Joust Read online

  Ari did not come to the pen that night—not that Vetch blamed him, for the rain continued to come down until long after darkness fell, and it would have been a miserable journey. Vetch fell asleep on his pallet in Kashet’s wallow, with the dragon an arm’s length away, both of them basking in the warmth. But the next day, although the skies did not clear very much, the rain stopped, and Ari arrived in the afternoon.

  The Jousters still did not fly, for it was all too possible for them to come to grief in the uncertain winds around the storms, or to be struck by lightning. So Ari arrived after Kashet’s second feeding, wrapped in his woolen mantle against the cold, and sat down to bury his feet in the hot sand.

  “This is better than any brazier,” he said contentedly. “I always spend a lot of time here with Kashet in the rains.”

  He looked over to the far end of the wallow, where Vetch’s pallet still lay, and nodded with approval. “Very smart. My last dragon boy was too afraid of Kashet to move his bed where it was warmer; I could never understand that. If the dignity of a Jouster permitted it, I’d sleep here every night of the winter, and not in my quarters. Every rainy season I find myself regretting that I am a Jouster, and not tending my hatchling anymore.” He turned his gaze toward Vetch and smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to go tidy my rooms while I’m here of an afternoon. Otherwise Te-Velethat will be angry with you for shirking your duties, and the other Jousters will be angry with me for not insisting that you do them.”

  Vetch read a world of implications in those few words—as he was probably meant to. The others would, of course, have heard all about Khefti and the magistrate. Initially, of course, they would have been outraged that a mere brick maker dared to set himself against a Jouster, and they would have been pleased at Khefti’s thorough trouncing. But then, once they’d had a chance to mull it all over, some of them would be sure that this incident would “spoil” Vetch, or that Ari was overindulging him. Bad enough in a free Tian boy—but not to be thought of in a serf. Anyone in the compound who had their doubts about Ari’s choice of dragon boy would be watching Vetch as a falcon watched a bird, and they would be just as ready to pounce on any suspicion of poor performance.

  Vetch jumped to his feet as suddenly as if he had sat on a wasp. “Of course, sir!” he exclaimed. At this point, after the scene in the Dragon Hall yesterday, if Ari had asked him to fling himself into a crocodile’s jaws, he probably would have done it joyfully. Well, perhaps not joyfully, but he wouldn’t have hesitated.

  He ran off without another word, and as usual, found that there really was not a great deal to do except that his usual chore of sweeping out had turned to one of mopping out—cleaning up the mud that had been tracked everywhere.

  Given that he was being watched, he elected to clean the mud out of the courtyard as well, even though that wasn’t technically his task. Not that it was a quarter as much work as the same task had been for Khefti-the-Fat . . . and Vetch grinned the whole time he was doing the job, startling the life out of Te-Velethat, who looked in to see that he was there and doing his job. He was picturing Khefti doing the job for himself, for surely he had not yet managed to hire a servant nor buy a slave.

  No, the wages he’ll offer will be too small by half, and no one will take them, Vetch thought gleefully. And the price he’ll be willing to pay for a slave won’t get him anything. He’ll have to wait until some dealer comes by with a lot of slaves that nobody else wants, and even then, he’ll end up paying twice what he wants to.

  The picture of Khefti with a mop was so delicious that he undertook to move every stick of furniture and clean under and behind it, startling Te-Velethat when he came, once again, to check on Vetch’s progress. Vetch didn’t care what the Overseer thought, so long as he was impressed with Vetch’s diligence.

  Nothing could spoil his pleasure today, nor for many days to come. Khefti-the-Fat had brought Vetch’s curses down on his own head with the words of his own mouth.

  Life was very, very good.

