Of that, at least, he had no doubt.
THREE
BACK and forth Haraket led him, showing him where the Jousters’ quarters were, the armory, the little temple of the god Haras, the Jousters’ particular patron. Vetch was beginning to get the sense of how to navigate around the complex; really, once he got over his bedazzlement at the size and scale and luxury of this place, it wasn’t any more difficult than negotiating the tangle of streets and houses of Khefti’s village. It had, at first blush, seemed a maze, but now he realized that the dragon pens, at least, were all at the eastern end of the compound, with the great landing court right in the middle of them. Everything else was west of the pens and court, and the area closest to the pens was devoted to the butchery. So long as he kept going east from wherever he started, he’d come into the area where the dragons were housed, so even though the complex was the size of several villages, he couldn’t get entirely lost.
And the walls were not bare and featureless either; he hadn’t paid much attention before because he had been concentrating on Haraket, but now he saw that at every intersection of corridors, on the walls at the corners, there were engraved images of gods, all different. Nearest to Kashet’s pen, where there was an intersection of two corridors, the gods upon the east-running corridor were the fat little dwarf god of good fortune and fertility, Khas, and on the north-running one the charming little goddess of the dawn, Noshet, with her beautifully plumed wings spread wide against the sand-colored wall. It wasn’t lost on him, when he realized each corridor was marked by a god, that he could navigate among this maze of corridors by means of these carvings.
The dragons were not peering over their walls now; in fact, there was no sign of them at all, and when Haraket beckoned to him to follow into his own dragon’s pen, he saw that Kashet was still drowsing in his sand wallow. “It will shortly be time for the Jousters to take their second patrols of the day, since there is not, at the moment, any actual war taking place.”
Tell that to my people, Vetch thought, the anger that was always with him sullenly flaring. But Haraket was still speaking—ordering him, rather.
“Now, you come saddle Kashet again,” Haraket told him, as Vetch stood gingerly on the edge of the sand wallow. Kashet was already easing himself up out of the hot sand, slowly and reluctantly, making little grunting sounds. “Go over to the saddle stand and call him. Say, ‘Kashet, stand,’ and make it sound like you mean it.”
Vetch took his place beside the wooden rack holding the saddle and harness. He glanced at Haraket, but got no clues from the overseer’s expression. Make it sound like you mean it. Well, ordering an ox around, or a goat, you had to sound firm. But it had been very, very long since he had been permitted to give orders even to an animal. He wasn’t even used to raising his voice. . . .
Finally, he tried to imagine how he would feel if he were the master, and it was one of those boys who had sneered at him back at the kitchen who was the serf. He tried to think of himself ordering the boy to fetch something. “Kashet!” he called, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears. But at least it didn’t sound uncertain. “Stand!”
Kashet snorted; the snort sounded amused. But the dragon came readily enough, and stood towering above him, neck craned over, head looking curiously down at him. Again, he was struck by the heat of the dragon’s body; it was as if he stood beside a clay bread oven during the baking.
Kashet looked even taller than he recalled. He couldn’t have touched the dragon’s shoulder even if he’d stood on tiptoe.
Now, how was he going to get the saddle on the beast when Kashet’s shoulder was higher than Haraket’s head?
Haraket watched him, eyes narrowed, waiting—for what? The overseer passed a hand over the top of his shaved head, and Vetch knew that he was waiting for Vetch to do something.
Was Haraket waiting for him to deduce how to handle the dragon from the clues he’d been given?
It wasn’t fair—but it was a test of whether or not he could think for himself. He looked around, and couldn’t see anything to climb onto in order to get the saddle onto the dragon’s back. If he couldn’t get the saddle up on Kashet’s back, could he get Kashet to come down to him?
“Kashet!” he shouted, hearing his voice squeak a little at the end. “Down!”
And that, it seemed, was the answer.
