Joust dj-1 Read online

  There were twenty new dragonets in the compound now, and he was learning an enormous amount by eavesdropping on the trainers. Sometimes he even eavesdropped on the former falcon keeper, Baken, but although what the young man had to say was interesting, it didn't really apply to Avatre, since everything he knew pertained to wild or half-wild beasts, not one being hand-raised like Avatre.

  He breathed a little easier with every new dragonet that came into the compound, especially when another of the new ones was also a red—and he felt more at ease with every new doubling of Avatre's weight, for she looked more and more like the other new ones.

  Another factor was working in his favor. It was getting impossible for anyone but Haraket to know which new dragonet belonged with which new dragon boy, or in which pen, and Haraket was so busy that unless something actually went wrong, he left the new boys and dragonets to Baken and the trainers.

  He was not doing triple duty, after all, which would have been impossible. It was Baken, not Vetch and Fisk, who weeded out the unsuitable boys from the ones that would take proper care of their dragonets. It was Baken who taught them what to do, and was turning into Haraket's right-hand assistant. Suddenly, the soon-to-be-former slave's star was very high indeed, and Vetch's was quite eclipsed. Not that he went back to being the outcast. There were far too many new people thronging the compound now for the freeborn boys to single him out—far, far too many serfs and slaves being made into dragon boys for them to say or do much about his status anymore. But there was no doubt that the admiring glances followed Baken now, and it seemed that every other sentence he overheard these days started with "Baken says…"

  And Vetch couldn't hate him, though it would have been easy to. Baken was genuinely good with beasts; he tried to understand how they thought and why they did the things that they did. Before he'd been assigned to the falcons, he'd handled both dogs and horses, and once had been given a sick lion cub to nurse. He was both firm and gentle with the creatures under his care. He tried to puzzle out what he called their "language"—what was important to them, what made them what they were, what poses and calls they used to communicate with each other—and he used that "language" to win their trust and cooperation. If he'd wanted to, Vetch had no doubt whatsoever that he could raise another Kashet and become a Jouster as good as Ari.

  If he'd wanted to. But if Vetch was any judge, that was absolutely the last thing that Baken wanted. To be free, certainly! To become the Overseer of the entire compound, possibly. To become a Jouster—never. There was a look in his eyes whenever a Jouster was about, a bland look that spoke more of scorn than respect…

  Well, that was none of Vetch's business. Nor was it any of Vetch's concern. He had enough to worry about without concerning himself with Baken and his plans, when he had plans of his own. Maybe that was the reason why he couldn't hate Baken; he didn't have time or energy to spare to hate anyone.

  First and foremost of his concerns was Avatre, and she was his last thought at night, the first every morning. It was true enough that the older she got, the more she blended in with the growing number of dragonets. But growing older and bigger meant becoming more and more active as well. By the end of that half moon, she was no longer just eating and sleeping. Whenever he cleaned her pen, she watched him alertly, bobbing her head in a way that made him laugh. When he buffed her, she stretched and crooned and bumped her head against his hand, begging for further caresses. She was moving a little around the sand—not much, but it was a portent of things to come as she took tentative, wobbling steps. With every day, she showed more personality, and with every day, he loved her more.

  He thanked the gods whenever he had a moment to spare, for surely they were protecting her. Between the storms and the influx of dragonets, there was too much going on in the compound for anyone to be paying any attention to Vetch's activities as long as he went out of his way to draw no attention to himself, in any way, for any reason. Perhaps, given his reputation of being able to handle most dragons, people assumed he was spending his free time making friends with the new dragonets and those boys that were serfs, like him. Actually, he wished that he could.

  But he didn't dare; for one thing, Avatre needed every spare moment, and for another, if he made friends, he increased the possibility that a new friend would come looking for him and discover him with her, and he was Kashet's boy, not the keeper of a dragonet. It was something of a torment, actually. He'd been so lonely up until now, with the others shutting him out. If this had happened before he'd hatched Avatre—

  I could have had friends. I probably would never even consider trying to run.

