milk and cheese, but all variety of meat and fruit in season. In addition to raising goats, Rand brewed a tasty mead in a shed near the barn. Its local popularity meant he could always barter for something he didn't care to raise on his own.
'I tell you what,' he had said that first day, after watching her wolf down bread, cheese, an apple, and two helpings of cold mutton. 'If you'll stay to help me get this latest batch of mead barreled, I'll send you on your way with a few coins. It'll only take three days. You don't want to go to Vocalion as a beggar.'
Kit suspected what Rand really wanted was a listener for his chatter, but she had already made up her mind to stay there for a couple of days before heading on to Vocalion, so she agreed. She had learned to be a good listener, or at least how to appear to be a good listener, at Otik's.
In truth, the three days passed swiftly. Not only did Kitiara feel rested when it was time to leave, but Rand was more than generous with the handful of coins he counted over to her.
As soon as his newest batch of mead was barreled, the farmer prepared to take it-and Kitiara-to Vocalion.
'You're lucky,' Rand told her over supper the night before they were to leave. 'Tomorrow's the last day of the famous Vocalion Wooden Weapons Annual. Famous in these parts anyway,' he chuckled. 'Folks come from miles around to watch it and make bets.'
'Wooden Weapons Annual?' Kit asked, amused.
'Only wooden weapons,' said Rand, slurping some mead. 'That way nobody dies. Well, hardly ever. Best man wins.'
Kit was only half listening. What fun was a tournament without weapons? Sounded just like something dullards would think of.
'The tournament goes on for seven days. If you win the first day, you fight two matches the second, and so on for the other six days. One defeat and you're eliminated.' He shook his head. 'By the seventh day only the best fighter is left-usually this chap by the name of Camium. On the seventh day he has to fight six more fresh challengers, one at a time, before winning the prize. But he always does. Camium's been champion for eleven years straight.'
'What's his secret?' Kit asked.
'No secret,' said Rand. 'Just a ruthless cuss. Best man going on twelve years.'
'Why do you keep saying 'best man'?' Kit asked with an edge of irritation.
'Just a figure of speech,' answered Rand, oblivious to her annoyance. 'Although females are barred from the competition, of course. Fortunate for them too,' he slurped some mead, 'because Camium is no gentleman.'
Kit's interest was piqued. 'What's the prize?'
'Oh, didn't I mention,' added Rand, 'a bag of gold, guaranteed, plus one coin out of ten from the bets.'
'And tomorrow's the seventh day, you say?' she asked, her eyebrows drawing together.
'Yep. You should go. Women ain't barred from betting.'
It had taken them a lot longer to load the wagon than Kit had expected, for Rand was painstaking in his preparations. It was midmorning before they had departed the farm, and late afternoon before they caught sight of the town. Rand's massive chestnut farm horse strained against the harness, pulling the wagon to the top of a crest overlooking a turquoise bay. Kit caught her breath. She knew little of this part of Krynn, but she was surprised to discover such a scenic outpost.
Most of Vocalion's buildings appeared to be made out a uniform white stone that reflected light. On the landward side, a wall interrupted by guard towers and gates protected the town. Several ships bobbed in the pretty harbor.
As they drew closer, their wagon entered a line of carts and foot traffic headed toward Vocalion. Kit's fingers drummed impatiently against the wagon seat. 'Here, I'll just jump out,' Kitiara said suddenly, gathering up a sack that held her sword, a few extra clothes Rand had given her, and some food she had packed.
'Thanks for everything, Rand,' Kit added.
Rand barely had time to register his surprise before she had fled down the road ahead of him. 'Luck, Kitiara,' the farmer called out.
After walking for several minutes, Kitiara entered the town proper and fell in behind two broad-shouldered fellows whom she judged to be members of the local guard because of the common insignia on their helmets and breastplates. The crowd parted somewhat for these two, and Kit was able to move swiftly in their wake.
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
