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-andpepper 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 strike 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