  Well, that was how the gods had decided things. And he could put up with a great deal of loneliness if it meant having her.

  Everything conspired to help him, it seemed. The butchers kept plenty of small-chopped meat on hand now, and no one seemed to notice that Vetch was taking some at each feeding, even though Kashet was long past needing anything that small.

  And, luckily, no one was keeping track of the sheer amount of meat he was taking. Even Haraket was too busy to supervise the dispensing of dragon meat; he left it to the butchers to make sure that the boys were leaving with completely filled barrows. Nobody ever asked about overfilled ones.

  Ari wasn't paying a lot of attention to what he was doing either. The Jouster was working so hard of late that when he turned up at night to spend time with Kashet, he seldom spoke, just sat there, wearily, caressing the dragon's head in the silence. He had been recruited by Haraket to help train the new Jousters that the Commander of Dragons was bringing in, and when that duty was added to his own training and patrols, Vetch reckoned that Ari was stretched nearly as thin as his dragon boy was. That was all to the good; it kept him from noticing that Vetch was in and out of the pen next to Kashet's all the time.

  Excitement kept him from feeling too exhausted. And if his day was crowded from dawn to dusk, well, it was crowded with good things rather than miseries.

  The only bad thing was that now, instead of enjoying his meals, he had to bolt two of the three as fast as he could in order to keep on his frantic schedule. Since he'd taken to delaying his evening meal until after he'd given Avatre her last feeding for the day, that was the only one where he could actually sit down and taste what he ate. It wasn't too difficult to arrange for that either. With so many new dragon boys and additional servants and slaves to support them in the compound, it wasn't possible to feed them all at once, and there was more competition for getting your meals first than last.

  The influx of servants and boys and trainers—and, eventually, it must be presumed, Jousters and yet more servants—had yet another effect on the compound. New slaves and servants meant more slaves and servants that needed training, monitoring, housing, feeding. Te-Velethat was absolutely frantic, for his charge was the domestic side of the compound, and although the Great King's Vizier had made ample provision for wages and slave purchases, the new staff still had to be acquired, fitted in, and trained. And provisions needed to be gotten for them, which meant more work in the stores and record keeping. He couldn't put all of that on Haraket anymore, not when the Vizier was looking over his shoulder to be sure his accounts were honest.

  Vetch almost felt sorry for the man. But he was getting his own "come-uppance," as Vetch's mother used to say. If he hadn't been so concerned with his own status and lording it over all of his underlings, he would have had plenty of cooperation from people who were already trained and knew their business. Look at Haraket, for instance! Though the Overseer had a wicked temper, and never hesitated to use his tongue, fist, and very rarely, his whip where it was warranted, he was fair, honest, and never lorded it over anyone. And once you'd proved yourself to Haraket, he was perfectly ready to make allowances for your honest mistakes, or when you were just having a bad day. As a consequence, Haraket's people were falling over themselves to take on extra duties and train the new people.

  On a clear night, six hands of days after that
first horrible storm, Vetch put Avatre to bed with a full belly, and stayed with her until her eyes had closed and she was breathing deeply. The last of the sun god's radiance was gone from the sky; to the west, it was a lovely azure, to the east, the color of fine lapis, and overhead, stars were beginning to come out. A clear night meant that the sea witches would probably conjure a storm tomorrow, or next day at the latest; which meant that the Jousters would go out after more dragonets and there would be yet another influx of youngsters. Vetch headed for the kitchen court, feeling slightly melancholy.

  The slaves and serfs who served the latecomers, when things were slower and mistakes easier to rectify, were all new to Vetch, and they didn't know him from any of the new serf boys. He probably would have missed his friendly serving woman more than he did, but by the time he sat down to dinner, he was usually so tired he could hardly think.

