“. . . triumphant. The Weeping Owl of King Cinnamon is triumphant. Make good your bets, gentlemen.” The shouting dwindled to a murmur, part grumble and part satisfaction, and coins clinked as they passed from palm to palm. “And now . . .” The speaker reached into a leather pouch, which rattled as he drew out two ceramic tiles, each shaped like a heraldry shield. “Now we shall all witness the Struggle of Two Titans of the Royal Blood, King Hazard of the Line of Wilkfester, and King Galbrash the Dauntless. Gentlemen, in a moment we shall present to you the clash between . . . the Grouse Rampant of King Hazard and the Gray Wolf of King Galbrash!”

The floor of the pit was some four feet below the level of the floorboards, and was scattered with earth, trampled feathers, and spilled ale. While offers of bets were being bellowed all around, a wicker basket and a large sack were lowered down into the pit. The sack, Mosca noticed, was undeniably rather bigger than the basket.

Two boys with long poles reached down into the pit, one to overturn the basket, the other to prod at the sack. Something fluttered out of the basket.

Mosca’s view was partly blocked by a fat man’s elbow, but she got the impression that the something was dappled brown and not very large.

The sack was trying to stand. It found it could not and rolled around feverishly for a moment. Then a long nose poked searchingly through the neck of the sack, muzzle pulled back from the pointed teeth by the tightness of the gap. The rope at the sack’s neck was loose and after a moment a narrow, gray head pushed through, to be followed by powerful shoulders and starveling flanks. The animal was shaking the sack off its haunches when it noticed its opponent.

Mosca did not see exactly what happened next, but she saw enough. A gray shape streaked across the pit, and then there was a sad little explosion of feathers.

“That was a wolf,” she whispered drily. “A real wolf . . .”

“The Gray Wolf of King Galbrash is victorious!” shouted the announcer on the steps. “But let’s drink a toast to the gents who brought us yet another fine grouse—don’t worry, sirs, maybe someday you’ll find one that can rip the giblets from a wolf!”

Applause mixed with shrieks of laughter accompanied the departure of two disappointed-looking men in barbers’ smocks.

“Now . . .” The announcer reached into his pouch and drew out a new tile. “The next Spectacular Battle will take place between the Star-crested Eagle of King Prael and . . .” He rattled back into the pouch again.

Please, not a wolf, thought Mosca. Please, not a tiger or a lion.

“. . . and . . . the Smiling Civet of Queen Capillarie.”

Mosca had no idea what a civet was.