the room another shorter and narrower corridor led to a small doorway that was filled with bright sunlight. Through the doorway Kit could just see two indistinct figures, somewhat eclipsed by the glare, circling each other outside in the arena. The crowd was cheering and jeering.
“Who’s that?” The boy had looked up and was squinting at her. He was a thin, scrawny boy of about eight, probably an orphan jobbed out for the tournament.
“I was sent, er, to help,” said Kitiara quickly.
“Oh,” said the boy cheerlessly. “Here.” He tossed her a hard-bristle brush. “Pitch in anywhere. There’s blood and dirt to go around.”
Kit caught the brush handily as she angled near the door for a closer look. A small, squat shape was doing his best to ward off the windmill blows of a big, well-proportioned figure. Both wielded thick, heavy clubs. Huh, thought Kitiara, looks like a real mismatch for Camium.
She noticed, as she glanced around, that all manner of wooden weaponry hung in the room. Clubs, wooden maces, stout poles, wood hammers, even hoopaks—the favored weapon of kender throughout Krynn—lined the walls for contestants to choose. Kit stashed her bag behind a bench and pretended to scrub at one of the walls.
The bristles of the brush were like tiny wooden spears and, thought Kit, could probably make their mark on steel. She peered down the hallway toward the match. Kitiara didn’t see how the little fellow could last much longer against the blows of Camium.
The thundering noise overhead told her that she was probably directly under the crowded bleachers.
“That’s Camium’s last victim, is it?” asked Kit.
The boy looked up again and shrugged. “Unless somebody else wants a beating,” he said tonelessly. “That’s the fifth today. Camium’s getting such a bad reputation they could only talk five into it. Well, last year it was only four, so I guess there should be no grumbling.” He went back to his work.
Some in the arena crowd had started to boo, and looking down the corridor out through the door Kit could see the two figures rolling around in one tangle. Obviously the fight was winding down.
Kit was thinking fast. This was a chance—even if it was a chance to get her skull cracked—that she couldn’t pass up.
She spied a small leather helmet and strapped it snugly around her head, tucking in the few curls it didn’t cover. She went to the wall and selected a long, rounded stick called a besom, slapping it on the ground a couple of times to be sure it was sturdy.
Kit had passed for a man once before. With the leather vest she had picked up beachcombing, the rough tunic and pants and heavy boots that she had got from Rand, she could do so again. Kit rubbed some dirt on her face and hands.
The boy had put down his scrub brush and was looking at her with new curiosity. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. You’re a—”
In a flash she was next to him, fumbling in her pocket. “Here,” she said, handing him a few of her coins. “Go make a bet on the last contestant. Me. And forget what you saw.”
“But—”
Kit raised her stick and ominously cracked it against the floor. “Go!” she yelled, “and thank your gods I don’t do worse!”
As the boy vanished, running, Kit heard a brief silence outside, followed by a unanimous roar. The match was decided. Kitiara turned and sprinted toward the square of light.
The crowd gave a sharp collective intake of breath, then let out a welcoming cheer for the newcomer.
From the darkness into late afternoon glare it took a couple of seconds for Kitiara’s eyes to adjust. She stood in the sand arena, with fifty rows of benches climbing up its sides, all filled with common people whose eyes were now trained on her. They were shouting and gesticulating, but clearly pleased about the prospect of one more match.
In the center of the ring, Kit was taken aback to observe, lay the battered body of a tall, powerful-chested fellow. A comparatively pint-sized guy perched atop the body’s motionless chest.
The little guy was wizened and ancient, with a balding pate and long, curly salt-and-pepper beard. She could see that he was no taller than her chest and that he was bowlegged. His nose had been smashed so many times it flattened out in several directions.
The fighter was a dwarf. He was beaming victoriously and finishing off a tankard of ale. Seeing Kitiara, he flung the tankard aside and hopped off his fifth victim’s chest. Then Camium Ironbender, the champion of the Wooden Weapons Annual going on twelve years, stood professionally and gave Kit a rather formal bow from the waist.
After about five minutes of fighting Camium Ironbender, Kitiara understood why he had ruled the Wooden Weapons Annual for eleven years. After about ten minutes, she’d had enough of the match, but the trouble was, Kit had to surrender in order to lose and it was against her code to surrender. The fight could end one of two ways, it seemed, with Kitiara either unconscious or dead.
From the tenacious way he fought, it was clear Camium Ironbender would be happy to oblige either alternative.
After about thirty minutes, Kitiara could barely stand on two wobbly legs, could barely see out of two purpled eyes, could barely lift her besom stick in order to make a swing at the grizzled dwarf.
