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  Men! That was sheerest flattery, and Vetch knew it. Still, it was sweet to hear, even if it was flattery. "You need to meet Ari," Vetch said at last. "He's—different. You'll admire him, you know, he's not like any other Jouster in the compound, maybe not like any other, ever."

  "So Lord Haraket says." Baken nodded. "He seems very different, and everything I've heard is good. He might change my mind about—

  He stopped abruptly, but now it was Vetch's turn to pounce alertly on an incautious phrase. If Baken had forced him into an uncomfortable place, well, turnabout was fair play. "About Joust-ers, you mean? Just why don't you like the Jousters?"

  He whispered that; he didn't want to get Baken in any trouble, just because he wanted to know one of Baken's secrets. Baken frowned, fiercely, but he couldn't conceal his own unease.

  Ha! Got you!

  "What makes you think that I don't—" Baken began aggressively, but stopped, and gave a self-conscious laugh. "You're pretty observant as well as clever, Vetch."

  "Maybe. But I want to know," Vetch replied, not allowing himself to be deflected. "Ari is—I don't want anyone around him who doesn't like Jousters and might do or say something that would give him trouble. Unless you've got an awfully good reason for it."

  And it had better be an astonishingly good reason.

  "You have a point." Baken studied him for a moment. "And all right; I think I can trust you, so I'll tell you—though it isn't merely that I don't like Jousters, it goes further than that. It isn't because of what they do, it's because of what they are." He paused a moment, and signaled to a server, who plunked down a platter of still-sizzling meat and another of onions between them, with an undisguised look of hero worship for Baken, who answered it with a wink. "You eat, though, while I talk. You look starved enough as it is."

  "All right," Vetch agreed—since now that his gut had unknotted, it was growling. He plucked a hot piece of meat from the platter and dropped it quickly on the bread, adding an onion slice; he waited only a few moments for it to cool before biting off a mouthful.

  "It isn't that they're the masters either. It's more complicated than that." Baken took an empty beer jar from the table and brooded down at it. "As I said, I've always been treated well; I don't think anyone ever realized how I feel. As I'm sure you've noticed, no one ever pays any attention to the feelings of serfs and slaves."

  Vetch waited, patient as a cat at a mouse-hole with only one entrance.

  "What do you call a man who calls up his servants, has hunting birds brought out to him, takes one on his fist, unhoods and casts it, and basks in the admiration of his peers when it takes a fat duck?" Baken asked, after a time.

  "Um—" Vetch replied, and shook his head. "Um—a noble? A rich man?" he hazarded.

  "Ah. Good answer. But not the one that makes me angry." Baken's lip curled. "You see, what he calls himself is 'falconer.' He has not caught the birds nor taken them at great hazard from the nest, scaling the cliffs to find them and bring them down. He has not tended them, he does not feed them, he has not trained them." The bitterness in Baken's voice made Vetch blink in surprise. "If the bird flies away, his wrath is only for the loss of a valuable possession, not because he is losing something he has invested a part of his life and self in. If it is recovered, he is pleased only because his possession is returned to him, not because he has gotten back something that is near as dear as a child. But the man who has done all those things, is all those things, is not called a 'falconer.' He is called slave, servant, and he has not even the right to challenge the master when the master says 'I will have this bird,' and he knows that the bird is not fit to fly that day."

  There was a story behind that—perhaps many. Vetch didn't want to know them. There was already enough pain in his own short life; he didn't want to add the burden of Baken's to his own. Already he had three people besides himself in his prayers—his father, Ari, and Avatre. If he added any more, the gods might begin to wonder what was wrong with him, that he assailed their ears with so many pleas.

  "Now—at least there is a separate name for the man who takes a dragon who is cared for by someone else, trained by someone else—who mounts into the saddle and flies it off, caring nothing except that it do what it is trained to do and bring him glory," Baken continued, his jaw rigid. "And at least he is named for what he does, and not the good beast that he treats as he would a mere chariot."

  Vetch started, hearing his own thoughts echoed so exactly.

  "He takes a creature that would, on its own, serve him in— say—hunting, and he turns it into a weapon, a horrible weapon, and exposes it to the spears and arrows of enemies with his only thought being where he would get another if this one fell." Baken's gaze smoldered. "And which of these Jousters truly knows his dragon, or has studied its ways and made it his friend, or has even cared for his own beast for so much as a day?"

  "Ari has," Vetch said, stoutly, raising his chin. "Ari raised Kashet, trained him all by himself, and comes to be with him nearly every night. And he would tend Kashet himself, now, if he had the time. And he doesn't trust Kashet's care to just anyone either!"

  Baken's rigid expression softened, and he patted Vetch on the head like a small child. Vetch bristled a little, but kept his resentment on a tight leash. To Baken, doubtless, he was a small child. That was the hazard of being so little. "So I have been told, and see no reason to disbelieve it. So your Ari is a single paragon among the Jousters, as the Commander of Dragons is a paragon among the nobles, given that he has taken, cared for, and trained his own birds, dogs, and horses." Now there was plain admiration in Baken's voice, and Vetch guessed that of all of Baken's masters or the men those masters consorted with, the Commander of Dragons had been the only one who had earned Baken's highest regard. "Such men are worth serving, and serving well. Our Haraket is another such. But such men are few, and often given names they do not deserve, when they take the praise that is rightly given to men that they think beneath their notice."

