Joust Read online

  The canopies were clever devices, just like the awnings that shaded the human inhabitants of the compound from the rays of the sun, fastened to fat bronze rings which were strung on two ropes of wire, running along two opposite walls of a pen. You grasped two hanging straps and pulled the canopy on its wires across to the other side of the pit, where you fastened the straps to rings at the other end. Then you had a “roof” over the sand pit that protected it from rain. This was the only way to keep the sand pits from turning into hot sand soup during the rainy season—or now.

  Kashet burrowed down into the sand as the rain poured down onto the canvas, sheeting down along the sides and into the drains along the edges of his pit.

  And Vetch sprinted for the next pen.

  He thanked his gods that he had pulled the canvas over the tops of the “unused” pens. No one had barged into his pen to protect it. And his egg was safe from the downpour.

  But so close to hatching as it was—he had to see. It was almost not worth it. In the brief time it took to get from one pen to the other, he was soaked to the skin. He peered through the murk from his vantage point in the doorway—and thought that his egg was rocking, but it was hard to tell. Without getting into the pen, all he could see was that it was all right, that the canopy was keeping it and the sand-pit dry.

  Back he ran to Kashet’s pen. He peeled off his sodden kilt and changed to a new one in the shelter of his own little awning. The edges of the awnings had become waterfalls, and the sky was so dark it seemed to be dusk, not mid-afternoon. Lightning flickered constantly, seeming to freeze droplets in midair for a moment, and thunder drowned out every other sound.

  He was just grateful that the gust front had been the only wind. A good blow could rip the canvas from its moorings, soaking and cooling the sands, and that might have spelled an end to his hopes. If a chicken egg got chilled as it was about to hatch, the chick died before it could be born. Would the same be true of a dragon? He rather thought so—

  The storm would have terrified him, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts of his egg. Fortunately, such fury couldn’t last long; before he became too impatient to wait any longer before returning to his egg, the sky lightened, the torrent lessened, the lightning and thunder passed into the distance, leaving behind only a steady, heavy rain, interrupted by brief surges of a real pelting.

  But his first concern had to be for his primary charge; Kashet could have gotten injuries that neither he nor Ari saw in their haste to get him unharnessed before the storm burst. Vetch dashed across to the sand pit in Kashet’s pen, the edges of which steamed from the rainwater that had escaped the drains to soak into the sand along the perimeter.

  Kashet was fine. He was securely wallowed in the middle, buried up to his flanks, his neck stretched along the top of the sand with his eyes closed. Vetch knew that pose. Nothing was going to get Kashet out of his warm wallow; not the sweetest bit of meat, not the coaxing of Ari, not the promise of a grooming and burnishing and oiling. Nothing. And at the moment, every other dragon in the compound was probably taking the same pose as Kashet.

  No one would interfere with him or come looking for him. Not until the rain let up, anyway.

  Back he ran to his egg.

  It was rocking! In fact, it had rocked itself right up out of the sand! It must be hatching!

  No one was going anywhere in this mess; the dragons wouldn’t stir, and the Jousters and dragon boys were all in their respective quarters at this point. Vetch waded out into the hot sand to the egg, which now was rocking madly. He steadied it with his hands, and murmured to the dragonet inside. It paused for a moment, then he heard the dragonet inside knocking furiously at the shell. He passed his hands over the outside, and after examining it carefully, he spotted a place where it was cracking.

  Ari had said that mother dragons had to help their little ones hatch; a shell hard enough to protect something as big as a developing dragonet was too thick and hard for them to break by themselves. Ari had helped Kashet; now it was Vetch’s turn to help his baby.

  He’d heard the story from Ari a dozen times; he knew what to do, and he didn’t stop to think about it, he just did what he’d been planning in his mind for weeks, now.

  He took the hilt of his tiny work knife and pounded at the cracking spot from his side of the shell. This seemed to encourage the dragonet, and it redoubled its efforts to crack through.

