"Sure," he said. "I'm game."
"Excellent!" boomed Trephas as Caramon and Tika helped the judge drag the table over.
The crowd was muttering excitedly, more passersby joining the mob every moment. When everything was in place, Caramon sat and rested his left elbow on the tabletop-he'd be damned if he was going to wrestle the horse-man with his off-hand.
Trephas flashed another toothy grin. "Mayhap we can make this more interesting?"
Caramon's brow furrowed. "A wager?"
"Aye. If I lose, I shall remain in Solace for a season, and keep the stables at thy Inn," Trephas declared. "Thy horses shall never know better care."
"And if you win?" Tika asked suspiciously.
"Then, madam, I ask thy husband to accompany me to Darken Wood."
The crowd's muttering redoubled. Caramon started, blinking. "What?" he gulped. "Go into Darken Wood? What in Paladine's name for?"
"I don't intend to leave this fair empty-handed," Trephas replied. "If I beat thee, thou wilt carry my goods to my home."
"Carry-" Caramon stammered, then shook his head. "But you're a horsel Can't you just get a wagon and haul it yourself?"
A haughty gleam sparked in the centaur's eye. "I am a chieftain's son. I don't haul wagons. That job," he added with a sneer, "is better suited to a common ox. Now, wilt thou accept my wager?"
Caramon glowered, fighting back the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to make such a bet… but on the other hand, if he turned it down… .
"Absolutely not," Tika snapped, coming to his rescue. She planted her hands on her hips, a dark line appearing between her brows. "My husband was smart enough not to want to go into Darken Wood when he was young, and he isn't so fuddled by age to think otherwise now. Right, Caramon?"
"Uh, right," he answered lamely. "But," he added, seeing the centaur frown, "I'll offer something else. I've just tapped my spring ale. If I lose, I'll give you two kegs to take back with you in my stead."
Trephas considered, still crestfallen at Caramon's refusal. At length, though, he nodded and rested his left elbow on the table. "So be it," he said, clasping Caramon's hand. "And let the best man win, four legs or two."
The judge raised his voice. "New round, then! Caramon Majere against the challenger, Trephas-er-"
"Son of Nemeredes the Elder," Trephas said.
"Sure. All right, then. Go!"
The centaur's grip was like a band of iron. He was every bit as strong as he looked. Right away, Caramon was straining and moaning and hissing through his teeth as he fought to keep Trephas from pushing him over. The crowd roared as he and the centaur struggled. Thus, between the noise and the pounding of blood in his ears, it was understandable Caramon didn't hear the shouting at first.
It started on the far side of the fairground, where the wealthier merchants had set up their tents. It quickly grew louder and closer, and heads began to turn. Someone-folk soon recognized him as Ganlamar, a rich gemcutter from Gateway-was yelling at the top of his lungs:
"Stop! Thief!"
Throughout the crowd, kender-there would always be kender at the Spring Dawning fair, no matter how much people wished otherwise-jumped up and looked around, trying to see who the gemcutter was talking about. Some were so distracted, they dropped the rings and money-pouches they'd been tucking, absentmindedly, into their pockets.
The thief and his pursuer were headed toward Caramon, but still he didn't hear. He focused on holding out against Trephas's strength. His muscles burned. Black spots danced before his eyes. The centaur hadn't even broken a sweat.
Then, in a blur, the thief darted past the crowd. Caramon only glimpsed a young, slender figure in a bright green shirt, but Tika stared as it passed, and choked in horror.
"Dezra?" she yelped.
"What?" Caramon blurted, looking up.
The moment's distraction was all Trephas needed. With one great shove, he slammed Caramon's arm down onto the table. Caramon grunted in surprise, then rose from his seat and turned to stare after the thief. About fifty yards on, a rope ladder dangled from a walkway high above, among the vallenwoods' boughs. The figure in green leapt, caught it, and scrambled upward, laughing all the way.
"Oh, gods," Caramon moaned, watching in disbelief as his youngest daughter made her getaway.
4
It bad seemed a good idea at the time.
Dezra Majere had woken before dawn, dressed quietly, and snuck out of her room, past her parents' chamber to the stairs. Her hand had been on the banister when she heard the dick of a door opening behind her.
She'd frozen, stomach clenching, and glanced back, expecting to see her father. It was just Laura, though. Relieved, Dezra had raised a finger to her lips, then nodded down the stairs.
Soundlessly, the sisters had crept down to the tavern. Dezra had slipped into the kitchen to grab a wedge of cheese, given half to her sister, wolfed the rest down.
"What's happening?" Laura had asked. "Why are you up so early?"
"I'm going out," Dezra had answered.
Laura's face had tightened with concern. "Father's tapping the spring beer today," she'd said. "He's bound to miss you."
"Let him. I'm not running tankards to a bunch of drunks."
"He'll ask me where you went."
Dezra had thrown up her hands. "Laura, don't be hopeless. Just cover for me, and I'll never ask you again."
"That's what you said last week. And the week before that."
"And you did a good job, both times," Dezra had answered, flashing a lopsided grin.
Laura had sighed. "Sure, Dez. Whatever you say."
With a bow-a masculine gesture, to go with her men's clothes and short, brown hair-Dezra had padded out of the Inn.
The fairgrounds had already been busy when she arrived. Workmen built stalls and platforms for the festival; merchants set up their wares outside their tents. She'd walked among them freely, but not unnoticed. Dezra had always been a tomboy, but she was nineteen, and many of the men stopped to watch her pass. Instead of blushing, as Laura might have done, or glaring, like her mother would have, she played along, pouting and winking. One didn't grow up in an inn without learning to flirt.
She hadn't come to the square just to parade in front of a bunch of clods with callused hands, though. She had work to do. She'd eyed the stalls the craftsmen were setting up, and noted two in particular: a moneychanger and a gemcutter. Both tradesmen were from out of town, weren't particularly attentive, and had goods within easy reach.
Both easy marks for a young thief.
Satisfied, she'd left the town square and headed south, to the seedier side of town, where she'd entered the Rusty Shield Tavern and ordered a whiskey and a dark ale from Brandel, the scruffy, eyepatched tapman. She'd downed the whiskey in a gulp, then nursed the beer, not speaking to Brandel or the tavern's mangy regulars. Finally, at mid-afternoon, she'd thrown back another whiskey and headed back to the fairgrounds.
She'd wandered the fair a while, careful not to draw attention to herself. Bought a baked apple, stuffed with raisins and spices. Talked with several young men, laughing and leading them on-even kissed one, full on the mouth, to his astonishment-before leaving them behind. Through it all, she'd watched the merchants she'd marked, waiting.
The first opportunity came when she was near the moneychanger's counter. Several stalls down, a weaver had caught a kender wandering off with a colorful blanket under his arm. As the weaver shouted for the guards and the bewildered kender protested that he was only taking the blanket to show a friend, the moneychanger's patrons had turned to watch. Dezra had bided patiently by the counter, and when the moneychanger glanced up toward the ruckus, she'd snatched a stack of coins and slipped them into her pocket.