Kit gave him her best crooked smile. "Shipwrecked," she said. "I'm going wherever you're going."
He hesitated before smiling. "Hop in," he said, motioning her up on the bench seat alongside him. "You look shipwrecked all right, although I reckon it's a more interesting tale than that."
She climbed in eagerly, saying nothing else to satisfy his curiosity. He seemed to take no offense, and the wagon started moving again.
Kit noticed a water canteen on the seat next to the driver. Thirsty as she was, she could not keep her eyes off it. Without a word, the driver handed it to her. As she was drinking, Kit appraised her savior. A black hood pulled up over his head to protect him from the sun contributed to a sinister first impression. On closer inspection, however, Kitiara saw kindly eyes in a weather-beaten face.
He caught her looking at him and smiled again. "Name's Rand," he said. "I just came from the market at Vocalion. If that's where you're headed, I won't be going back for a couple days, but you're welcome to come home with me for the time being. I'll feed you, maybe even find some decent clothes for you. Won't be the first almost-drowned sailor I ever rescued."
Rand gave her a friendly wink. "All I'll ask is a little help around my place." Kit found it hard to put on a convincing expression of joy. Working on a farm, even for one or two days, held no attraction for her. On the other hand, food and fresh clothing sure sounded good.
"Vocalion's only a half day's ride," Rand continued, unimpeded. "It's smaller than Eastport, but it has good shops and facilities, and you should be able to find a job to tide you over. You could probably walk there in a day, if you don't want to wait for me. On the other hand, I'm not such bad company for a few days.
Rand kept up such a steady stream of talk that Kit didn't have to say much in response. His virtual monologue gave the young woman a chance to think about what she would do next. Eastport was out of the question; she knew that the Silver Gar had been planning to put in there. That meant she may as well give this place—Vocalion, did he call it?—a try.
* * * * *
It turned out that Rand lived by himself—a widower—on an isolated farm. "My castle," he had proclaimed as they pulled up in front of a low-slung farmhouse built into the side of a hill. After three days there, Kit would have said it was anything but. Sod covered the roof, which meant that dust sifted inside constantly, especially when Rand's goats climbed up there to do some grazing. The interior was dark, but Kit came to regard that as a half-blessing, for Rand wasn't too tidy a housekeeper. Still, Rand kept a well-stocked larder. He was also generous with its contents, which included not only goat's 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
