Joust (15 page)

Hair damp, freshly kilted, wearing the glazed hawk-eye talisman, he followed in the wake of the last of the boys, knowing there were other chores that needed doing between now and when the dragons returned. So long as the others didn’t notice his presence—

He felt better with the hawk eye around his neck; such talismans kept the night-walking spirits away, and demons, as well as guarding him from the crocodiles of Great Mother River. It wasn’t the talisman that he would have chosen—he’d have taken one of Nofret’s stars, if he’d had a choice, or better still, the sun-disk of Hakat-Re—but it was good to have it. The talisman wasn’t only for luck; it marked him, should he ever need to leave the compound, as a servant of the Jousters. No one would interfere with him while he was wearing it. No one who was not of the Jousters wore the hawk eye; if a talisman of the God Haras was wanted, it would be one of the God Himself.

And yes, he learned as he walked boldly behind the last three boys into yet another chamber, that there were plenty of tasks to be done. For the first time, he found himself taking a place among all of the other dragon boys, who were lined up in front of some racks of equipment.

This was yet another proper room, a large one, smelling of oil and fresh wood, and yet another Overseer, this one a hard-looking man of a kind with Haraket, only leaner. This room was lined with rack upon rack of the lances that all Jousters used.

The Overseer intercepted him as he entered the doorway, stopping him by the simple expedient of stretching his arm out to keep Vetch from passing. “Jouster Ari’s boy. Vetch—”

Caught off-guard, he bobbed his head nervously. “Yes, sir,” he managed.

“This way.” He pulled Vetch off to the side, with one hard hand on his shoulder. He stationed Vetch in front of a rack of lances. Vetch could feel the eyes of every boy in the chamber on him, and it was all he could do to keep from cringing. He reminded himself of their scorn, and of his vow to be better than any of them. He would prove that an Altan was better than any two Tians put together!

He fastened his gaze on the rack of weapons, as he was no doubt intended to do. Now, except for that mashed lance of Ari’s which had hardly been recognizable as such, this was the first time that Vetch had ever seen these lances up close, and much to his surprise, they appeared to be made, not of wood, but of bundles of reeds or papyrus somehow bound and glued together into a whole. The surface was very shiny, the bindings of linen thread wrapped in intricate patterns and varnished into place with a lacquer that turned everything shiny gold.

“Vetch, this is important; I want you to check each one of these. Because this is your first time here, I’ve set this up as a learning exercise. I put some damaged ones in this rack to show you what to look for and how to check the lances for breakage and weak spots. Here; this is a good one.” He thrust the lance, which was just a little longer than he was tall, into Vetch’s hands. It was astonishingly light, and even more astonishingly strong. “First, flex it, like this—” he gestured with his hands to illustrate, and Vetch tried. Another surprise; the thing was springy, much more so than wood. And
strong.

“You feel that? That’s how a good lance should behave. If it doesn’t flex like that, it’s gone dead; toss it.” He handed Vetch a “dead” lance, which had nothing like the flexion of the first; after trying it, Vetch obediently tossed it onto a pile of other discards.

Behind him, he heard the other boys at work at their own racks; presumably they already knew what they were doing.

Learn quickly,
he reminded himself.

The Overseer showed Vetch other defects to look for; broken tips—they weren’t so much broken as crushed—weakened spots, which were soft and gave when poked, lances gone out of true. So this was one of the important jobs of the morning, and Vetch could see why it was vital.

He could figure out why the lances would have broken or had gotten weak places by himself; after all, the lances weren’t for show, the Jousters used them to fight with. But he couldn’t reckon why they’d go dead, or out of true.

Well, that wasn’t his job.
His
job was to pull them off the racks when they did.

There were a lot of lances, and each one had to be inspected minutely. Furthermore, every boy had to inspect every lance that passed, and the Overseer followed behind them inspecting every one that they all passed, sometimes discarding one for no reason that Vetch could fathom. Perhaps it had something to do with magic. Perhaps it had more to do with caution and experience. A Jouster’s life could depend on his lance, and whether or not it held up in combat. It didn’t take long, but by having the boys look the weapons over and discard the ones with obvious flaws, it surely must save the Overseer a great deal of time.