With a grunt, the dragon knelt at the side of the sand pit, just the forequarters, putting his back just low enough for Vetch to reach. He heaved the saddle off the rack, taking care not to tangle the straps. He remembered how it had lain on the dragon’s back, just in front of the wings; he thought he remembered how all of the straps buckled. He manhandled the saddle over Kashet’s neck, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and took a quick glance at Haraket.
The overseer looked satisfied. Or at least, he wasn’t frowning. So that was probably it; but Haraket wasn’t going to give him any more clues. He would either manage to carry his orders out on his own, or—
—or back to Khefti.
But it couldn’t be that hard; it couldn’t be any more complicated than harnessing a donkey to carry a load, or an ox to the plow. It ought to be logical. There were just not that many ways that you could buckle a harness!
He didn’t think Haraket expected or wanted him to fail, either, which was a refreshing change. No, he got the feeling that Haraket merely wanted to see if he could do the job, how quickly, and how much help he would need.
Maybe, whispered that angry voice, he expects that you’re going to botch it because you’re an Altan barbarian. . . .
Well, if that was the case—Haraket would find out he was better and smarter than those freeborn Tians.
While Kashet was still crouched, Vetch took the opportunity to buckle the highest neck strap on the saddle, the one that carried what he thought was the breast strap fastened in the middle of it. Then he ordered, this time with more confidence, “Kashet! Up!”
The dragon stood, and Vetch puzzled out the straps that fastened the front of the saddle at the neck and throat. But the rest of the harness was not immediately clear, and he paused with a strap in his hand. There were a lot of straps.
Maybe there were a lot of different ways you could fasten a harness. Or, at least, this particular harness.
“Find the mate on the other side,” Haraket prompted. “And bring them under the forelegs to that breastband that’s sewn to the neckband. That’s the fat strap that should follow his keelbone. After you fasten the neckband, the straps are always in pairs.”
So Haraket was going to give him some hints! He wouldn’t have guessed that from the Overseer’s stony expression. He relaxed a little, and continued his task with more confidence.
With a few more such hints, Vetch got the harness fastened, then without further prompting, went over all the straps again, cinching them down as he recalled his father harnessing the donkey for carrying a load to market. When he glanced again at Haraket, the overseer wasn’t frowning at all; in fact, there was no mistaking his look of satisfaction.
When Vetch finished, Haraket came over and double-checked the fit of each strap. Some he tightened further, but the ones across the neck, he loosened.
“Here, the neckband—it’s more to carry the breastband than anything else,” Haraket told him. “You want it loose enough to slip two fingers under it. But here—” he moved down to two of the straps that passed in front of Kashet’s legs. “—these need to be as tight as you can pull them. This one here, too—” Vetch watched him closely, making mental notes. What he wanted was to be free of masters, but—short of a miracle—that wasn’t going to happen. Failing that, this was the best place he’d ever been in, and he did not want to be sent away.
Especially not back to Khefti, for he was fairly certain that if Khefti was ever presented with the opportunity to get his hands on Vetch again, what he would contrive for the remainder of Vetch’s life did not bear thinking about. It would be so bad, in fact, that Vetch’s
previous existence as Khefti’s serf would seem pleasant in comparison.
So I will serve Kashet, and my Jouster, and they will never want another dragon boy, he vowed to himself, watching how Haraket slid two fingers between the harness and Kashet’s neck to check the fit.
Jouster Ari reappeared at that point, and Haraket stepped back abruptly. Vetch scrambled back out of the way, certain that the Jouster would find something wrong. All of this would come tumbling down, and with a word the Jouster would send him back to Khefti, or at least order Haraket to beat him.
But after an inspection of the harness, Ari gave a brief nod to Haraket, handed the Overseer his lance, and slapped Kashet on the shoulder. Without a command, Kashet extended his foreleg to the Jouster; Ari used it as a step, and with its aid, vaulted into the saddle. Haraket handed the lance back to Ari, and the Jouster set the lance into the socket at his belt, and took a firm grip on the handhold at the front of the saddle.