  Still, when he took his place in that out-of-the-way corner tonight, he wished she would move to doing the late serving. The slave who left him a jar of beer and a platter of bread did so without even looking at him. He sighed, reached for a loaf, and tore off a piece with his fingers, hoping that there was someone still grilling fresh meat, and he'd get a plate of that, instead of cold leftovers. And that thought made him realize just how far he'd come. Last year at this time, he'd have done nearly anything for a scrap of meat, burned hard enough to need pounding between two rocks before he could actually eat it!

  A shadow fell over his table; a tall one. He looked up.

  "Well, Vetch," said an unsmiling Baken. The slave must have just gotten a bath; his hair was wet, and slicked neatly back, his hands were clean, his kilt fresh. Vetch noted without surprise that Baken wore a hawk-eye talisman made, not of the usual pottery, but one like Haraket sported, cast from silver and inlaid with enamel. Never had it been so obvious that Baken was not from Tia—he had a Tian's black hair, but it was curly, and not all the water in the world could make it lie straight on his head. His eyes were a disconcerting blue, and his complexion, beneath his tan, was a fine olive-color rather than Tian bronze or Altan ivory. His features were mathematically symmetrical; deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, small nose, generous mouth, chiseled chin with a cleft in it. Definitely not Tian, nor Altan.

  Vetch blinked at him, taken by surprise by the young man's appearance at his table. "Well," he replied, not knowing what else to say. Baken seemed to take that as an invitation to sit down, because he did so, sliding onto the bench opposite Vetch's.

  "So, you're Kashet's boy, I'm told," the young man said, taking a small loaf, but just holding it in his hands, rather than tearing it open to eat it. "You're the serf. The first serf to be made a dragon boy. The one that gave serfs a good reputation as dragon boys."

  Vetch nodded warily. What was this leading up to? Did he have something against serfs?

  "So it's largely thanks to you that I'm here at all." Baken regarded him steadily, the torchlight in the court illuminating only one side of his face, and once again Vetch nodded, feeling even more alarmed.

  "So why do you hate me?" Baken asked, as calmly as if he was asking why Vetch was eating bread instead of an onion.

  Vetch started. "I—I don't hate you," Vetch protested, feeling horribly guilty, and caught completely off-guard by the unexpected question.

  "Then in that case, just what is it that makes your eyes go so dark and angry when you see me?" Baken persisted, pressing his advantage like a hunting cat trying to flush a pigeon, and with every bit of that intensity. "I'd like to know. I don't make enemies, and if someone has decided on his own that he wants to be my enemy, I want to know why."

  Since Vetch had thought he was keeping his feelings securely to himself, Baken's accusation made him tense and nervous. What else wasn't he keeping secret? And why was Baken confronting him about this, anyway? It wasn't as if he was trying to make himself into Baken's rival. He didn't want to be Haraket's assistant—he didn't even want to be here! "I'm not your enemy," he said brusquely, looking away. "I don't wish you ill. How could I? You take better care of the dragons than anybody but me!"

  Baken's head lifted at that, like a hound on a scent, and Vetch felt another pang of alarm. Now what had he given away? "Anybody but you. Is that jealousy I hear?"

  "No!" Vetch snapped. Then honesty drove the truth out of him. "Well—not jealousy. Envy."

  Baken's eyes lit, and he nodded; at that moment, he looked like one of the falcons he had once taken care of, with prey in sight. And Vetch already knew what prey felt like; it was a familiar sensation, a helplessness that—oh, yes—he was certainly feeling now. "Ah… envy. Let me see—what have you learned or seen or heard that could possibly make you envious of me? I'm not your rival for Kashet. Jouster Ari would never accept another boy even if Kashet might. You're far too young to consider yourself as a potential assistant to Haraket, but Haraket offered me a great deal else besides that position…"

  Vetch winced a little at the mention of Haraket's promises, and the falcon stooped on the prey that had just been flushed before its eager eyes.