  EIGHT

  AFTER that first afternoon, Ari spent time with Kashet—and indirectly, with Vetch—nearly every afternoon during the rains. The mornings, though, proceeded nearly as they had during the dry; mornings were spent in training flights, if there was no wind and no storm directly overhead. If the rain was going to stop at all, it usually did so during the hours of the morning, and training was vital for the dragons, no matter what season it was. They needed practice even though they weren’t fighting, as did all warriors, but more than that, in the rains, when it was impossible for armies to move and difficult for even individual fighters, the dragons needed exercise. In the wild, dragons would be going about their business, hunting, mating, teaching their young the business of being the largest predator in the hills. Dragons in the compound didn’t need to do any of those things. Their meals were brought to them, they were prevented from mating; therefore, at all times, but especially in the rains when they were confined to the area around the compound, they had to fly and get plenty of vigorous exercise, or they would get fat, spoiled, and stale.

  Now, the dragons themselves were not at all in favor of this. They saw no reason to bestir themselves. Like Kashet, they hated the rain and the cold, and there was a lot of protesting from the pens as they were led out to the landing court in the morning. Kashet protested, too, but it was mostly a token.

  “He takes forever to get up in the morning,” Vetch noted one morning, near the end of the rainy season.

  “But once I get him up, he doesn’t hiss and moan about flying off the way the others do. The others—you’d think they were going off to be whipped!”

  “He enjoys the training,” Ari explained. “He likes the training a lot more than the patrolling.”

  Or the fighting? Vetch wondered. Well, Kashet would truly enjoy himself for some time, then. Spring and the Flood were not far off; already the Haph priests were going down to the measuring stone three times daily, to see if the waters had begun to rise. No less than the season of rains, the season of flood was one in which it was difficult for armies and individuals to move about. And Kashet would surely enjoy the fact that the days would soon be getting longer and warmer, and the rains would stop.

  Ari was giving Kashet’s eye ridges a good scratch, unaware of Vetch’s thoughts. “He likes the kinds of things that we do in training, and he always has.”

  “He probably likes being able to outfly any other dragon,” Vetch observed, as he buckled a chest strap. Ari laughed.

  “He probably does,” the Jouster agreed. “Now, I wonder what the morning holds for us—” Ari lifted his head and took a deep breath, testing the air like a hound; he was almost as good as a priest for being able to predict weather in the short-term. “No scent of rain; we should be all right and get the full morning to work out in. Are the other boys leaving you alone?”

  Vetch was getting used to Ari’s sudden changes in subject, though not quite used to Ari’s personal interest in him. He ducked his head to avoid looking into the Jouster’s eyes. “I’m all right,” he said softly. “They don’t bother me.”

  “But they don’t make friends with you either.”

  Vetch shrugged, as if he felt nothing more than indifference, but that was a third thing that he wasn’t used to—Ari’s uncanny ability to know pretty much what was going on in his life. “It doesn’t matter as long as they don’t bother me,” he said firmly.

  “Vetch, look at me,” Ari ordered.

  Feeling distinctly uncomfortable now, Vetch stopped what he was doing and obeyed the order. Ari had a very sharp, very direct gaze; those dark eyes seemed to look through everything. Ari’s mouth thinned; it wasn’t quite a frown, but it was clear to Vetch that he was not entirely happy.

  When Ari had begun showing this—interest—in him, Vetch had been nervous. But Ari had never displayed anything but concern for his welfare—as if he felt responsible for Vetch in some way. Vetch still didn’t understand it, and he still wasn’t
comfortable with the attention, but that was mostly because he just didn’t like telling anyone as much about himself as Ari wanted to know. There was no reason for a Tian to want to know a serf’s inner thoughts! Everything he had learned about the masters made him very nervous when they started probing. And even if Ari had never once been less than fair with him, it still made him nervous when it was Ari.

  “You have no friends among them, and that disturbs me.” Now Ari frowned faintly. “It isn’t right; even I had a few friends when I was your age, and not just among the other scribes. You shouldn’t be so alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I have Kashet,” Vetch replied, trying to sound as if he was perfectly happy with the situation. “I didn’t have any friends when Khefti was my master, and his apprentices, the boys I had to work around, were always trying nasty tricks on me. It’s much better here; no one dares do anything to me, especially after what happened to Khefti. Maybe they don’t think I’m the proper rank to be allowed to be a dragon boy, but they can’t do anything about that as long as Haraket is satisfied. And as long as you are.”