Warned now by his own experience, Vetch shielded his eyes; Kashet spread his wings and leaped upward, and in a storm of sand and hot wind that buffeted Vetch and made him shelter his face in the crook of his elbow, the dragon vaulted into the clear blue of the heavens. The dragon and rider wheeled above the pen for a moment as Kashet gained height, looking like a jewel-bright painting against the cloudless blue of the heavens.
Then, abruptly, they side-slipped to the north and were gone.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, get that shovel!” Haraket barked, and Vetch hastily looked back down and saw where the overseer was pointing. “Once Kashet’s out of the pen, you clean it, clean it thoroughly, and immediately!”
At Haraket’s direction, Vetch got the shovel and the barrow he’d used to bring the meat, and began the cleaning. Kashet used a second pit cut into the earth and rock to one side of the huge wallow, smaller than the wallow and not nearly as hot, for a privy. Like a cat, perhaps, for the droppings were neatly buried and the smell minimal. Not unpleasant either; they smelled a bit acrid, but not fetid. The droppings themselves, black, hard as stones and round, were about the size and weight of a melon.
“Don’t touch those with your bare hands,” Haraket warned, as he carried one in the shovel to the barrow. “Something about them burns the skin.”
He took Haraket’s word for it, though he was surprised, and couldn’t imagine what could do the burning. The droppings were actually cooler than the nesting sand, so it evidently wasn’t heat that would burn the skin. Perhaps it was something like natron, only stronger.
“This stuff is worth its weight in silver,” Haraket said warningly, as Vetch pushed the barrow at his direction. “You account for every dropping to me, and I account for it to the priests; whatever they use it for, it’s important to them. There’s a tally board where you’ll be taking it.”
So there was; Vetch unloaded his barrow, and put a mark on the board for every dropping before he went back for a second load. There weren’t nearly enough droppings piled in the courtyard where he upended his barrow, given all of the dragons that were here; someone must come and take the stuff away pretty promptly.
Vetch didn’t ask what dragon dung was good for; if it was priestly business, it was just as well not to know, and that was doubly true when the priests were Tian. They were likely to take an innocent question poorly if it came from someone like him.
The sun, which had been directly overhead when he began the task of cleaning out the pen, had traveled westward, and the corridors were now shadowed by the high walls. That certainly made his job a little easier, although the kamiseen managed to drop down and began to scour its way through the complex, bringing the fire of the desert with it. Still, he was not looking forward to nightfall, for it was as cold at night during the dry season as it was hot during the day. Once the sun god left for his nightly journey through the underworld, he took all of the warmth with him.
I wonder where I’m to sleep? he thought, suddenly, when it occurred to him that the day was more than half spent. He hadn’t seen anything that looked like a sleeping pallet since he’d arrived here. He really didn’t want to sleep where the rest of the dragon boys slept; he’d lie awake all night waiting for them to do something to him. But he probably wasn’t going to get a choice about it either. Unless—they might have other serfs here, or they might have him sleep with the slaves. That wouldn’t be bad. At least they wouldn’t have a reason to plague him.
When he tipped out the last of the droppings on the pile, Haraket signed to him to leave the barrow over to one side of the room. “Someone else will clean the barrow. Now you have lessons that go along with tending your dragon. You’ll be seeing to Kashet’s harness and saddle, so now it’s time for you to begin to learn to clean and mend harness,” said Haraket, and led him off again into the maze of corridors.
At the very edge of the area of the pens, just past the butchery, where pens and open courtyards gave way to real buildings with roofs and doors, was his next destination. Now that the noon meal was over, there was more activity here, and along the corridor marked by the sign of Teleth, the wise god of scribes and engravers, it now appeared that the doors there marked a series of workshops. This was where Haraket led Vetch, who was certain now that he could at least find his way back to Kashet’s pen from where he was.
“Hu, Shobek,” Haraket called, pushing open a door to a dim room, full of shadows, that smelled of leather and leather oil. It was also full of dragon boys, presided over by a dour old man.
“Hu, Haraket,” replied the old man, a thin and wiry individual with a leather cap fitted over his shaven skull. “The new one?”
