What remained of a lance… which meant that Ari had been in a fight with one of the Altan Jousters. Their numbers were far smaller than the Tians, but they were a factor in the ongoing conflict; they certainly kept the Tian Jousters from having everything their own way. Vetch picked up the macerated lance and deposited it where the rest of the trash was collected, with very mixed feelings.
He didn't want any harm to come to Ari—not the least because if Ari was killed, he'd have no need for a dragon boy, and even if Kashet was drugged by tala into accepting another Jouster, it wasn't likely that the new man would be as tolerant of having a mere serf serve him as Ari was.
On the other hand, he couldn't help but hope that the Altan Jouster had at least given Ari something to think about. Can a Jouster be beaten without being killed? Vetch didn't know, but if that could happen—
At least, for Ari, if he's defeated, let it be without him being hurt, he prayed fiercely. I don't care about any other Jouster, but as long as Ari's kept safe, let there be an Altan who can win in the Jousts!
Ari presumably felt that Kashet was in reliable hands now, for he'd left without a single backward glance. That left Vetch, under Haraket's supervision, to take the saddle and harness off Kashet. This time Haraket didn't lift a finger; he left it to Vetch to manage by himself.
But at least, he gave some signs of approval when Vetch did everything, did it correctly, and without guidance.
"Now bring him along, and follow me," Haraket decreed, and strode off, expecting Vetch to keep up. He put one hand on Kashet's shoulder, as he had seen Ari do, and set off after the Overseer.
Kashet didn't need any encouragement; wherever they were going, it was a place that Kashet liked. The dragon nearly bowled them both over in his eagerness to reach it.
They remained within the area of the pens, but this time they followed an east-west corridor with the cat-goddess Pashet on the walls. Eventually, when they reached what must have been the southeast corner of the complex, Haraket turned into another open-roofed area.
"This is the buffing pen, where you'll give Kashet his sand baths," Haraket said, leading them both inside. "Every day at this time, in fact."
This was another open-air court, a place of huge stalls, like those for horses, but big enough for dragons. Haraket guided Kashet into one of them. There were rings here for chaining the dragons, but of course, that was not a precaution that Vetch needed to use with Kashet.
"Go get one of those buckets of sand," Haraket said, pointing to a place where buckets—yes, full of sand—were lined up against the wall. Vetch did as he was told, while Haraket got a basket heaped with soft cloths from a storage shed. Then Haraket showed him how to take a handful of sand and polish the dragon's hide with it. Kashet seemed to love it, leaning into the grit like a dog being scratched. The sand polished off dirt and anything else that had stuck to the scales. And the sand was particularly good at cleaning the hide of the wings.
Those peculiar wings… they weren't like the wings of any other creature that Vetch had ever seen. Certainly not like bird wings, nor like bats, nor like insects. They had many peculiar folds and planes, layers of skin and flexible tendons and thin, flat bones that were almost as flexible as the tendons. But all of those surfaces made for places where itchy things could lodge, so Vetch set to scrubbing with a will.
Kashet wasn't scaled everywhere; the wing webbings were made of tough, thin skin, there was skin at the eyes and nostrils and in the joints. All of the skin needed oiling, when he was done' scrubbing Kashet with the sand. The oil soaked in quickly, leaving the hide softer and more flexible; in fact, it vanished so quickly that not one grain of sand stuck to the hide afterward. His beautiful blue scales were like the curved, shiny iridescent wing covers of beetles, they shone with a deep and luminous color so rich it was like nothing in Vetch's experience.
And Kashet adored it; loved every bit of attention, and even helped Vetch to get to inaccessible spots by crouching down or contorting himself to bring some area where Vetch could reach it. Vetch burnished him with sand first, then at Haraket's direction, with soft, oil-soaked cloths, until the dragon gleamed. While he worked, other boys brought in their dragons, until all the other dragons were in the buffing pens as well, and the whole place was full.
He couldn't help but notice that every other boy brought in his dragon with a heavy collar around its neck, and a strong chain attached to the collar. The least tug on the chain would somehow close the collar down around the dragon's throat, cutting off his breath.
So that was how a mere boy could control a huge creature like a dragon!
"Only Kashet is safe to handle without chains when he's around the others," Haraket observed, as another dragon boy brought his charge into the pen, but not as Haraket had, with only a hand on his shoulder. "They're like dogs sometimes, snappish and quarrelsome. That's why the walls of the pens are so thick, so they can't reach each other over them."
This green-bronze dragon wore her chain around her neck like the others; just at that moment, she balked and tried to pull the chain loose from the boy. He gave the chain a yank, and the collar closed down around her windpipe, choking her for an instant. She wheezed for a moment, and then subsided; the boy gave the chain a flip to loosen it, and continued where he'd been heading to chain his charge to a post at the far wall of the pen. "Right now, Par-kisha is sated by the tala on her food, but he's wise to chain her," Haraket observed. "Fights between dragons are impossible for anyone but the Jousters to break up, and—" he fixed Vetch with a knife-sharp glance, "—remember this, boy. Fights are generally fatal to handlers caught in the middle."
