that she was following them less than an hour behind.
Under cover of dark, Kit made the further mistake of creeping close to their campsite to eavesdrop in hopes of learning some new piece of information about their destination. She felt proud of herself as she picked her way slowly around rocks and trees toward their huddled shapes. Ursa and another of the men, both draped in blankets, had their backs to her. The short, weaselly man named Radisson faced her direction and was speaking vehemently; she recognized his voice from the fair. A fourth, tall and stooped with a sad face, stood at the smaller man's shoulder, listening intently. Once in a while the sad-faced one said something indiscernible, apparently in assent.
Their tone was low and conspiratorial, and Kit had to inch closer than was wise to catch any of the words. The weaselly one was laying out some strategy. She could only hear occasional, garbled words such as 'considerable fortune' and 'the odds will be favorable.' These clues to their mission whetted Kit's appetite for more. She crawled forward on hands and knees until she could almost jump up and spit on the them.
All of a sudden, something big and heavy dropped on Kit's back, knocking her to the ground. For several seconds her breath was taken away. When her head cleared, she found herself hoisted off the ground, nose to nose with Ursa. The look on his glowering face was one of disgust mixed with astonishment.
'You again!' cried Ursa, holding her by the collar. Kit was too dazed to do anything but feebly kick her feet in an effort to get down. As Ursa gripped her firmly, someone else yanked her hands and tightly roped them together behind her back. Kitiara managed to twist around to see the fourth man.
This one was somewhat taller than Ursa, more sinewy, with skin the color of obsidian. His hair was black, down to his shoulders and so curly that his skull appeared to be covered by writhing snakes. In the moonlight, Kit was struck by the gleaming whiteness of his fearsome grin and a single gold hoop that dangled from his right ear. The color of his skin and the billowing striped pants he wore made her think he must be from the far east island of Karnuth. That race boasted intriguing powers, she recalled hearing, and its denizens were rarely seen in these parts because they were said to be afraid of long sea voyages.
'Ouch!' Kit exclaimed, more to see what reaction that might get than because she was in very much pain.
'Aw, you're hurting her,' said the Karnuthian, not unsympathetically. Kit remembered his voice from overhearing the conspirators at the Red Moon Fair-deep, mellow, but with a hint of menace.
'I don't care,' responded Ursa, tightening his grip. He was not smiling in the slightest.
'Who is it, El-Navar?' asked another voice. 'What's the game?'
The other two mercenaries hurried over to gawk at Kit. The Karnuthian, the one whose name was El-Navar, had found the knife in her boot and now held it up to Ursa as if to say I-told-you-so, before nonchalantly guiding it into his belt. His grin was oddly beguiling for one with so fierce an aspect.
'Splendid performance, Radisson,' said El-Navar to the weaselly-faced one. 'You learned a few things in your days as a stroller.'
'Who is she?' hissed Radisson. The look on his pale, creased face was plainly hostile.
'Didn't I tell you someone was following us?' gloated El-Navar. Every time he moved, his gold ear hoop trembled in the moonlight. The others nodded their approval.
Ursa, meanwhile, had set Kit down and upended her pack, emptying its modest contents on the ground. Finding nothing of interest there, he replaced the belongings and handed Kit's bag to his tall, stooped cohort with the sad face, who clutched it stolidly. That one had not said a word.
Then Ursa began to push Kitiara toward the campsite. When she resisted, he grabbed the rope around her wrists and tugged harshly, so that her shoulder blades were twisted. She practically tripped over her own feet as she was dragged backward, but she did not protest. Kitiara wouldn't yield that satisfaction.
The other three followed, the looks on their faces as different as their personalities: El-Navar, curious, even amused; Radisson, cold and suspicious; the sad-faced one, dismayed. When Ursa reached the campsite, he gave Kit a shove that dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. She rolled over in the dirt and struggled to a sitting position against a stump. Glancing around, Kit took in the cut branches holding up the blanket-shapes in front of the fire. Stupid, that night age-old trick! Her eyes gleamed with fury, as much at herself as at her captors.
Ursa sat down on a nearby rock. Radisson and the tall morose one followed suit, a little farther away, their eyes narrowed on Kit.
'Her horse is a mile back, I daresay,' said Ursa.
His tone had leveled, become more matter-of-fact, but showed no hint of warmth. He reached over to stir the embers of the fire, whistling thoughtfully to himself. Almost imperceptibly his eyes scanned the treetops.
'I'm quite sure she's alone,' he said after completing his survey.
The other two were obviously waiting for Ursa or El-Navar to make a decision as to Kitiara's fate. But Ursa said nothing more and El-Navar, standing near the fire to warm his hands, now showed little interest in the matter. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to act.
'What do we do with her?' whined Radisson, fed up after a few minutes of this.
'She doesn't know anything,' said Ursa emphatically.
'Why was she following us then?' questioned Radisson.
The wind picked up, scattering leaves in a circle at the edge of the campfire. Somewhere, far away, a creature howled. Kit could tell that the four men were spooked, particularly Radisson, whose eyes darted around inside their sockets.
Ursa put his hands in his pockets to warm them, continuing to whistle his strange little tune, not answering. He seemed to pay no attention to Radisson, but his eyes met Kitiara's. He was scowling.
'Any half-brain could follow you,' snorted Kitiara contemptuously. 'A woolly mammoth travels less conspicuously. You leave a mess and obvious clues everywhere. You have no respect for the forest.'
Radisson's face tightened up. His hands fingered the knife at his waist nervously. In a surprising movement he stood and crossed to her, then backhanded Kit across the face so swiftly that she felt the blow even before she realized it was coming. Immediately her mouth puffed up and started to bleed. Kit struggled against her bonds, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out.
'Watch your lip,' said the weaselly one.
The Karnuthian seemed to think that was the funniest thing of all, and he bent over laughing. But when he straightened up, his face was somber. El-Navar took a handkerchief out of his pocket and with surprising gentleness wiped the blood from her mouth and chin. Ursa's eyes followed him closely.
'There, there, Radisson,' said El-Navar heartily. 'No need to be so manly. She's not much more than a girl after all, not more than twelve I figure.'
'Thirteen,' said Kitiara sulkily. 'Almost fourteen.'
'A rather pretty thirteen at that, I'd say,' added the Karnuthian. He grabbed Kit a little roughly by the chin and tilted her face upward. Ursa and Radisson were quiet, and there was a sudden air of tension among the group
'Let's have the truth, girl,' El-Navar continued more sternly. 'What is your name? Why were you following us?'
'Kitiara Uth Matar,' said Kit stonily. 'You could have asked him if you wanted to know,' she added, indicating Ursa.
'You know her?' asked the Karnuthian, turning to Ursa, surprised.
'I met her once,' said Ursa in pointedly neutral tones, 'when she was just a child…'
Kitiara looked spitefully at him.
'She recognized me in Solace and came up to me. I gave her the brush off.'
'She knows our faces, El-Navar,' said Radisson weakly. 'What else does she know?'
'She doesn't know anything,' repeated Ursa harshly. 'I say we let her go. What could she say against us?'
El-Navar said nothing. Whether he or Ursa was in charge, Kitiara couldn't tell. Radisson, however, was clearly waiting for one of the two to make up his mind.
Alone among them, the tall, sad-faced one was paying little attention to the problem. Slouched on the ground, he had taken out a dog-eared book and seemed to be studying it intently by the firelight, his lips moving soundlessly. A trail of drool fell steadily from his mouth, wetting the pages. The others, no doubt used to his eccentricities, paid him no heed.