The dwarf didn’t move much. He was more than willing to stand and take Kitiara’s blows, as many or as fast as she could land them. It was almost a matter of pride for Camium Ironbender, it seemed, to get a whack on the chin or a conk on the head without so much as wincing. Kitiara tried thrashing his knees for a while, but his legs proved just as obdurate as his skull.
Throughout it all, he let her circle him, barely moving from his planted stance, watching her cannily. Kit had a good reach on Camium and could strik
e almost at will. She wielded her thick besom stick—half again as long as she was tall—almost like a sword, but he took all her best shots with a grin, which fueled the crowd’s approval.
As for Camium, he carried an ugly, knobby club, pitted with holes and blemishes. He lugged it on his shoulder, almost nonchalantly, although it was as long as he was tall and probably half as heavy. He swung about once to Kitiara’s every five or ten strikes, and seemed to do so with great reluctance, as if he didn’t want to hurry things up.
But his scoring average was high, and his blows landed with powerful force on her legs, chest, shoulders, and face. He was probably more than ten times her age and no taller than Caramon, but the little dickens sure could fight. Right before she passed out, Kit was thinking that there had to be some way to stop him.
The crowd booed fiercely as she crumpled into the sand, face first. Camium went to a large tap that had been set aside for him along the arena wall, and drew a tankard of ale. He drank long and hard, watching the three judges absently.
Three citizens in official robes sat on a high tier, observing Kit’s sprawled and motionless form. They were not anxious to end the spectacle prematurely. The crowd continued its booing.
Good-naturedly, Camium went over to Kit and tossed a tankard of ale over her head. She jumped up, looked around confusedly, and beat a retreat from the arena down the narrow corridor to the weapons room.
The crowd was evenly divided between booing and screaming merriment. Camium, shaking his head with amusement, turned back toward the ale tap.
Thus he did not even see Kitiara as she ran back into the arena in a straight, furious path toward him. The crowd’s surprised reaction alerted the dwarf, but Camium did not know what to make of an opponent who was waving a huge, banded bucket and bristle brush. His jaw was down, and so was his knobby club.
Before Camium could make a move, Kitiara had leaped on his shoulders and brought the bucket down on his head, smashing the bottom out of it and driving it down so that it girdled his chest, pinning his arms. The momentum of her attack knocked the dwarf down momentarily, and Kit took the bristle brush and raked it over his face, pulling most of the right side of his beard off before getting stuck in its tangles.
Such a yowl the crowd had never heard. And never such a noise out of the mouth of Camium Ironbender. Silence gripped the arena as Camium struggled to his feet, still girded by the bucket. His face was red with mortification.
He struggled to break the bucket, but its iron bands held.
Kitiara had yanked his club away and now she clunked him on the head as hard as she could, again and again, a half-dozen times. The dwarf tottered, spun, tottered some more, but would not fall.
Kitiara swung the club as hard as she could, striking him across the face. Camium lurched to the right, danced a few steps, tottered again. But he would not fall.
Camium’s eyes had puffed shut. He could not move his arms. The bristle brush dangled from his beard. Blood seeped from under the bucket, from places where Kitiara had torn away skin with her blows.
Still Camium Ironbender, champion of the Wooden Weapons Annual for eleven years, would not fall.
Kit doubted that he was even conscious. She had respect for the old dwarf and didn’t want to hurt him any worse, nor embarrass him any further in defeat. Raising her eyes wearily, she looked to the judges in mute appeal.
Conferring hastily, the three officials raised their arms to signal a draw and an equal sharing of the prize.
The crowd erupted.
Camium swayed.
Kit slumped to the ground.
A couple of hours later, hours crowded with healers and well-wishers, Kit was left alone on a stone bench in the weapons room, working her jaw back and forth painfully.
Alone except for a tall, furtive stranger, his face shadowed by a cowl, who had been lingering to catch her by herself. He didn’t worry her. If she could fight Camium Ironbender to a draw, she could handle whatever was next.
Even so, the man’s voice took her by surprise. “You’re making a career out of posing as a man,” the stranger remarked, standing over her.
“Ursa!” She spat out his name bitterly, jumping up. She looked around for her choice of weapons.
“Whoa!” Ursa II Kinth said, looking over his shoulder warily. “Not so loud.”
She made a move. He grabbed her arm, but gently. “You’ve had enough fighting for today,” Ursa urged quietly.
He let her arm go. Kitiara stood her ground, her eyes flashing. All weariness had vanished, replaced by a surge of energy. “I owe you a whipping going back years!” Kit said angrily.