  He pounded, the dragonet pounded, and it was a good thing that the steady growl of thunder drowned out most sounds, or they would surely have been caught by all the noise they made together. To his ears, it sounded like a pair of carpenters or stonemasons at work, and if it hadn’t been for the storm, so much banging and tapping would certainly have attracted anyone within earshot.

  Finally, just when he thought that the egg was never going to actually break, the dragonet punched through!

  Two big flakes of shell fell away. A bronze-gold nostril poked up through the new breathing hole, and the dragonet rested for a while. Vetch let it be, just picking bits of broken shell away from the hole and snapping the jagged edges off to enlarge it. That was harder than it sounded; the shell was like stone and the edges of the bits of shell were sharp. But the more he opened the hole, the more of the dragonet’s muzzle protruded out, the nostrils flaring as it pulled in its first breaths of fresh air. The egg-tooth, a hard little knob between the nostrils on top of the nose, like a flattened cone, was clearly visible. The dragonet would slough that within a day of hatching, but it was needed in order to break out.

  When the muzzle withdrew from the breathing hole, the rocking and hammering started again from within the egg. Vetch watched to see where the cracks were appearing, and helped again, pounding with the hilt of his knife, and grateful that the thunder and rain didn’t look as if they were going to stop any time soon. Despite the cold, damp wind, Vetch was sweating, and he kept up a steady murmur of encouragement to the baby within the shell.

  Vetch confined himself to helping cracks along and chipping bits away from the air hole. He wasn’t certain how much—beyond that little—he could help the dragonet without hurting it by forcing the hatch; this wasn’t one of his mother’s chickens, after all, and even she had been careful with hatching eggs. There was a difference between assisting a hatch, and forcing it, a difference which could mean a dead chick or a live one.

  He had to run off at one point to feed Kashet—the dragon’s appetite wasn’t diminished by the rain. The entire time he watched Kashet, he worried; what if the dragonet got into trouble? What if the egg fell over, and the breathing hole was blocked by the sand? What if it hatched, and floundered out of the sand and got chilled?

  But this was also an opportunity. He loaded his barrow with more meat than Kashet could eat now that he was out of that growth spurt. The top was the usual big chunks, but on the bottom was a thick layer of the smaller scraps and chopped bits that he got from troughs near where the butchers worked. They called this stuff “porridge.” When a dragon needed a heavier dose of tala than you could get into it just by dusting the big pieces with the powder, the other dragon boys would mix it with the chopped pieces and blood—

  Well, that wasn’t what he needed the “porridge” for, and the butchers weren’t curious enough to notice what he loaded his barrow with. They were too busy listening to the rain and thunder outside, and talking about it in nervous voices. Under any other circumstances, he’d have stayed to listen.

  But not today.

  He fed Kashet to satiation, while the rain drummed on the canvas awning; it didn’t take long, the dragon wanted to go back into his wallow and didn’t dawdle over his food. Kashet yawned and dug himself back into his hot sand when he was done, and was asleep in moments. Vetch quickly checked the corridor for the presence of anyone else before he whisked the barrow out of Kashet’s pen through the cold rain, and into the one next door.

  And found himself looking at a limp and exhausted scarlet dragonet, sprawled on the sand, limbs
and damp wings going in all directions in an awkward mirror of Kashet’s pose. The damp wings were half under the poor thing, and at his entrance, the dragonet looked up at him and meeped pathetically. It could barely raise its rounded, big-eyed head on its long neck; the bronzy-gold and scarlet head wavered back and forth like a heavy flower on a slender stalk, the huge old-bronze eyes barely open, as if the lids were too heavy to lift. To either side, the halves of the egg lay, red-veined on the inside, with a membrane still clinging to them.

  Vetch parked the barrow under the awning and floundered out into the sand to the dragonet’s side. It was bigger than he was, and heavier—twice his size and weighing about as much as a young child, he thought, though it was hard to tell for certain. It was going to get a lot bigger before it was finished growing, though. He dug a trench in the hot sand and helped it to slide in, tucking the clumsy, weak limbs into comfortable positions, and spreading the wings out to dry on the surface.

