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“Nice . . . er . . . outfit.”
    “It’s our uniform,” he said as he wiped his glasses on the hem of his tunic. “The Team Joust! uniform, that is. I’m a squire.”
    “Ah. A uniform,” I said, walking around him to eye the many-colored patches on each arm and the front. “I guess that would explain all the sponsorship labels on it, huh? I mean, most medieval garb didn’t have ads for iced tea companies, or equine supplements, or four-wheel-drive trucks.”
    “Team Joust! is the Californian team headed up by Farrell Kirkham, CEO and self-proclaimed world champion,” a dry English voice informed us. “While all of the other teams perform at fairs and other venues in order to fund their appearances at competitions such as this, Farrell and his group don’t have to sully themselves with anything so tawdry. Their corporate sponsors ask for nothing more strenuous than occasional appearances in commercial advertisements. If you wouldn’t mind taking your cat now, I do have work to do. Real work, not preening myself in front of television cameras.”
    I looked up at the dark-haired, yummy-voiced man on the huge black horse. “Jealous?”
    One glossy black eyebrow rose. “Of Farrell? No. I wouldn’t wish to be him for all the sponsorship money in the world. If you will excuse me . . .” I stepped back, grabbing Moth as Walker rode by.
    “Hey, I wanted to thank—Well, poop. He could have at least waited around for me to thank him.”
    “That’s Walker for you,” Claude said.
    I turned to give him the eye. “You know him?”
    “Walker McPhail? Sure, I do. Everyone on the jousting circuit knows Walker. He’s like one of the grand old men of the sport.”
    “He didn’t look that old to me,” I said, frowning. He looked to be my age, mid to late thirties, with dark hair, tiny little lines around his eyes, and one of those long English faces that are so fun to watch. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous (except for his eyes), but he made a nice contrast to Farrell’s over-the-top handsome, young, blond good looks. “So he’s a jouster?”
    “Nope. Gotta run. Farrell will have kittens if I’m not there to squire him in front of the press. See ya ’round.”
    Before I could ask anything more about Walker, Claude took off at a fast jog.
    “Well, that was exciting,” I said to Claude’s disappearing figure. Moth meowed and bit my wrist. “Ouch! You monster. Fine, you want down? You can just walk on your own pudgy little legs.”
    I stuffed Moth back into the harness he’d slipped out of three times now, tightened the belly strap another notch, and snapped on the lightweight lead my aunt had given me with the promise that Moth loved to go on walks.
    I grabbed a bottle of cold water, rubbed my hip, and gave Moth’s leash a snap. “Come on, cat; we’re going to go find us some more knights in tights. I wonder where Walker went?”
    For those of you who’ve never been to a two-week-long international jousting competition held in conjunction with the world’s largest Renaissance Faire, the environment can be a little overwhelming until you learn to just take everything with a really large grain of salt.
    “Prithee, my fair lady, a good after the nooning hour to ye and your fine cat. Canst ye direct me to the nearest porta-privy?” A middle-aged, bearded man in a purple-and-green jester’s hat stopped me as we came to the end of the field holding the tents.
    “Sorry, I can’t; I’m new here. But I imagine there are bathrooms . . . um . . . privies over there, by . . . uh . . . yonder snack bar.”
    “Thank ye, gentle lady,” the jester man said, making a wobbly bow.
    “Been at the mead a little early, no doubt,” I said as he staggered off toward one of the fairground snack bars, now being run by a number of specialized food vendors. The fairgrounds themselves had been given over entirely to the Ren Faire and sporting competitions. Moth and I wandered down a row of wooden-sided, open-fronted