When they were all done with the lances for the day, they filed off in a group for another task that required all their hands. He trailed along behind, not too close, not so far that he would lose them at a turning. They ignored him.

This one took them to a huge walled court, filled with coarse linen cloths, loosely woven, stretched over frames that were held above the ground on wooden legs, at about the same height as a sleeping couch. And on the linen cloths, were the very familiar yellow-green, rounded shapes of ripened
tala
fruit.

This time he didn’t have to be told what to do; a farmer’s child knew drying racks when he saw them. He went straight to the baskets of
tala
waiting to be spread out on the racks, and took one to the nearest empty cloth waiting to be filled.

Not hard or difficult work, but it was hot out here, and the sun bore down on him without mercy. Nor was his task over when the last of the fruits were spread out on the linen; then he must go to the other racks to turn the fruits so that they dried evenly. Each thumb-sized fruit had to be turned by hand, of course; a rake would have damaged the coarsely-woven sheets.

That wasn’t the end of his involvement with the
tala
either. Next he was sent with a dozen of the others to pound
tala
berries that were fully dried into the familiar powder that was mixed with the meat. Each of them stood at a heavy stone mortar the size of a bucket. The mortars stood on the floor in a row, each with a wooden pestle as tall as he was waiting in it, ready to make the
tala
into the form in which it controlled the dragons.

He was no stranger to grinding things either; when you were a serf, tending the land, you either ground the grain you were allowed to glean after the harvest into flour for yourself, or you did without bread. The scent of the
tala
filled the air, green and bitter, a little like gall, but without the acrid aftertaste. He pounded the pestle into the stone mortar at his feet in rhythm with the other boys, thinking as he did so that this was not as bad as it might have been. They were allowed to take a break for a drink of cool water from jars along the wall whenever they needed one, which was far more than Khefti had ever allowed, and although the drying chamber was in full sun, the mortars were ranged under shade. No, this was not as bad as it could have been, though the other boys complained loudly that they were ill-used. He simply set himself to produce more of the powder than any of them.

Then, at long last, when even his work-toughened arms were tired, came lunch.

He was more thirsty than hungry, and drank an entire jar of beer before he even touched a bite of food. While he drank it, though, he kept his eyes on the table in front of him, but kept his ears open wide.

“Going to come fishing with us after supper, Hafer?” asked one of the boys whose piping soprano betrayed that he could not be too much older than Vetch.

“Not unless you can promise more sport than last time,” Hafer replied. “Joset and Mata are going bird hunting, and said they’d take me along to hold their throwing sticks. They almost always get ducks.” He smacked his lips ostentatiously.

But the other boy only laughed. “Ducks! Nasty little mud hens, more like! You can have my share! Grilled fish, now that’s more what I like.”

For a moment he was surprised, but then he realized that of course fish would be a rarity on the table here, despite the abundance of other luxuries. You couldn’t sacrifice a fish to the gods, after all. So what was common fare for practically anyone else with the time to spend on the river was a treat for the dragon boys.

A discussion of the superiority of grilling over coals versus baking in mud ensued, and when another conversation caught his ear, held in the deeper voices of a couple of older boys, he switched his attention to that.

“—and I’ve two copper coins, which ought to be plenty,” one said. “You can drink like the Great King himself at Neferetu’s beer shop on two coppers.”

“Your Jouster won’t care if you go into Mefis to spend it?” the speaker sounded envious. “Mine’s afraid if I go into the city, I’ll decide this is too tame a life. He doesn’t mind my hunting and fishing, but—”

“—but carousing in beer shops is out of bounds, eh? Worse luck for you!” Out of the corner of his eye, Vetch saw one of the older boys slap the shoulder of the other in a gesture of commiseration.

Well, after yesterday, he knew where they got the money to spend. Fortunate creatures. Dragon boys weren’t paid anything so far as he could tell; the generous allowances of food, clothing and (presumably) lodging would be more than most apprentices could dream of, and apprentices weren’t paid anything either.