  It sighed, as it lowered its head down onto its foreclaws; already the anxiety it had shown when it realized that it was alone was ebbing. It was going to be a crimson red, like both its parents, but unlike Coresan, the extremities were going to be some shade of gold or bronze; until it got a little older, its delicate skin was going to tear and bruise easily if he wasn’t careful with it. Right now, the skin was as delicate as his own—more so, in places—and soft as the thinnest lambskin. He petted the dragonet’s head and neck for a moment, marveling at the softness of the skin. Then he left the dragonet to bask in the heat and rest from the effort of hatching, heaped a bucket with the chopped meat, and returned to its side.

  It opened its eyes when he returned to it, and its nostrils twitched as it caught the scent of the meat. Its head wavered up; the poor thing looked so weak! But the mouth opened, and the thin hiss that emerged was anything but weak, and had a great deal of demand in it. The mouth gaped wide. It had a formidable set of teeth already, no surprise in such a carnivore. Open-mouthed, it hissed again, and whined at him, red tongue flicking out in entreaty.

  He laughed. “All right, baby—don’t be impatient!” he whispered, and dropped a piece the size of his palm in the open mouth.

  He’d worried about whether the dragonet would be difficult to feed—in the next several minutes, he knew that this, at least, was not going to be a problem. The little one snapped its jaws shut on the meat and swallowed; he watched the lump going down its throat with remarkable speed. Then the jaws opened up again.

  They quickly fell into a rhythm. The baby gaped, he dropped meat and bone in, the jaws snapped shut and the throat worked, and the mouth gaped. It was so easy to feed the little one that literally anyone could have done it. In fact, before it was sated, it had eaten nearly its own weight in meat! It ate until its belly was round, the skin tight, and Vetch could not imagine how it could cram another morsel in.

  That was when it stopped; it closed its mouth and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since it had hatched. The big, dark eyes seemed all pupil—he could see that they weren’t, though, that the iris was simply so dark a color that it was nearly black, but the huge, dark eyes seemed to draw him in and hold him. He couldn’t look away, and didn’t want to, for those eyes seemed to him to be the most wonderful things he had ever gazed into. And then it sighed, laid its head in his lap with complete and utter trust, and closed its eyes and went immediately to sleep, without a care or a worry in the world.

  He was here, and he was now the center of the dragonet’s world. So long as he was here, there could be nothing wrong.

  He thought his heart was going to melt. A pent-up flood of emotion threatened to overwhelm him; he squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying, and just whispered tender nonsense into the ruby and bronze shells that were the dragonet’s ears, while he stroked the soft skin of the head and neck with a hand that shook.

  But he couldn’t hold the tears back for very long; finally they started, and he wept silently, anger and grief that he had held in for so very long, mingling together with joy and relief in those tears, and nothing left to hold them back.

  How long he cried, he couldn’t have told. He cried until his eyes were sore, his nose clogged, his belly sore from sobbing. He cried until his throat was raw and scratchy, crying for all he’d lost, and all he could lose now, crying that his mother and father weren’t here to see him, in his first moment of triumph since the Tians came.

  It couldn’t have been long, or he’d have heard Kashet hissing for his supper. Certainly it wasn’t as long as it felt.

  But finally, even he ran out of tears. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, careful not to get sand in them, and sniffed.

  He felt odd. Felt as if he had cried something out of himself, and now there was just a hollow where it had been.

  “Can you see me, Father?” he whispered into the rain, into the vast space between himself and the Summer Country. “Can you see what I’ve done? Isn’t this baby a beauty, the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  The dragonet stirred a little in sleep, and hissed softly.