  Oh, there are many stories there, Vetch thought, somberly, and now wanted to hear them even less. Stories—and heartbreak. And I have troubles of my own. "Thank you for explaining," he said, carefully. "I—I won't tell anyone."

  Baken nodded, accepting his word. "Now, that isn't the only reason why I wanted to see you," he continued, his tone now so light, his expression so casual, that Vetch could hardly believe what he'd looked like mere moments before. "I have need of your help, you see. I'm training one of the dragonets myself."

  Vetch blinked. "You are?" That was unheard of! Trainers were trainers, and dragon boys—whether or not they were Haraket's assistants—were merely dragon boys, not to be entrusted with the training!

  "Haraket wishes to see if my methods—things that I have learned from training both horses and falcons—produce a better beast than the methods used now," Baken explained, with an ironic lift of his eyebrow. "As I said, another remarkable man, our Overseer. He does not answer a question of 'why' with the answer 'because we have done it thus-and-so for ten hundred years'."

  Vetch stifled a laugh with his food.

  "I need you, young Vetch, because you are four things. You are brave, you are agile, you know and like dragons, and you are small," he continued. And smiled. "And if you will agree to take time to help me, you will see why I need someone who is all these things."

  Vetch could ill spare the time—but—

  But he was going to have to begin training Avatre himself in another moon. And if he could learn how to do so by helping Baken…

  "What's more, Haraket says that there is absolutely no need for you to keep on with the leather work and the weapons' inspection. You know very well how to do both, and there are more than enough new boys who need to learn to make up for you not being there." Baken cocked his head to the side. "Will that give you time enough?"

  This time, he did not even need to think for a moment about his answer. "When do you need me?" he asked.

  The blue dragonet that Vetch and Baken
now faced—the very first one brought to the compound—was an entirely different creature from the hissing, snarling thing that had been brought in a mere handful of days ago. Vetch would not have believed it, if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

  Mind, it was no Avatre, much less a Kashet, but although it eyed both of them with an expression both alert and wary, it was not prepared to rip off their limbs and eat them. Instead, it accepted their presence and eventually was relatively relaxed as first Baken, then Vetch handled it. This one was a solid, sky-blue from nose to tail, the same color, deepening on the extremities, rather than shading into a different color altogether. Sky-blue, latas-blue, he was a wonderful beast to look upon.

  "I've got him used to saddle, harness, and guide straps," the young man said, as he buckled those accouterments in place. "I've even got him used to bearing weight on his back. But that was a sack of grain, and a sack of grain is not a human—and a stranger, at that."

  Now Vetch understood entirely what Baken had meant last night by "brave, agile, and small." He would need to be brave, because this dragonet didn't know him and might turn on him if he tried to mount. He needed to be agile to get out of the way if it did. And he needed to be small, because, big as this blue dragonet was, it couldn't bear the weight of a man yet, or probably even one of the larger dragon boys. Their growing spines were surprisingly fragile, and could not bear too much stress.

  The dragonet's harness had been fastened to four ropes that were in turn fastened to four rings in the pen wall. Vetch wasn't sure what those were for—

  Well, he was about to find out. He'd made friends with the dragonet as Baken had shown him. Now he was about to shock it. As Baken stood back from his handiwork, Vetch strode across the sand with confidence and calm, both of which were going to be very important to keep the youngster from feeling uneasy as he approached. He greeted the dragon as Baken had shown him, as an adult greeted a subadult, with a breathy trill and a head bump, then without a pause, he vaulted up into the saddle.

  He had to vault—this dragonet hadn't learned "down" and "up" yet, and he stood about as tall as one of the great god bulls. Baken had taught him the maneuver this morning, practicing on a saddle strapped to a beam supported on legs, mounted at about the right height out in the landing court. Both hands on the saddle, a jump, and a twist as he shoved his own weight up with his arms—

  —and he was in place, balanced on the thin pad of leather, for the first time, with a dragon underneath him and him in the saddle instead of face-down over it.

  Then, with another quick movement, he wedged his legs under and around the leg-hold straps, and grabbed the front of the saddle with both hands. There were no guide straps yet to hang onto; Baken deemed this confusing and disorienting enough for the poor young thing.

  The dragonet went rigid with shock. Vetch felt its muscles tensing under his legs, and braced himself for its inevitable reaction.

  It was as well that he did, for it tried at that moment to take off.

  Thanks to the ropes, and the fact that it really wasn't old enough to fledge yet, it succeeded only in crow-hopping upward a few feet, flapping its wings clumsily. But that was unnerving enough—clearly another reason why Baken wanted someone brave!—and Vetch was very, very glad of the restraining ropes! It bounced about at the end of the ropes, bucking very much like the family's little donkey when startled, and Vetch clung on with grim determination and teeth rattling in his head. He couldn't even think, really—his very thoughts were bounced out of him! The straps cut into his legs with every bounce, and the saddle felt as if it was going to pop off at any moment.