Vetch nodded, and gulped.
But Kashet was nothing like the half-wild thing chained to the post next to him; he had turned into a veritable puddle of dragon, leaning into each buffing stroke with his eyes half closed. Like an enormous cat, he loved grooming and being groomed. Oh, the others enjoyed it, too, but not to the extent that Kashet did.
Finally Haraket deemed the task done even to his exacting standards, and allowed Vetch to lead the dragon back to his pen for the last time that day. Leaving Kashet to bask in the sun while his hide absorbed the oil—which imparted that spicy scent to him—Vetch got another barrowful of meat.
By now, drowsy and relaxed and more certain of his new dragon boy, Kashet was not so impatient to be fed. He ate in a leisurely fashion, while Haraket and Vetch watched.
"The other dragons all get tala mixed with their meat at every meal; make sure you never get one of those barrows," Haraket cautioned. "Kashet is never to have tala. Not even at morning feed—and believe me, when you see the others snapping at their boys, you'll be grateful that you've got Kashet, and not mind the extra work he makes for you. Maybe the other boys will have less work than you, but yours will be easier. And Ari's a good master."
With Kashet fed and digging himself a hollow in the sand in which to sleep, Haraket gave Vetch a grudging smile.
"All right, serf boy," he said gruffly. "You've done as well as anyone else his first day. You're finished until morning. Go back to the kitchen and get your supper, and you're free to do whatever you wish until dawn. You'll sleep on a pallet in here with Kashet, though, and not with the other boys. Ari's particular about Kashet, and he wants someone with him all the time."
"Yes, sir," Vetch said feeling that for once he'd encountered Tians who deserved being called "sir."
And he was going to sleep here, away from the other boys— potential tormentors. He felt another burden of worry ease away from him.
"You're how old, boy?" Haraket demanded suddenly. "And what in Tophet were you before you were bound to the land?"
"Ten or eleven, sir, though I'm not sure." He'd lost track of the seasons, really, it wasn't hard to do so when your days were exhausting and the work never ending. "Maybe older." Maybe much older, but he wasn't going to say that. Much older, and he might be deemed too old for this task. "My father was a farmer," Vetch stammered, surprised by the
abrupt demand. Masters did not, in his experience, give a toss about how old you were, or what you'd been when you were free.
"Not too old, not too young. Good." Haraket nodded. "Right. Off with you; get that dinner. I'll have the pallet brought here for you; it will be waiting for you when you're ready to sleep." With that, he left Vetch at the door to Kashet's pen, stalking off with his long, ground-eating strides. Vetch gathered his courage, and looked for the kitchen.
By now, he had a rough map of the place in his mind, and he found the kitchen by dead reckoning and following his nose. This time he was not the first one to reach the place. There were other boys there already, but they were largely too full of themselves and their doings to pay much attention to him, particularly as he settled himself at a table out of their way.
The sun was just setting, and torches were being lit, so he was left to himself at first. But there was already food on the table, as before, so he didn't mind. Wonderful bread, stewed greens and fresh onions, boiled latas roots; all of it fresh and cooked well, not burned, not left over. There were more little bowls of fat, too, for dipping bread into, and a spiced paste of ground chickpeas. Eventually one of the girls serving drink noticed him. She slapped down a pottery jar of beer in front of him in an absentminded sort of way and nodded to another, who left him a hot terra-cotta bowl of pottage. Then, as he was scooping up pottage in pieces torn from a piece of flatbread, came the surprise.
Because the next thing that was left at his table was a plate full of meat.
Now, Vetch hadn't had meat in—well, longer than he could remember, because even a farmer as his father had been didn't slaughter his animals very often. In fact, the meat he'd gotten most often had been wild duck, goose, and hare, except on one memorable occasion when someone's ox had broken a leg, and the whole village had a feast before the meat went bad.
This was a whole platter of sliced beef, cooked until it was just barely pink, and oozing juices. He stared at it dumbfounded. Why, this was the sort of thing that only rich men ate at dinner!
But then it dawned on him why they all got meat—all the sacrifices from the Temples, of course! And why not? Compared to what the dragons ate, the amount of meat that would be cooked and served at a single meal was trivial. So why shouldn't the Jousters and their staff share in the bounty?
Nevertheless, Vetch wasted no time in helping himself, tearing the slices apart with his fingers. He stuffed the first bite into his mouth, and closed his eyes in purest pleasure.
This wasn't like that long-remembered stewed beef. This was better; incomparably, amazingly better! The salt-sweet meat practically melted on his tongue, bombarding him with a savory complex of flavors that made his toes curl with delight.
Well, and of course it was better—you didn't offer the gods your old, work-worn ox or a cow aged and tough with bearing calves and producing milk! You brought the gods a fine, young bull or heifer, or even a tender calf. You'd be stupid to do otherwise! The best of the best came to the gods, who drank in the blood and the essence, which left all that perfectly wonderful meat for mortal enjoyment.
If this was what the dragon boys and other slaves and servants got who were last on the chain—after the priests had taken their pick, then the Jousters, then the dragons—what must the priests be feasting on every night?