  "Ah. I see. In that case—would it be that promise of freedom that Lord Haraket made me?"

  Freedom. Vetch felt his gut twist up inside him, and he set the bread aside, uneaten. Why was Baken tormenting him like this? It wasn't fair! "Yes," he replied, biting off the word, making it a challenge. Leave me alone! he thought angrily. Why twist the knife in the wound? What have I done to you to deserve this?

  The falcon looked at the prey in its claws—and then, unexpectedly opened its grip. Baken sighed, relaxed, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Vetch," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I can't help what I am, nor what you are. When a slave is offered freedom, well—

  "I'm more of a slave than you are, or ever could be," Vetch grated. "A serf is less than a slave, for all that the masters pretend otherwise. I don't hate you, but don't expect me to love you for it either."

  Baken closed his eyes for a moment, and there seemed to be a pocket of unexpected stillness holding both of them. "I know that. 1 also know why our masters will offer freedom to a slave, but not a serf, though I doubt it would be of any interest to you. Still." He pondered a moment, then continued. "I'll try and explain it to you, as my last, and most worthy master explained it to me. Slaves are either born that way, from those Tians who are born into slavery, or are Tians sold into slavery to pay debts, or they are brought as slaves from countries Tia has never conquered. Take me, for instance, I come from a very distant land indeed, so far that there is no chance my people could ever be the enemies of the Tians, so it is safe enough to free me. I have always been treated well, and have no one to revenge myself on. I've nowhere to go, freed—no reason to go to Tia's enemies, and every reason to stay here and continue to serve at the same place, but for a wage. Whereas you—" He shrugged. "Serf, you are an enemy. Freed, you are still an enemy, but there is no control over you or your actions anymore. I am sorry. If I could change things, I would."

  Vetch's gut twisted a little harder. "It's not fair," he whispered.

  "No," Baken agreed. "It's not. It's even less fair, because I am certain that Lord Haraket would offer you freedom if it was in his power, for how you took over the dragon Coresan and tamed her without frightening or hurting her. You are the one who has the reputation for making dragons love him."

  The knot in Vetch's gut eased. "You know about that?" he asked. He hadn't thought Baken cared, actually. The young man had been very much involved with his own doings.

  Baken smiled, and his set of large, even, and very white teeth gleamed in the torchlight; they were startling, not the least because Vetch had never seen Baken smile before. "Lord Haraket is very much impressed with your dedication and abilities; he told me all about it when he told me why he changed his mind about having serfs and slaves as dragon boys."

  "Oh." Now Vetch felt guilty all over again, and felt he had to defend himself. "Well, I don't hate you, Baken. But you can't blame me for—

  "Of cour
se I can't, and I don't," Baken replied, interrupting him. "1 just didn't want the most skilled dragon boy in the compound to be my enemy, that's all. Here. In my country, when men agree to be comrades, they shake hands." He thrust out his hand.

  Vetch shook it, gladly—and gladder still that Baken hadn't said "friends." Of all of the people in the entire compound, Baken was the last one he dared to have as a friend, for he was the one most likely to uncover the secret of Avatre's existence. "I don't mind that you're getting all the attention, that Haraket's depending on you, and that—well—you've taken over the new boys," he said, earnestly. "Honest, I don't. The freeborn boys probably do hate you, though."

  Once again, that gleaming, toothy grin. "Let them. The boys I've picked are all like you and me—well, maybe without our gods-bestowed gift for understanding animals, but they're just as hardworking and they like their charges. They aren't freeborn boys with plenty of choices ahead of them, and plenty of arrogance to match their choices. They already know that there are many, many worse places to serve, and they're learning that this is one of the best, and they do not want to lose their places. Pretty soon, our kind will outnumber theirs, and I know we'll outlast them. So let them stew in their own juices until they can't even stand themselves. Just so long as you and I have gotten things straight between us. There shouldn't be any animosity between men of our kind."