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10
At the Fairs
    A T THE AFTERNOON BREAK they played at the wands again, and again Artos beat Cai. This time he beat Bedvere as well by dancing away from the powerful strokes and making Bed look like a clumsy bear. Before he could have a go at Lancot, all three ganged up on him and pushed him to the ground, and the Master of Swords never protested.
    Cai stuck a wand right at his throat, so hard it hurt. Bed lashed his arms twice on each side until Lancot pushed him away. But all the time Artos never cried “Hold,” and there’d been not even a hint of tears in his eyes, only a bright, blazing anger.
    They let him up then and brushed him off, admiring him for his courage. The Master of Swords, his scarred arms folded in front of his chest, grunted his approval as well.
    â€œGood show,” Cai said, throwing his arm around Artos’ shoulder. “And no blubbing. My mother wouldn’t be worried about you if she’d seen that !”
    Bedvere’s only comment was a beneficent growl.
    It was Lancot who whispered, “Never mind them. They won’t bother you again now that you’ve shown your true colors. Tell us another story.”
    So he told them about the men in the Indies walking about on their hands, as if the beating had never happened, as if both his arms weren’t striped with stinging red welts and a bead of black blood didn’t rest like a jewel in the hollow of his throat. He’d never mention them ganging up on him, would not even allude to it. That’s how such games were played, and he knew it without having to be told. Besides, they genuinely seemed to like him now. So everything really was all right.
    He forwent dinner to go back to the dragon’s cave. He carried no bowl of gravy, for he was still angry with the dragon for going off like that without a word. But he did bring the sword, sheathed at his side.
    â€œAnd if there’s wisdom in that ,” he muttered to himself as he scrambled over the stone outcroppings, “it’s that I, at least, keep promises.” He conveniently ignored the fact that he was a day late in keeping this one. A marsh harrier screamed a kind of punctuation to his mutterings.
    The cave entrance seemed even darker and more uninviting than usual. Inside, it was silent as a tomb. But Artos had worked himself up to such a pitch of anger at the miserable wyrm’s desertion that he was glad the place was empty. He expended several minutes calling the dragon some of the awful names he’d learned at swordplay the day before— canker, pismire, firebrat, chinch —and felt better immediately. The cave echoed loudly with the swears.
    When the sound of them was done, Artos smiled feebly. “If you can go off without telling me,” he whispered into the black, unforgiving chamber, “I can go off without telling you.”
    Then he set his chin, turned his back to the cave, and walked slowly along the path to Beau Regarde , the weight of the sword causing him to cant to one side.
    The journey to the market towns was to take a fortnight, though they packed as if going for a full month. The preparations themselves seemed to take as long. They packed and repacked the saddlebags, counted and recounted the monies Lady Marion set out for them, and listened seven times over to their instructions. Artos even suggested to the other boys that their heads were packed as tightly as their bags, and they adopted that as their motto for the journey.
    â€œInstructions from Lady Marion, instructions from Cook, instructions from the Master of Swords…and still this,” Cai said, his face narrowing into its pout. By this he meant the four soldiers sent along as bodyguards.
    It isn’t so much a boy’s trip as one of those caravans in far Araby the dragon spoke of, Artos thought. But he gloried in it anyway.
    As they rode along, their cheeks were polished apple red by the cold autumnal winds. On the second