No wonder no one ever sees a skinny priest…
But there; it was dangerous, serving the gods. Sometimes it was deemed necessary that someone go to serve them in person… then there would be a sacrifice that would not be passed on to the Jousters' compound.
At least, the Altan gods were that way, and if anything, the Tians were even more bloody-minded.
Vetch shuddered, and pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on the savor of every morsel. It was only priests that were sacrificed, anyway; slaves were deemed too lowly to please the gods, and serfs were the enemy, and who would send an important message via one's enemy?
The sky darkened, and someone went around the periphery of the court, lighting the rest of the lamps, while someone else pulled back the awning. Others came to sit at his table—servants within the complex, he thought, not other dragon boys. Some were probably serfs, but there was no way to tell which were and which were not, for slaves as well as serfs went with uncut hair and unshaven scalps. They didn't talk to him, but that could simply be because they were stuffing food into their mouths with evident enjoyment.
Then, when he thought he could not possibly be more satisfied, the serving girl plunked down another pottery platter in front of him.
Honey cakes.
Fresh-baked, crisp and flaky, with the honey glaze on their tops shining in the torchlight, the sweet aroma rose to his nostrils and tickled his appetite all over again. He fell to with a will, much to the open delight of the serving girl.
Finally, feeling as stuffed as a festival goose, he reluctantly got up from the table, the last of the dragon boys to leave, though servants were still coming in to eat.
But even then, he was in for one final surprise.
Just before he left the kitchen courtyard, that same serving girl intercepted him. She was not so much a girl, he noticed now; it was just that she didn't have that worn-out look that serf women and slaves got; he thought she might have been close to the age of his own mother.
"Here," she said, pressing a package wrapped in a broad leaf of the kind fish were baked in into his hand. "Take this with you. Little boys get hungry in the night, and you look three-quarters starved, anyway. We Altans have to stick together."
So she was another Altan serf! He tried to give it back to her, alarmed at the thought that he might be getting her into trouble. "I don't—" he began. "You'll get—
But she laughed and closed both his hands around it. "Ah, nothing of the sort!" she said cheerfully. "Even if we didn't have so much food here that we give what's left to the beggars after every meal, you are a dragon boy, and Kashet's boy at that; I'd be in trouble if I didn't make certain you had plenty to eat, not for sending you off with something extra!" She turned him around and gave him a little shove. "Off with you; I've work to do."
So, clutching a packet that held more food in it than he got out of Khefti in three days—and that was by weight alone, no telling what was actually in the packet—he made his way back to Kashet's pen. When he thought about all the times he'd been unable to sleep because his belly was aching with hunger, or when he'd managed to get to sleep, only to have hunger pangs wake him in the middle of the night—well, he could hardly believe his luck.
Torches placed at intervals along the walls and at each intersection showed him the pictures on the walls clearly. He did get lost going back, but eventually he righted himself, and followed the pictures to the pens. The torches burned brightly, with the faint scent of incense to them, and not a great deal of smoke. The yellow light they gave off was clear and strong; the walls here were high enough that the kamiseen didn't blow them out, only made them waver and flicker now and again, as a gust or two got past the wind baffles. His eyes were light dazzled so that when he looked up, he couldn't make out the stars, though, which was what had led to his getting a little lost, for he couldn't tell east from west in this maze without seeing the sun or stars. Or the moon, but it was rising late tonight, and wouldn't even begin to peek up above the walls until after he found Kashet's pen. He could hear the sounds of the other boys chattering together somewhere. And for a moment, he felt a strange emptiness inside of him that no amount of bread could touch.
But then he turned the corner into Kashet's pen. He stood in the soft darkness for a moment, and let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light, for there were no torches in here. When he was able to make out details, he saw the pallet waiting for him beneath the awning that protected the saddle and harness. At that moment, all he could think of was sleep.
Tia was a desert land, and the desert was as cold by night as it was hot by day. Now the hot sands where Kashet rested were a source of comfort, a radiating w
armth better than the wall Vetch used to sleep beside, for this warmth wouldn't fade before the night was half over. Vetch was happy enough to spread out on his pallet and settle down beside the lightly snoring dragon. The dragon was fast asleep in his wallow, and it didn't look as if Vetch could have awakened him if he'd tried. With no torches in here, once Vetch's eyes had gotten used to the darkness, he looked past the awning over his head to the stars.
In the darkness of his old sleeping place in Khefti's back kitchen, Vetch had spent many an unhappy night on his pile of reeds, shivering in his rags. This pallet was, he thought, made of a thick mattress of straw inside a covering of fleece, all of that covered with heavy linen. There were two blankets as well, and an Altan pillow rather than a Tian headrest. It felt strange to stretch out and not have scratchy straw sticking into him, or feel the stone through the straw. It felt as if he was stretched out on a cloud.
He carefully put his food packet near at hand, but inside an upturned bucket that he vermin-proofed with a brick to hold it down. Then he laid himself down on his pallet, warm, full, and trying to figure out what he had done to warrant this sudden change in his fortunes. He looked up at the stars for a clue, but the stars weren't in the mood to answer, it seemed.
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