  And really, he was happy, mostly. Contented, at least. He was getting enough to eat and plenty of sleep in a warm and quiet place, he was clothed well, he wasn’t exhausted and cold all the time, and Ari was kind to him.

  In fact, Ari was more than kind; he was learning from Ari, learning as Ari spent long hours talking to him about dragons, which was proving to be very important to him. For Vetch had conceived a passion for dragons that surprised even him. He liked them, even the dragons that were not as special as Kashet. Now and again, when their boys weren’t around, he would poke his head into a pen and speak soothingly to one that was restless, or look one over to make sure it was getting properly fed. He felt a kind of proprietary interest in all of them. He had learned from Ari about every step in a dragon’s development, from egg to full-grown dragon. He had learned a very great deal about Kashet specifically, which only helped him when it came to handling the great beast. And as for Kashet—well, no boy could have had a better creature to care for.

  “You’re sure?” Ari persisted. “You’re certain that you’re happy here, even though the boys aren’t being friendly with you.”

  “Serfs,” Vetch said, with so much unexpected bitterness that it surprised even him when it came out, “are not supposed to be happy.”

  “Serfs are not supposed to be treated like chattel,” Ari said, with surprising gentleness. “They are involuntary war captives, by no fault of their own. And to me, that means that, within the limit of what I can do, any serfs under my orders are supposed to be happy.”

  Vetch bit back the things he might have said, because Ari deserved none of them. “I haven’t been happier than I am here since my father died,” he said instead.

  “That is not precisely a recommendation,” the Jouster replied dryly.

  “Well, then—I’m not likelier to get happier,” Vetch said firmly. But in a sudden burst of inspiration, he added, “And all I have to do is think about Khefti on his knees, wailing like a baby over a stolen honey cake, to make me very happy.”

  As he hoped, Ari laughed, and threw up his hands, acknowledging that Vetch had the right of it. “Well enough. It’s no bad thing to have true justice delivered to you by a magistrate with no interest in seeing you get it. If you are content, then I suppose I must keep my own opinions to myself.”

  Then he left Vetch alone with his thoughts, which was a great relief to Vetch.

  Over the past weeks, Ari had somehow managed to coax all of Vetch’s life story from him—what there was of it, that is. It hadn’t all come out at once; more in bits and pieces, the story of the day that the Tian soldiers came and the death of Kiron coming out last of all.

  Perhaps it was easier because when Ari put questions to Vetch, instead of the other way around, it was in the evenings, when Ari came to bask in the heat of the sand wallow before going back to his rooms to sleep. It was always dark, there was usually rain coming down on the canvas awnings, drowning out the sounds from beyond the immediate vicinity of the pen. He would pet Kashet, who was like a great cat in the way he liked being scratched and caressed when he was feeling sleepy. There, in the darkness, Ari was hardly more than a shadow, and halfway across the pen; he never offered to approach Vetch or his sleeping pallet. It was Vetch who would come to sit next to the Jouster, if he chose. It was unreal, as if Vetch was talking to a ghost, or as if he was asleep and talking in a dream.

  It was at those moments when Ari would say things that would leave Vetch wondering and thinking long after he had left. Sometimes it was news. Ari preferred to tell Vetch things that were bad news for any Altans before Vetch heard about them in a taunt from one of the other boys. That a tax collector had been murdered in some occupied village, and Altan men and boys had been crippled or even killed outright as the soldiers tried to find out who did it. That another village had been taken, had resisted, and been razed to the ground. That a well had been poisoned, and all of the villagers made to drink the water afterward, to ferret out the one who had done it by seeing who was too afraid to drink. . . .

  The Tian response to revolt was to try to make it too expensive for Altans under occupation to be willing to hazard it again. That the ploy wasn’t working seemed to have escaped them utterly.

  “No one seems to have worked out that your people have nothing left to lose,” Ari had said, only last night, “And that is a position you never want to put someone in. When you’ve nothing left to lose, there’s no reason not to try whatever you can to win something back. The Heyksin learned that lesson from us, to their cost. I find it difficult to understand why we have not made the connection for ourselves.”

