Joust Read online

  Well, the sooner he got the pen clean, the sooner he could get something to eat.

  He got to work, not only cleaning out the droppings, but giving everything a good stir about with a rake that he found. Yesterday at this time, he’d been hauling water and clay and river mud for Khefti’s pottery and the brick yard, with nothing more than a loaf end in his stomach. He’d have done ten times the work he’d done this morning, with more in front of him, and the promise of no reward at all.

  This—well, he got to judge the size of his loads, the tools were the right size for someone as little as he, and the raking was no work at all compared with anything Khefti set him to do.

  At last, with the sun now well above the walls of the compound, and casting long slants of golden light on the sand of the pen, he put the rake away. The light had not yet made its way down into the corridors between the pens, but certainly he had done enough by now to justify getting his breakfast.

  Had no trouble finding his way to the kitchen court this time. Just as he got there, one of the girls was pulling the awning across the courtyard and he watched with curiosity. Now he realized what that bunched canvas was across the top of one of the walls of Kashet’s pen—it was a similar awning! But it couldn’t be to shelter the dragon from the sun, not when they needed and craved heat so much. . . .

  Maybe it’s to keep the rain off? That actually made sense. It wouldn’t be dry season forever. Soon enough the winter rains would start; however the sands were heated, rain wouldn’t do them any good.

  When the serving girl was done, he sat down at what was beginning to be his usual seat at the farthest end of the farthest table, and got his breakfast of hot bread and barley broth with the other boys. Once again, there were others besides the dragon boys eating there, and they were the ones who sat at his table. Many appeared to be servants or craftsmen of one sort or another.

  There were a great many of them; more people than lived in both his old village and Khefti’s combined.

  He thought about that as he ate, watching the others at the tables around him. He finally decided that it probably took a lot of people to keep this place running: servants for the Jousters and Overseers; leather craftsmen for the saddles and harnesses; wood workers to supply furniture and do repairs; weapons makers to make the lances and clubs that the Jousters used; laundry women; cooks and bakers; seamstresses; stonemasons and brickmakers . . . this place was a little world unto itself.

  The other dragon boys, however, had not softened their attitude toward him. Free and Tian, and so far above him that he might as well be a beetle for all of the attention they were carefully not paying him, they were very blatantly excluding him from their company.

  Except that they kept looking at him out of the corners of their eyes, and whispering to each other as they did so. It made the wonderful, soft bread form a lump in his throat. He could tell that they would neither forget nor forgive his inferior race and status.

  He was an interloper among them, unwelcome. There would be no friends here.

  Once again, he got that hollow feeling as he watched them chatting and laughing with each other, and pointedly closing him out of their circle.

  He should not have expected anything else, and in his heart, he knew that.

  Not even slaving for Khefti had he felt quite so alone. It was worse than having tricks pulled on him. They were all doing the same job, after all, he and they. It wasn’t as if he was going to be doing less than any of them. It wasn’t as if he was going to be especially favored by any of the Overseers. If anything, he could count on Te-Velethat being harder on him than on anyone else! Why couldn’t they at least be willing to talk to him, a little? He hadn’t had a real friend in so long. . . .

  Small wonder Haraket wanted him to sleep with Kashet. At least the dragon was willing to be his friend.

  He clenched his jaw, and turned to his surest defense.

  Anger.

  What makes them the lords of the world, anyway? Just the luck of being born Tian, that’s all! If the war was going differently—any of them could be serfs, now, this moment. They don’t deserve their good luck.

  He filled the hollow with anger, but it was a slim bulwark against the loneliness. The bread turned as dry as old reeds in his mouth, the broth might as well have been water. It was very hard to swallow, and he stared down into his bowl to avoid their smug glances.

  It had been so long since he’d had a friend . . . bleakness made his eyes sting and he closed them, lest he betray himself with a tear.

  But perhaps—

  A thought occurred to him, and his eyes stopped stinging, and the lump in his throat diminished.

  Perhaps, given Haraket’s tirade against one of them this morning—he might not be the only serf as a dragon boy for long. Boys could be dismissed; Haraket had made that abundantly clear. So if he did well, maybe one or more of the other Jousters would follow Ari’s example?

  Boys “got airs,” and left of their own accord as well. Who was to say that a Jouster who’d been left in the lurch would not decide it would be much better to have a boy who could not leave?

  That made him feel a little better; in fact, it made him feel a bit more courageous. Good enough that, although he did not trade hauteur for hauteur, he lifted his head and straightened his back, concentrating on his hands. Let them pretend they were better than he was! Haraket had shown that he approved of how Vetch was doing. It was Haraket and Ari he had to please, not them. He would do better than they; no matter what they did, he would be better at it. He would tend to Kashet until he glowed with health; he would labor at the leather work and do twice as much as any of them. He would show all of them up for the lazy louts they were, and shame them all!

  And damned if he would ask anything of any of them. But by the time he was settled here, their Jousters would be asking them, “Why can’t you be like Kashet’s boy?”

  After breakfast, he trailed behind the others, having gathered from what he overheard that it was time to get a bath and a new kilt. They all went straight to the same bathing room where Haraket had taken him when he first arrived. He debated loitering until the others were done, then decided to edge inside and hope they ignored him.

  They did; and despite some horseplay and a little shoving amongst themselves, the presence of another adult Overseer who was handing out clean, white-linen kilts and inspecting the boys for cleanliness must have kept them on good behavior. He did loiter just long enough for the greater part of them to clear out, taking the opportunity to scrub himself really well, much to the evident satisfaction of the watching Overseer. “Very good,” the man said, as he handed Vetch a loincloth, a kilt and a leather thong with the glazed-faience talisman of a hawk eye on it that he had seen around everyone else’s neck here. “Kashet’s boy, aren’t you? Jouster Ari is a stickler for cleanliness; I’m pleased to see that you are, as well.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vetch replied, and ventured, “Could someone cut my hair, sir?” He didn’t mean to cut it off, of course, but he hoped it might be trimmed up a bit. . . .

  Evidently he wasn’t even to be allowed that much. “You’re not freeborn, boy,” the Overseer rebuked him. “But—here—” He handed Vetch a coarse shell comb and another bit of leather thong, and at least Vetch was able to get the knots out of his hair for the first time in months and months, and braid it.

  He handed the comb back to the Overseer, who stowed it away, wishing he could shave his head altogether. But only a free-born boy could shave his head and wear a wig; a serf was branded as such by his own hair, long and uncut. It was the easiest and cheapest way to mark a serf. Shaving took time, the resource of a good, sharp razor, and had to be done every day.

  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 e
ye 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.