Squire watched Baltazar drive away and told Austin to get in the tent. He helped him on with a coat of mail and handed him a tunic with no emblem on it. The chain mail hood had an opening for Austin’s face. Squire placed a knitted skullcap on Austin’s head and tried the helmet on for size. It was a little loose but would have to do, he said. He buckled a sword around Austin’s waist and fitted him with spurs. He handed him a kite-shaped shield.

Surveying Austin, he spread his lips in a jagged grin. “You’re no Sir Lancelot, but you’ll have to do. Sit down and I’ll give you some pointers.”

Austin removed the helmet and sat on his bunk.

“Listen carefully. Baltazar likes to do things in threes. He plays with you on the first pass. Misses you completely. On the second, he’ll deliver a glancing blow. Probably on the shield. The third time is the money shot. He’ll spit you on his lance like a pig. Any questions?”

“Tell me where I can pick up an AK-47.”

Squire snorted. “You won’t need one. Baltazar uses a lance with a metal core. He makes sure his opponents get the wooden lance, which will shatter on his armor and can be deflected by the shield.”

“That doesn’t seem chivalrous,” Austin said.

“It isn’t. This time, you’ll have the one with the metal core. I’ll give him a German-style lance made of heavier wood. Hopefully, he’ll be so anxious to kill you that he won’t notice the difference in weight.”

“Why are you doing this, Squire?”

The man brought his hand up to his bandaged face. “The bastard did this to me with his bogus lance. The doctors say I’ll look like Quasimodo. There’s not a pill in the world that will kill the pain from the damage to my legs. Forget me. Third pass is the money shot. He’ll go for your shield, thinking the lance will go through the leather and wood. Aim for his midsection. It’s the biggest target. Don’t miss.”

“What happens to you if I do?”

“It’s nothing to me. Either way, I’m outta here. Maybe I can get a job with a bank.”

A guard poked his head into the tent. “Time.”

AN SUV was parked outside the tent. Accompanied by another vehicle carrying guards, Squire drove Austin to the bridge crossing, where a carnival atmosphere prevailed. Bull’s-head pennants fluttered from temporary flagpoles. Word of the impending joust had spread among Baltazar’s mercenary corps. In addition to the ever-present guards, the edge of the gorge was lined with men in medieval costume who had gathered to see Austin speared or thrown to his doom.

“You didn’t tell me we were going to a party,” Austin said.