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 she ran back into the arena in a straight, furious path toward him. The crowd's surprised reaction alerted the dwarf, but Camium did not know what to make of an opponent who was waving a huge, banded bucket and bristle brush. His jaw was down, and so was his knobby club.
Before Camium could make a move, Kitiara had leaped on his shoulders and brought the bucket down on his head, smashing the bottom out of it and driving it down so that it girdled his chest, pinning his arms. The momentum of her attack knocked the dwarf down momentarily, and Kit took the bristle brush and raked it over his face, pulling most of the right side of his beard off before getting stuck in its tangles.
Such a yowl the crowd had never heard. And never such a noise out of the mouth of Camium Ironbender. Silence gripped the arena as Camium struggled to his feet, still girded by the bucket. His face was red with mortification.
He struggled to break the bucket, but its iron bands held.
Kitiara had yanked his club away and now she clunked him on the head as hard as she could, again and again, a half-dozen times. The dwarf tottered, spun, tottered some more, but would not fall.
Kitiara swung the club as hard as she could, striking him across the face. Camium lurched to the right, danced a few steps, tottered again. But he would not fall.
Camium's eyes had puffed shut. He could not move his arms. The bristle brush dangled from his beard. Blood seeped from under the bucket, from places where Kitiara had torn away skin with her blows.
Still Camium Ironbender, champion of the Wooden Weapons Annual for eleven years, would not fall.
Kit doubted that he was even conscious. She had respect for the old dwarf and didn't want to hurt him any worse, nor embarrass him any further in defeat. Raising her eyes wearily, she looked to the judges in mute appeal.
Conferring hastily, the three officials raised their arms to signal a draw and an equal sharing of the prize. The crowd erupted. Camium swayed. Kit slumped to the ground.
A couple of hours later, hours crowded with healers and well-wishers, Kit was left alone on a stone bench in the weapons room, working her jaw back and forth painfully.
Alone except for a tall, furtive stranger, his face shadowed by a cowl, who had been lingering to catch her by herself. He didn't worry her. If she could fight Camium Ironbender to a draw, she could handle whatever was next.
Even so, the man's voice took her by surprise. "You're making a career out of posing as a man," the stranger remarked, standing over her.
"Ursa!" She spat out his name bitterly, jumping up. She looked around for her choice of weapons.
"Whoa!" Ursa Il Kinth said, looking over his shoulder warily. "Not so loud."
She made a move. He grabbed her arm, but gently. "You've had enough fighting for today," Ursa urged quietly.
He let her arm go. Kitiara stood her ground, her eyes flashing. All weariness had vanished, replaced by a surge of energy. "I owe you a whipping going back years!" Kit said angrily.
He sat down and pulled off his cowl, shaking his long, tawny hair free. Kit had time to grab a weapon-and did. Her bag with the sword in it was across the room. The studded cudgel she hefted would have to do.
She waited for Ursa to make a move, but he just sat there, staring up at her with his dark, glinting eyes.
"Yes," he said at last in a somber voice. "That was bad business all around. You owe me a whipping, and I owe you your share of… of that job."
"Where is it? Don't think you'll get away this time without giving it to me!" She jabbed him in the chest with her cudgel.
Halfheartedly, he pushed the weapon aside. "Don't be a fool," he said. "You're better set than me now." Instinctively she patted the half purse of gold in her pocket, Ursa's eyes watching her a little wistfully.
"I owe you something," he continued. "I don't deny it. But I'm glad to see you. Can't you see that? Even though you did cost me a fair slice of what little money I was carrying." He grinned sheepishly. "Like everybody else, I had made my bets on Camium."
She snorted unsympathetically.
"It took me a while to recognize you. But eventually I couldn't help but see through the poor disguise of someone who first taught me the virtues of wooden weapons as a girl," he said in his best teasing manner. "You weren't such a bad fighter even then, but you're damned impressive now, I have to admit. What are you doing in these parts anyway?"
Kit scowled, softening. In truth she was a little glad to see Ursa with his roguish grin. He seemed sincere, if a trifle low-spirited. "You first," she said, lowering her cudgel. "What are you doing in these parts?"
"I've got a job," he said, brightening. "Me and Cleverdon-yes, he's still with me. Not the others." Ursa's face clouded over. "I'll tell you all about the others later. Now what about you?"
She didn't see any reason to hold back. Kit told him, briefly, the story of her mock betrothal to Patric, her sea voyage, his mysterious murder, and her escape overboard. It already seemed like years ago.
"The Silver Gar\" Ursa exclaimed. "Everybody in the crowd was talking about that ship. It put into Vocalion just this afternoon for repairs. It sits in the harbor even as we speak. The talk is that the captain is in a state, for he must sail back to home port with the dead body of his lord."
The news stunned Kit. "If the Silver Gar is here," she put in excitedly, "that means I might be able to get Cinnamon back."
"If what you tell me is true," Ursa said, "you had better be careful."
"True…"
"I tell you what," Ursa said. "Join up with me, and I'll get Cinnamon back for you somehow."
Kit was about to object when he put up his hand. "And in good time I will pay you back what I owe you," the mercenary promised. "You may as well trust me on that."
Ursa's tall, stooped companion waited for them in an unsavory section of the waterfront. Droopface-she could think of him by no other name-evinced no surprise, no reaction whatsoever to Kit's presence in their midst after two years. For her part, she wished that she could take her sword-or something-to the traitor, but Ursa's whispering restrained her.
If she had to admit it, with silent resignation, Kit was comfortable with the idea of working with these two again.
"There it is! I see it!" Kit exclaimed. The Silver Gar was docked at a pier right off the waterfront, a gangplank leading up to it. She thought she spotted La Cava stalking around on deck and pulled her companions into the shadows of an alleyway.
"There's the captain. My advice is not to run afoul of him, whatever you do. I think he's your match, and then some," Kit said to Ursa.
The young woman peered around the corner again and saw several of the passengers returning up the gangplank. No sign of Cinnamon, who was probably being cared for below.