  Carefully, so as not to wake it, he began to stroke the head and ears, and as he petted the delicate skin of the brows, he knew that his dragonet was a female, for it did not have the bumps beneath the skin that would eventually form into a pair of skin-covered “horns” that marked the males.

  “What shall I call you, baby?” he murmured to it. This wasn’t a question he took lightly. Words had power, and names were the most powerful of all words. Words where what the gods used to shape the world, and whatever he named this little dragonet would shape her.

  Then it came to him; from her colors, shading from yellow on her belly, through the scarlet of her body, to a deep plum along her spine and at the end of her tail while her ears and muzzle went to that brazen-gold. Like the colors of a sunrise—

  “Avatre,” he murmured. “Fire of the dawn. I name you for that.”

  She stirred in her sleep and pushed her forehead against his stomach, as though in approval. Avatre it was.

  “Avatre,” he sighed with content, and with rain drumming on the canvas above them, caressed the head that rested so trustingly in his lap.

  Now for the next hurdles. Keeping her presence secret—and keeping her. . . .

  But for now—now it was enough to cradle her, and listen to her breathing, softly, in the rain.

  He had to feed Kashet again, eventually, of course. But the rain was still coming down, and he knew that not even Ari would come out of his quarters in this out-of-season downpour. So tonight, well, tonight he would not be sleeping in Kashet’s pen.

  He eased the baby’s head off his lap and she woke and looked at him, then yawned, her tongue waggling comically before she shut her mouth. She stared at him for a moment, then made a small noise that he had no difficulty in interpreting as a demand.

  He had to chuckle at that. Fortunately, there was enough left in his barrow to line her belly, if not fill it; enough to hold her while he went to fetch more food for her and for Kashet. Then it was the same routine again, except that already she was getting the idea that biting down on the hand that was feeding her was not going to get the meat pieces to arrive any sooner, and in fact caused a delay in delivery as the owner of the hand made funny sounds and waggled the hand in the air. This was entertaining, perhaps, but did nothing for a hungry belly. So she quickly learned to be gentle, and learned that when she sucked at the hand instead of clamping down on it, sometimes it would bring a cargo of delicious wet stuff that lubricated the throat and tongue and tasted sublime.

  The “wet stuff,” of course, consisted of bits of the livers, hearts, and lungs; prime treats for every dragon because of their rich blood-content, but difficult to maneuver once they were cut up unless the dragonet was cooperating. Avatre was a fast learner, even fresh out of the egg as she was, and when he was done he hardly needed to wash his hands, for she had wrapped her tongue around them and sucked on them until every bit of blood
and juice she could get had gone down that voracious little throat.

  She fell asleep again immediately, and now that her wings were dry, he tucked them in against her body and heaped sand around her to keep her warm and supported. Then he took his barrow back to the butchery.

  But just as he was leaving the butchery, he overheard something that made him pause for a moment.

  “—witchery!” one of the butchers was saying, darkly. “Altan witchery! The Haras priest Urkat-re told me himself; he and the other Haras priests had all they could do to hold the storm back enough that the dragons could land without killing themselves and their Jousters!”

  “I don’t much like the sound of that,” one of the others murmured uneasily. “The sea witches have never been able to reach so far before. . . .”

  “Because they never tried to do so on the wings of a storm before.”

  Vetch jumped; that was Haraket’s voice!

  “Overseer, have you heard anything more than that?” asked the first butcher humbly.

  “No. You seem to have gotten all the tidings there are to hear, Tho-teret. But I don’t doubt you, nor do I think what you’ve said is mere idle speculation. I have never seen a storm like that in growing season, and since the Altan sea witches’ powers are of the wind and water, it stands to reason that they called it up, all out of season.” Haraket seemed very sure of himself, and Vetch saw no reason to doubt him. “It makes every sense, too, when you think what their strategy must be. They have fewer dragons and less-experienced Jousters than we; they can no longer meet us man-to-man. So they must get us out of the sky and thin our numbers somehow. What better way than to smash our dragons to earth with an unnatural storm?”