"Break any mirrors with your ugly face lately?" she retorted. The crowd of young people jeered. They were spoiling for amusement and didn't care who the butt of the joke might be. Bronk stepped forward, a contemptuous look on his face, and pushed up his sleeves. "I've been meaning to teach you a lesson. What you need is a good pasting. Same as any boy."
Raistlin glanced nervously over his shoulder, but couldn't spot Caramon. Instinctively he took a step back, out of the line of fire. At the same time, by impulse, Kitiara stepped in front of him, shielding her little brother.
Kitiara's smile was a cunning one. Whipping Speckleface in front of his dumb friends would just about make her morning perfect. Win or lose, she had no doubt that the fight would be worthwhile.
The boys and girls cheered encouragingly as Bronk shuffled forward, his fists circling like small shields in front of his eyes. Kit planted her feet and awaited his attack. Suddenly Kit felt a bump from behind, and as she lost balance she was shoved aside. A new protagonist had gallantly substituted himself for her.
"Leave my sister alone!" shouted Caramon, his not-quite-five-year-old fists threatening fancifully. Clutched in one of them was a stout branch at least as long as Caramon was tall. Her little brother barely reached Kitiara's chest, but he had some girth—and pluck—
for his age. His brown eyes, half-hidden by unruly golden brown hair that tumbled over his brow, flashed angrily.
The crowd liked the fresh attraction. They erupted in new laughter, taunts, and yelling. As for Bronk, he stared in disbelief. "Aw, she has to have help from her little baby brother. Isn't that cute!"
"Pssst!" whispered Kitiara, and not much of a whisper at that. "Back off, Caramon. This is my fight."
"It would not be honorable," intoned Caramon solemnly, trying to sound baritone and warriorlike. The sturdier of the two Majere brothers waded forward to meet Bronk, who had paused with uncertainty as to who, or how many, he was going to have to fight. There was another push from behind, and this time Caramon went sprawling head over heels, jolting a nearby vegetable cart and tipping it precariously. The owner, who was interrupted in the middle of a promising sales pitch, shrieked a curse. He picked the boy up by the nape of his tunic until Caramon's legs dangled off the ground. This the swelling number of onlookers thought the funniest thing yet.
"I'll let you know what's honorable, and what's not, little brother," scolded Kitiara.
"Especially where my honor is concerned."
Caramon broke away from the vegetable man and, with dignity, dusted himself off. He glared at Kit balefully.
"I was trying to be chiv . . . chiv . . ."
"Chivalric!" muttered Raistlin half to himself, before sitting down on an outcropping of stone. His watery eyes did not look as fascinated as the rest of the crowd's.
"Chivalric!" exclaimed Caramon, with a look of gratitude at his brother. He marched up to Kitiara, nose to chest, his look determined and fierce.
"Try being chivalric somewhere else," said Kitiara tolerantly. She pushed him off.
"Ingrate!" Caramon said, stepping forward again.
"Squirt!" she retorted, a glint in her eyes.
By now the crowd had forgotten Bronk, and the troublemaker had safely melted—with some relief—back into the throng. All eyes were trained on Caramon as he made the first move, bringing his stick up and whacking Kit hard on her right arm. He followed that swift assault with another one, which caught her across the knees. She bent over, wincing.
Up rose a huzzah from the spectators—now as many adults as young people—as they gathered in a half-circle around the two squabbling siblings. Caramon somehow managed to leapfrog over Kitiara's doubled-over form while delivering a backblow with the knob of his amateur weapon. For such a youngster it was an impressive display of agility. But even as Caramon turned to grin smugly at the crowd. Kit straightened up and whirled toward him, grabbing the boy by the waist and hoisting him over her shoulders like a bag of potatoes. She spun him in a circle, then tossed him through the air to land on his back in the brackish water of a nearby trough.
The crowd erupted with glee. Their cries were cut short when Caramon sprang out of the trough and, dripping water and sediment, hurled himself at his sister with what he believed to be a Solamnic war cry. It was something Caramon dimly recalled hearing once, which was really more a kender insult cry.
Whack! This time Kitiara blocked his swing with an outstretched arm, another with her hand, so that Caramon had to spin around—Where did he learn to do that? Kit wondered fleetingly—in order to deliver a shot to the back of her shoulder. Kitiara rubbed her shoulder ruefully, amused in spite of her pain. They had wrestled like this many times in the forest. Good thing that stick was not particularly thick or heavy, she decided. That Caramon was sure getting feisty, though. "Ouch!" she yelped as something caught her on the ear. "Now that stung!"
"Sorry," said Caramon, panting. He was grinning like a drunken kender and plainly having fun, too.
Kitiara flipped around, dove to the ground, and grabbed the upstart by the feet. As Caramon rained blows on her head, Kit thumped him to the ground. He dropped his stick, and she managed to kick it away. In doing so, she pinned him down, got a hold on one of his legs, and bent it back toward his head. But at the same time he was able to reach behind him and grab her head in his hands. They were all pretzeled up together, grunting and sputtering, she twisting his leg, he bending her by the neck.
"Give up!" Kit demanded, pulling his leg so close to his back that the crowd groaned in sympathy