“The same,” Haraket replied, and before Vetch could ask anything, turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Vetch standing just inside the doorway.
This time, it appeared, his work was to be accomplished under someone else’s supervision besides Haraket. The old man examined Vetch for a moment; the other dragon boys here were ranged in neat rows all down the room, each sitting cross-legged on a brown reed mat, each one with his hands full of some piece of harness or other leather work, head bent in concentration. Clearly this man Shobek had charge over them all, and enforced discipline completely. The other boys might glance up at Vetch, but it was a brief glance, and each one quickly returned his gaze to the work in his hands, lest the Overseer of this workshop catch him staring too long. The air was redolent with the pleasant smell of new leather, of leather oil, and of some spice he couldn’t identify.
“Ever worked leather?” the old man growled. And when Vetch shook his head, he just sighed, as if he had not expected any other answer. “You are the newest and most ignorant of everyone here, boy,” the man said roughly. “You have a lot to learn, and you’d better make up your mind to learn it quickly. I’ll have no idlers in my workshop. Show me your hands.”
Quickly, Vetch stretched out both his hands, grateful that he’d gotten that bath. His nails might be broken, his palms callused hard, but at least both were clean. The old man grunted.
“Good. You’re no stranger to work. And you’ve got clever, small hands. I can make some use of you now, so mind what you’re told, for I won’t tell you twice.”
Within moments, Vetch was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat of his own, discharging the dirtiest job of all, that of cleaning the saddles.
Old saddles, actually, with the leather cracking and going dry; evidently he wasn’t to be trusted yet with saddles that weren’t all but ruined.
“No one is using these at the moment,” Shobek said, as he piled four of them beside Vetch’s mat. “Clean and get these fit to repair, and then I’ll put you on Kashet’s spare harnesses.”
As Shobek instructed him, he was relieved to find that there was not much that was going to be difficult about this job. His first job was to clean the saddles, using some concoction in a pottery jar, his second, to oil, and try and revive the elderly leather by rubbing in a compound of wax and tallow, with precious myrrh added to give it fragrance.
It wasn’t the hardest task he had ever had, by any stretch of the imagination. And although at this point, the hottest part of the day, anyone who wasn’t a servant was lying down in a cool room or trying to cool off by bathing in a pool, this wasn’t a bad job. He was sitting down; he was in a cool, dim room. The thick mud-brick walls kept the heat out, and the stone floor cooled things further. There was a certain sensuous pleasure in working with the leather, watching it slowly revive under his attentions, the fragrant myrrh soothing his senses. He knew what myrrh was, of course; on feast days even Khefti would get a cone of perfume scented with it or some other fragrance and wear it all day on top of his coarse, braided horsehair wig. The Tians loved perfumes and unguents, and someone who did not bathe at least twice daily and who smelled of grease and sweat as Khefti did was regarded with unconcealed disdain. So on festival days, in the hopes of mingling with his betters, Khefti would bathe like a concubine and lavish as much myrrh on himself as he could afford. Not that it did much good. Not all the perfume cones in the world could cover up the rancid scent of Khefti-the-Fat. . . .
There were other spices in the wax as well, though none as strong as the myrrh. Perhaps this was what gave the dragons their pleasant scent.
The saddles were not large or heavy, as Vetch already knew; nothing like the kind of bulky chair he would have envisioned for riding a dragon. Instead, they were a kind of thick pad of kapok-stuffed leather molded by time and use to the shape of a particular dragon’s shoulders, with straps and braces, handholds, carry pads and harness straps firmly sewn onto them. The ones in his charge were very old and much abused; stiff and dried out, the pale brown leather cut up here and there, the harnesses snapped, the sinew stitching torn loose, the stuffing coming out in places. The other boys were doing the skilled work, that of replacing harness straps and restitching and patching. All he had to do was to untangle straps, which were generally stiff and dried hard, then remove as many of the broken ones as he could, and get the leather clean and supple again.
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