But perhaps dragon boys didn’t count as apprentices, or more likely, once they got older, perhaps they—the freeborn ones, anyway—were counted among the servants. In which case, they would get a wage. All but Vetch, of course. Serfs worked for nothing.

So perhaps that was another reason why Ari had plucked him from Khefti’s grip; the Jouster wouldn’t have to part with wages for his dragon boy.

That put a bit of a change in the complexion of things . . . if true.

Still, Vetch was the only serf here, and it didn’t seem as if having a serf as a dragon boy had ever been a common thing among the Jousters. So maybe saving money wasn’t the reason, or at least, not the whole of it.

He kept thinking that there were uglier reasons for Ari taking him on, but he kept coming back to the conclusion that it was nothing more than he’d been told. Ari wanted a reliable boy who wouldn’t leave, and was prepared to give him the same treatment every other boy got.

And he’d seen Ari’s quarters; the man lived frugally, yet he didn’t strike Vetch as being a miserly sort. So what, if anything, was he saving money for by having a serf to serve him? No, money probably didn’t enter into it.

He finished his meal and hurried back to Kashet’s pen; if his timing was right, this was just about the point yesterday when Ari had turned up at Khefti’s cistern. So he and Kashet should be returning at any moment.

He was, in fact, not far off. He did a bit of sweeping and tidying around the pen, when he heard the clatter of claws on stone in the corridor, and saw Kashet’s head rising above the walls of the pens, looking alertly toward his own. Shortly after that, the dragon, with Ari walking at his shoulder, strode into the pen and positioned himself next to the saddle stand.

And at that, Ari, though clearly weary and nursing a bruised shoulder—and carrying a broken lance—laughed aloud. “Well, Vetch, I think you’ve passed Kashet’s test. He doesn’t line up alongside the stand for anyone but me. Not even Haraket gets
that
sort of cooperation.”

Vetch was already ducking under Kashet’s chest to undo the bellyband when Ari’s words made him blink. How was he supposed to respond to
that?

The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them. “I like Kashet, sir. Animals can tell when you like them.”

“So they can.” Ari tossed the useless lance aside. “Which means I can leave you both in safe keeping.” With an affection slap of Kashet’s shoulder, the Jouster strode out, without even looking back to see if Vetch was doing everything properly.

Vetch looked after him with mouth agape for a moment. Never, once, in all of the time that he had served Khefti, had the Fat One ever left him unsupervised after only two times at a task.

But Kashet’s snort into Vetch’s hair quickly recaptured his attention. The dragon’s breath was very hot; hotter, in fact, than the sun on his skin. It was just short of painful; Vetch took that as a rebuke and hurried to divest Kashet of harness and saddle.

Other dragons were coming in now, and with irritated hisses and whines, they paraded past Kashet’s pen, their dragon boys keeping them on the shortened chains that would choke them if they tried to get away. Meanwhile Kashet paid no attention to their protests; with the harness off, he dove into his sand wallow, where he rolled and writhed, as if he itched.

Well, if he was putting on a growth spurt, perhaps he did. Maybe his skin felt too tight. Did dragons shed their skins as they grew, or not?

Which reminded him, though Kashet had not been so unmannerly as to do so himself—he needed to get Kashet’s food!

He hurried off to the butchers; Kashet would have a good, long nap in the heat of the day, so this might be the time to give him that extra feeding.

Haraket was there, monitoring the amount each boy took in his barrow and the amount of
tala
he mixed in. “Two barrows for Kashet, sir?” Vetch asked diffidently, as he rolled his own barrow past the
tala
bin.

“Hrmm. Yes. He’ll have a chance to sleep most of it off,” Haraket replied, and the briefest of smiles crossed his face. “Just a bare day here, and you’re acting and thinking like a seasoned hand! Keep this up, boy, and it’d take the Great King’s personal order to pry you away from me and out of Ari’s service.”

Well, Vetch had no particular objections to that. If he
had
to serve his enemies . . . at least this lot of enemies wasn’t striping his back until it was raw, and fed and housed and clothed him well.