  Vetch thought about that all during his chores, and wondered just what he might have tried out of desperation, if he’d still been under Khefti, and was older. Probably just about anything, for nothing short of death could have been worse than the conditions he’d been living under.

  Maybe that was why the other boys would have nothing to do with him. Under their taunts, they were afraid. They didn’t know what he might do; they didn’t realize that there wasn’t a chance that he would jeopardize what he had here. He was worse than a wild dragon to them, unpredictable and possibly dangerous.

  In a way, that cheered him up a little, and yet, for some reason he could not understand, it also made him—sad.

  “I’ve been doing some reading in the law scrolls,” Ari said that night, with the great delicacy he always used when he was going to talk about Vetch’s past, “Perhaps a bit dry, but it seemed to me that I ought to make certain what protections the law provides you, given what your former master attempted to try. It seems that there are laws about the Altan farmers—that there are treaties, that we can’t just come in and confiscate land unless there’s proof that the landowner in question fought against us or harbors and gives protection to enemy fighters.”

  “Those laws didn’t protect my father,” Vetch replied bitterly. “And it doesn’t sound as if they are protecting anyone else either.”

  “Well, you know, if I were someone unscrupulous and I wanted a rich farm in a recently annexed territory,” Ari said, after a long silence. “I believe that I would bribe the Commander of Hundreds to send out some Captain that was a friend of mine to investigate farms and farmers on newly won lands. And I believe I’d tell that friend that it would be to his advantage if, on one particular farm, there happened to be an incident. After all, if a farmer flies into a rage and attacks the Captain of Ten in full view of his own men, well . . . at that point the law doesn’t protect him, and his lands are clearly going to be legally confiscated.”

  “I suppose,” was all Vetch replied, feeling the all-too-familiar knot in his stomach. Then Kashet gave him a reason to change the subject to a more comfortable one, by making a peculiar, hollow whistle in his throat, a mournful sound that made both of them jump. “Why does he do that?” Vetch asked.

  “I think,” Ari repli
ed, as an answering whistle came from the next occupied pen, “it’s so that they all know where each of the dragons in the flock are, even at night when they’re asleep. Ah, Vetch, speaking of knowing where someone is, I won’t be coming tomorrow afternoon, but I’d like you to come clean my quarters anyway. I’m going into the Mefis markets to get a few things. It won’t be long before the rains stop, the Flood comes and goes, and we have to go back on full duty.”

  Ari didn’t said anything more on the subject of the laws regarding farms in conquered land, but that had left Vetch wide awake and staring at the stars of No-fret’s Robe long into the night. It made sense; it made hideous sense. And, in a curious way, it settled his mind, for if this was the true answer, it wouldn’t have mattered how hard Kiron tried to keep his temper when the soldiers came. No matter what happened, the whole scene had been scripted beforehand. No matter how reasonable he had tried to be, it was fore-ordained that Vetch’s father would be forced into a position where he would have to attack the officer. The provocation would have gone on until the desired result was achieved.

  Maybe Kiron had even sacrificed himself for the good of his family, or thought he had. Vetch really didn’t know (other than the insults) everything that had been said to his father on that fateful day. Maybe the Captain had threatened awful things to Vetch’s mother and sisters. Maybe the insults had just hit Kiron on a raw nerve. Vetch would never know.

  But the next afternoon when he returned from cleaning the Jouster’s quarters, he found that Ari had brought something back from the market that wasn’t for himself or for Kashet, and had left it under the awning where Vetch kept his few belongings.

  It was a funerary shrine, a tiny thing no bigger than the box that held a scribe’s tools and also served as a desk. With it was a small sebti-figure painted like a prosperous Altan farmer.

  It wasn’t a Tian shrine either; it was Altan. Such things were not outlawed, after all, for it would be futile to try and prevent even a conquered people from worshiping the gods they’d known all their lives. Futile and stupid, for doing so would guarantee that the worship would go on underground, and probably would result in riots eventually. Besides, the Altan and Tian gods were hardly incompatible; in some cases they differed only in name, and that slightly.