  But it couldn't keep such fighting up forever, though, and the moment it stopped, in a flash, Baken was at the dragonet's head, soothing it, comforting it, telling it what a wonderful beast it was. It didn't want to be soothed, but gentle hands, a soft voice, and a liberal allocation of tasty tidbits made it stand still, though it trembled like a leaf, and kept rolling its eye and twisting its head to look at him.

  "Now, then, handsome one— ' Vetch murmured, when he was sure it wasn't going to go off again under him, and added one hand—one—to Baken's caresses. Baken gave him an approving look. "Now, then, you'll be used to this soon enough. It will all be fine—

  He murmured other such nonsense, reaching places to rub that Baken couldn't from his stand on the ground at the dragonet's shoulder. And, slowly, the dragonet relaxed.

  "You see?" Vetch murmured to him. "I'm not some strange monster on your back. I'm not up here to hurt you—I'm not a lion, come to break your neck and eat you! I'm just Vetch, you know me now, don't you?"

  "Slide down now, Vetch," Baken murmured after some small time, while the dragonet was engaged in getting his eye ridges rubbed. "Then get back on him again."

  Vetch unwrapped his legs, threw the right over the dragonet's neck, and slid down even faster than he'd vaulted up. The dragonet reacted to his absence with a start of surprise, but didn't hop about this time.

  And before it could get too used to him being gone, Vetch jumped back into the saddle again.

  This time, it only hopped once, and when it stopped, it wasn't shaking. Now it only looked indignant, and that was a great improvement over terrified.

  They played this game four more times, until Baken decreed that the dragonet's developing spine had gotten enough stress for the day. He unharnessed and freed the youngster of everything but the single chain holding him around his neck, rewarded and praised him a little more, then both of them left the pen.

  Once outside, Baken slapped Vetch on the back with a hearty grin. "By the gods, it works! I thought it might, but I wasn't sure. I'd like you here just before feeding, twice a day, so he's good and hungry, and he'll work for his tidbits; we'll play this little game on him until he takes you as easily as Kashet takes Ari, and until we've taught him 'up' and 'down,' and how you'll use both to mount, and we've taught him the use of the guide straps. Then, when he can actually get off the ground with you on his back, I'll get one of the heavier boys to help me, and work my way up until he can carry a very light man."

  Hmm. Like you, Baken?

  Well, why not? If Baken wanted to add himself to the roster of trainers, why not?

  Vetch nodded, seeing the good sense in the planning. Trainers did something like this, only they started much, much later, when the dragonet could carry a man, and they didn't precede it with the gentling process. They just tied the dragonet down, threw a saddle on him, and jumped on, letting the dragonet wear itself out on the ropes and "breaking" it to saddle.

  Small wonder that dragons did not love their riders…

  And now, thanks to Baken, Vetch knew how to train Avatre without having to ask Ari. Exactly how to train her. Only he would be starting very early indeed, with nothing more than a few straps to get her used to things being bound around her body.

  And when she flew—it would not be with ropes holding her to the earth.

  Gods willing. Gods willing…

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE expected sea-witch-sent storm did not come that day, nor the next. The tension built once again; fear and anxiety becoming as much or more of a weapon wielded against the Tians than the storm itself. Finally, another one—again, with a great deal of wind and lightning, but with less rain than the last— struck on the sixth day after the last storm had ended. And the next storm arrived seven days after that.

  Were the sea witches getting weary of their sport? Or were they only toying with the Jousters, hoping to set them off-guard? Vetch dreaded both, and yet at the same time, hoped this was so. That Alta at last had the strength to fight back! The sea witches had not been as numerous or as strong as the magicians of Tia within living memory. Had something happened to change this? Had they learned new magics, had their numbers increased? Or had the priests of Alta also found a way to add their magic to that of the sea witches, as the priests of every Tian god could join their forces into a massive whole?

  Or was this only a bri
ef, hectic flare of power before the end, like the dying of a fire? Something that could not be repeated?

  Were the sea witches' powers once again on the wane? This was what Vetch dreaded.

  The rumors spread throughout the compound, causing at least as much unease as the storms themselves. The priests said nothing, perhaps fearing that if they took credit for the weakening of the storms, the witches would turn their words to ashes in their mouths and prove their boasts to be lies.

  The Jousters were reluctant to go farther afield despite the changing conditions, and it seemed that the Commander of Dragons agreed with them, for he issued no new orders. But further rumors told of convocations of the priests in every temple on Temple Row and throughout, not only the city, but all of Tia, as magicians and Seers attempted to pierce the veils of magic concealing the seats of Altan power, and discover what their counterparts in Alta were planning. Evidently, however, no matter what the strength of the sea witch power was, the protections still held; there were no revelations coming from the Seers of Tia.