He sat down and pulled off his cowl, shaking his long, tawny hair free. Kit had time to grab a weapon—and did. Her bag with the sword in it was across the room. The studded cudgel she hefted would have to do.
She waited for Ursa to make a move, but he just sat there, staring up at her with his dark, glinting eyes.
“Yes,” he said at last in a somber voice. “That was bad business all around. You owe me a whipping, and I owe you your share of … of that job.”
“Where is it? Don’t think you’ll get away this time without giving it to me!” She jabbed him in the chest with her cudgel.
Halfheartedly, he pushed the weapon aside. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You’re better set than me now.” Instinctively she patted the half purse of gold in her pocket, Ursa’s eyes watching her a little wistfully.
“I owe you something,” he continued. “I don’t deny it. But I’m glad to see you. Can’t you see that? Even though you did cost me a fair slice of what little money I was carrying.” He grinned sheepishly. “Like everybody else, I had made my bets on Camium.”
She snorted unsympathetically.
“It took me a while to recognize you. But eventually I couldn’t help but see through the poor disguise of someone who first taught me the virtues of wooden weapons as a girl,” he said in his best teasing manner. “You weren’t such a bad fighter even then, but you’re damned impressive now, I have to admit. What are you doing in these parts anyway?”
Kit scowled, softening. In truth she was a little glad to see Ursa with his roguish grin. He seemed sincere, if a trifle low-spirited. “You first,” she said, lowering her cudgel. “What are you doing in these parts?”
“I’ve got a job,” he said, brightening. “Me and Cleverdon—yes, he’s still with me. Not the others.” Ursa’s face clouded over. “I’ll tell you all about the others later. Now what about you?”
She didn’t see any reason to hold back. Kit told him, briefly, the story of her mock betrothal to Patric, her sea voyage, his mysterious murder, and her escape overboard. It already seemed like years ago.
“The Silver Gar!” Ursa exclaimed. “Everybody in the crowd was talking about that ship. It put into Vocalion just this afternoon for repairs. It sits in the harbor even as we speak. The talk is that the captain is in a state, for he must sail back to home port with the dead body of his lord.”
The news stunned Kit. “If the Silver Gar is here,” she put in excitedly, “that means I might be able to get Cinnamon back.”
“If what you tell me is true,” Ursa said, “you had better be careful.”
“True …”
“I tell you what,” Ursa said. “Join up with me, and I’ll get Cinnamon back for you somehow.”
Kit was about to object when he put up his hand. “And in good time I will pay you back what I owe you,” the mercenary promised. “You may as well trust me on that.”
Ursa’s tall, stooped companion waited for them in an unsavory section of the waterfront. Droopface—she could think of him by no other name—evinced no surprise, no reaction whatsoever to Kit’s presence in their midst after two years. For her part, she wished that she could take her sword—or something—to the traitor, but Ursa’s whispering restrained her.
If she had to admit it, with silent resignation, Kit was comfortable with the idea of working with these two again.
>
“There it is! I see it!” Kit exclaimed. The Silver Gar was docked at a pier right off the waterfront, a gangplank leading up to it. She thought she spotted La Cava stalking around on deck and pulled her companions into the shadows of an alleyway.
“There’s the captain. My advice is not to run afoul of him, whatever you do. I think he’s your match, and then some,” Kit said to Ursa.
The young woman peered around the corner again and saw several of the passengers returning up the gangplank. No sign of Cinnamon, who was probably being cared for below.
“Our horses are stabled on the edge of town. You and Cleverdon get them and take them to the edge of the marsh just north of here. Cleverdon will know where I mean.”
Droopface nodded silently.
“Wait for me there,” added Ursa. “I’ll join you as soon as I can. If Cinnamon can be sprung, I’m the man.” Some of his old cockiness had returned.
Droopface shifted, and Kit got up to go with him. Ursa put a hand on her arm. “Wait, Kit,” he said. “How about that purse?”
Her mouth opened to protest.
“For bribes,” he grinned, “and other operating expenses.”
With a sigh she felt in her pocket and handed it over. Ursa was right: she might as well trust him. And she hadn’t had any illusions about holding onto her gold for very long anyway.
The three of them moved out of the alleyway between two buildings, Kit and Droopface going off in one direction, Ursa melting into the crowd in the other. After they had split up, a cloaked figure emerged from a nearby doorway, gazing after them. If Kitiara had looked back, she would have recognized the dark elf from the Silver Gar.
Chapter 13
THE SLIG’S LAIR
———
Kitiara and Droopface had been waiting at the designated rendezvous, on the edge of a reedy marsh ten miles east of Vocalion, for almost two days. At first Kit was patient, but as time wore on she grew restless, worrying that something had happened to Ursa.
