Deciding that the risk was minimal, Kit called out his name, a bit breathlessly. "Ursa Il Kinth."

He turned slowly, legs apart, hand on the hilt of a dagger in his belt, to confront this strange girl.

"You must be mistaken," he said warningly. "I don't know you."

"I have no apple to offer you today, but I have something better," Kit bantered with a grin.

Ursa stared at her uneasily, as if recognizing someone he hadn't expected to see. He recovered his composure quickly and let out a bark of laughter. "You!" He reached over and gave Kit a "friendly" cuff on the ears. "Why you've grown up-some anyway!"

"I've grown up a lot," she said, bridling.

He laughed, his eyes appraising her. "So you have," he said. "But what could Gregor Uth Matar's daughter have to interest me?" he asked. His tone was dismissive, though his eyes were friendly.

"Quick-witted help."

"I have all the wits I need. Thank you, young lady!" Ursa drew out the word mockingly.

"You may, indeed, but what about your three companions? Robbery and kidnapping are serious business, and it might do to have someone along with brains as well as fighting skills."

Ursa grabbed her by the arm, all traces of amusement vanished from his face. "My three friends have brains enough not to shout out their plans in a busy campground," he snarled at her, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone had overheard.

He dragged her closer to the roped-off stable, then leaned into her face threateningly. "What do you know?" Ursa demanded, maintaining his rough grip on her.

"Little enough, and that's the truth," she said furiously, trying to shake off his grip and staring back at him in kind. "But I know you'd have to be a fool to turn me down. I've got skill with a sword and I'm no dunce like, like… Radisson!"

He glared at her in outraged silence.

"Make me part of the gang," she insisted.

Ursa snorted. "My partners are greedy. They would not look kindly on dividing the pot with one more person, especially-" he ground out the word "-a girl. Forget what you heard. Forget Radisson. And I'll do you the favor of forgetting we had this little chat."

His eyes softened slightly. "Ask me again the next time we meet," said Ursa, stepping back from her. "They say the third time's the charm. Until then, farewell, Kitiara."

Ursa gave a shout. His horse, the same muscular gray that Kit remembered from years earlier, detached itself from a cluster in the roped-off pen, easily leapt over the makeshift fence, and trotted up to the mercenary. Ursa swung smoothly up onto the horse's unsaddled back-just like before-and was gone.

Kit stood for a minute looking after him, rubbing her arm ruefully. Unlike the last time they'd met, she knew where to find Ursa now, and when. Clenching her hands at her sides, she slowly turned back toward the fair, toward the crossroads where she was to meet Gilon.

For Caramon, it was a good day. All morning his mother baked batches of sunflower seed muffins, and he helped. Well, sort of. He attached himself to Rosamun, chattering like a monkey, and every time she was through with a mixing spoon or bowl, he licked it clean. His face and little tunic were splotched with batter; there were streaks of the honey-brown stuff in his hair. And when the muffins were done, he helped out by eating twelve or seventeen of them. Caramon wasn't keeping track-he wasn't so good at counting anyway.

After this major effort, his stomach started to feel stuffed.

"Owwwww," he said, rubbing his round belly. "Mother, don't you think going outside and playing might make me feel better?" He grinned at his frail mother, who smiled back sunnily. Rosamun was in the best possible mood.

"Fine, dear, just don't wander too far. I have a little sewing and straightening up to do, and I don't think that would help your stomach at all."

Remembering his vow to look after her, Caramon glanced over his shoulder to make sure his mother was fine before heading out the door. Rosamun was humming to herself as she cleaned up the pots and utensils that were scattered around the kitchen.

Outside, the six-year-old climbed down a rope ladder to the area just below their cottage, where he and Raist sometimes played, within earshot of home. Nobody else was nearby, although the occasional wayfarer could be spotted through the vallenwood trunks on the main road. Stomping around, Caramon kicked away sticks and stones and cleared a space for digging.

He hunted around and found several big sticks that he judged suitable for use as picks and wedges and makeshift shovels. He knew he needed a good supply, because they tended to break.

For about an hour Caramon was thoroughly happy digging for buried treasure (he had been told by his father that treasure could be located, sometimes, in the most unlikely places). After which time the little boy stood, sweat-drenched and covered with scratches and dirt, up to his waist in a hole that was almost two feet deep. He surveyed his work with satisfaction. He hadn't found any treasure, but he was still optimistic.

Just as Caramon was going to resume digging, a horde of little boys his own age, some of whom he knew from school, went running and shouting by on their way to somewhere.

"Where you going?" called Caramon to one he recognized.

"Crab apple war!" replied the boy, a freckled lad of eight, taking the opportunity to stop and catch his breath. "Come on!"

"Yeah! But don't bring that droopy brother of yours!" added another boy, who screeched to a halt, almost bowling the first one over.

Caramon scampered up the rope ladder to check on Rosamun. He found her on the small porch outside the cottage, sitting in a chair next to a pile of clothes, basking in the sun as she hemmed a dress. With a smile on her face, his mother waved him off unconcernedly.

He hurried to catch up with the gang of boys, who had gathered around a little thicket of trees some ten minutes away from Caramon's home. Tiny, firm green crab apples hung from the low-slung branches, and the boys had picked and collected dozens of them in piles on the ground. They stuffed this "ammunition" into their pockets and pouches and backpacks, while carrying as many as possible in each hand.

"There you are Caramon. Hurry up! You be commander of our side," shouted one group of the boys, who had divided up into two armies.

Caramon, who was greatly liked-as opposed to his twin brother-and greatly feared in war games, was chosen over a number of eight -and even ten-year-old candidates. Indeed, the other "general," a hulking ten-year-old named Ranelagh, was two heads taller than Caramon.

Taking up their positions at opposite ends of the crab apple thicket, the two sides rushed each other at the agreed upon signal. Caramon was in the forefront of his army, which numbered about a half-dozen boys, yelling and directing them.

"Willem, you go around that way. Lank, watch your backside. Wolf, take some of those crab apples and get up in that tree."

He led the charges, throwing the little crab apples as quickly and hard as he could. Caramon had a good arm, and he nimbly dodged the hail of apples that hurtled in his direction. The object was to land as many of the missiles as possible, and then to retreat before being whacked on the shoulder, shins or, worse, noggin. It was not a game for the fainthearted.

The crab apple war went on most of the afternoon. There were occasional defections, when a boy had to quit and go home, and occasional time outs when everyone took a break and sprawled around, taking bites out of the sour fruit. But mostly it was attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, over and over, until the sun was waning.