"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 with the pain.

"No way!" Caramon roared.

The crowd signaled its approval of the defiant standoff. Kit bent Caramon's leg back even farther; she could almost hear the bones popping. In reply, he tightened his hold on her head. While his face was being pressed into the ground, hers was being bent back to face the sky.

"Give!

"You give!"

"I won!"

"I won first!"

"Let Raist be the judge!"

Pause. "OK."

"Raist? Raist?"

Kitiara managed to swivel her head enough to see that Raistlin had vanished. Caramon's twin had observed this entertaining spectacle a few too many times in his short life, and he was quickly bored by the variations on it. Raist had given up and wandered away.

Kitiara jumped up. "Raistlin!"

Caramon jumped up too, rubbing his face. His tunic was ripped in places. Kitiara's ear was showing a drool of blood. "Aw c'mon," muttered Caramon, "where can he have got to now?"

Kitiara wheeled on him vehemently. "How many times do I have to tell you? You're his brother! He's your responsibility as much as mine!"

Caramon looked not only somewhat beat up but contrite. "Aw, why do I have to look after him all the time? You're his big sister, aren't you? Anyway, I-"

Kitiara practically spat out the words. "You're his twin brother, his twin brother. You're two halves of the same whole. And he's not as strong as you. You know that. I'm not going to babysit the two of you for the rest of my life. So go find him, and hurry up about it!"

She aimed a kick at Caramon but missed by a narrow margin. He had taken her words to heart and was already dashing away to locate his missing twin.

In exasperation Kitiara sank to the ground. Realizing the fun was over, most of the onlookers had moved off into the larger crowd. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her anymore. Kit felt her ear and reached over to adjust one of her boots that had somehow almost wriggled off.

"You should have let him best you!"

She looked up to see a girl her age, with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Aureleen Damark, the coquettish daughter of a local furniture-maker, was one of Kit's few friends. They were practically opposites, but Kitiara had to admit that Aureleen made her laugh.

"Who, Caramon?" Kit scoffed, as she flashed a welcoming grin at her friend.

"No, Speckleface!" answered Aureleen earnestly. "Why do you think he's always picking on you, anyway?"

"Probably just mean and dumb," said Kit flatly.

Aureleen sat down beside Kit and spread her gangly legs out. "Not at all," scolded Aureleen. "Although I won't argue with you that he's dumb." She giggled. "He likes you!"

Kitiara looked sternly into the eyes of her friend, finding it hard to believe Aureleen wasn't kidding. "Speckleface?"

"He's not so ugly really," said Aureleen decidedly, arranging her pink and white dress so that it spread out around her like a coral shell in the dirt and dust. With her rosy cheeks and long-lashed eyes, Aureleen was the picture of femininity. "Guys like a girl who acts tough, Father says. Although," she paused and thought for a moment. "Mother says they prefer one with a soft heart. Hard outside, soft inside. What does your father say?"