Joust dj-1 Read online

  "Now it is me who is the fool. Of course you are. You look like a sack of gnawed bones. Come along."

  Haraket strode out of the bathing chamber and Vetch scrambled after him, beginning to feel very dazed by this marked change in his fortunes. This morning, he had been filthy, starving, and about to be beaten. Now he was clean, well-clothed, and so far, he hadn't encountered anyone who was likely to have as heavy a hand with the stick as Khefti.

  "What's your name, boy?" the Overseer asked gruffly. "I can't keep calling you 'boy,' or I'll have half the compound answering when I shout at you."

  "Vetch, sir," Vetch replied, taking two steps for every one of Haraket's.

  "And who was your master, Vetch? Ari's going to want that assessor out on him by tomorrow, I expect, so I had better get that sorted by this afternoon." Haraket gave Vetch another of those sidelong looks. "That's what I'm for; seeing the tallies are all correct, all the chickens put to roost."

  "Khefti-the-Fat, sir. He's a potter and brick maker with six apprentices, and he has a tala field outside his house in the village of Muasen—" for a moment, Vetch worried that this wouldn't be enough to identify his former master, but Haraket interrupted him.

  "That's enough, Vetch. There can't be more than one fat potter with a tala field within a hop of Mefis. The King's assessor will find him."

  And then, as Haraket turned to open yet another door and he followed, he discovered that he had been led straight into paradise.

  Or if not quite paradise, it was as near as Vetch had ever been to it.

  "Paradise" was a kitchen courtyard of lime-washed mud-brick walls, shaded from the pitiless sun by bleached canvas awnings strung between the courtyard walls, additionally supported by ropes crossing underneath them, tethered to the other walls. It was full of simple wooden benches and tables set with reed baskets heaped with bread, pottery jars of beer with the sides beaded with condensation, wooden platters of cheese, baked latas roots, and sweet onions. And little bowls of the juice and fat of roast duck, goose, and chicken, such as he had not tasted since the moment he became a serf. The aroma of all that food made him feel faint and dizzy again.

  He stared at it, not daring to go near, hoping beyond hope that he would be allowed the remains whenever Haraket and the other masters were finished eating.

  And then his stomach growled, and hurt so much it brought tears to his eyes for a moment. And the anger returned, anger at these arrogant Tians for making him stand in the presence of plenty that he wasn't to touch—

  "Well, what are you waiting for, boy?" Haraket said impatiently. "Sit down! Eat! You do me no good by fainting from hunger!"

  And he shoved Vetch forward with a hand between his shoulders, making it very clear that this was not some cruel joke.

  Vetch stumbled toward the table and took a seat on the end of the nearest bench, hardly daring to believe what he'd heard.

  He looked up at Haraket again, just to be sure. The Overseer made an abrupt gesture with one hand; Vetch took that as assent.

  He managed, somehow, to react like a civilized and mannerly farm boy and not cram his mouth full with both his hands. It took all of the restraint he had learned at Khefti's hands, though, for the aromas filled his nose, and the nearest platter of loaves filled his sight, and his mouth was watering so much he had to keep swallowing or he'd drool like a hungry dog.

  He took one of the little loaves though his hands shook, tore it neatly in half. Helped himself to a single piece of cheese, to latas and onion, and a small jar of beer. He laid all of this on the wooden table in front of him, and only then began eating; the taste of fresh bread nearly made him weep with pleasure. It was still warm from the oven, the crust crisp and not stale, the insides tender and not dry, and it was three times the size of his ration under Khefti. Then he dipped the other half of the bread in the rich fat, and took a bite, and did weep, for the taste exploded on his tongue, and with it came all the memories of what home on a feast day had been like…

  He glanced back at Haraket, but the man was gone. Which meant—his mind reeled with the thought—which meant that he was expected to eat his fill, and no one would stop him!

  But the memory of a day during the rains when he'd found a discarded basket of water-soaked loaves in the market warned him against gorging. That day had been a disaster; he'd eaten himself sick, and had spent a horrible night, stifling his groans as his belly ached. He'd gotten punished twice, in fact, once with a bellyache, and the next day when his exhaustion made him sluggish and he'd soon collected a set of stripes from Khefti. He would eat slowly, and yes, eat his fill (or as near as he was allowed) but he would not stuff himself, or he would be very sick, and his new masters would surely be angry at him. So far, no one had been ready to add to his stripes. He would not let his greed give them an opportunity.

  When he'd finished the first round of bread, he started on the cheese and onions, and about that point, the other dragon boys started coming in.

  A group of four came in together, chattering away. Like him, all were clothed in simple linen kilts and barefoot. Like Haraket, all wore a hawk-eye talisman at their throats. They were older, taller and stronger than Vetch was, though; and well-fed, and moving with the kind of casual freedom that no serf or slave ever displayed. And unlike him, if their hair wasn't cut short, their heads were shaved altogether. That was the mark of an Allan serf; long, unbarbered hair, like some wild barbarian tribesman from the desert, like one of the Bedu, the nomads who had no king, only tribal rulers. Tians, the masters, shaved their heads, or trimmed their hair at chin length.

  He made himself as small as he could on the bench.

  They stopped dead at the sight of him, and eyed him with curiosity. "Who's that?" one asked of the largest of the four.

  "Kashet's boy," said the other, with a knowing glance. "I heard Jouster Ari brought in a serf over his saddle bow that he'd decided to make into his new dragon boy."

  "Huh," the first replied, and looked down his long nose at Vetch, his black eyes narrowing with superior arrogance. "Mind your manners, Kashet's boy," he said loftily to Vetch. "We're all free here but you, so remember your place."

  Vetch ducked his head. "Yes, sir," he murmured, and that seemed to satisfy the other, for he crowded onto the bench near his friend and paid no more heed to Vetch.

  Vetch felt his anger churn inside him again. They were just like Khefti's apprentices, worthless lot that they were! They thought that the worst of them was superior enough that Vetch should offer his head to their feet! None of them, likely, had ever been landowners! Had he not been born free, as free as any of them, and son to a family who had owned their land for generations?

  But he had not lived the last few seasons without learning that when a freeman and a serf had conflicts, it was always the serf who lost.

  So he kept his eyes fastened on his food, kept his anger in check, and hastened to make himself even smaller. He watched the others when he went for more food, always snatching his hand back empty if it looked as if one of the free boys was interested in the platter or basket that he was reaching for.

  But even so, for the first time in a very, very long time, he was able to eat as much as he wanted. In fact, he had not really eaten like this very often back when his father was alive, for even a farmer did not have the means to produce a seemingly never-ending stream of food and drink at a meal. Only a great village feast would bring forth this sort of abundance. Kitchen girls—slaves, he thought by their neck rings, though they were the sleekest and best-looking such slaves he had ever seen—kept coming out of the kitchen with more food, more beer; no matter how much the boys ate, there was always more. One of the older girls seemed to have taken a liking to him; she made certain that there were platters within his reach, and replaced the empty jar at his hand with a full one. He thanked her shyly, and she winked at him and hurried back into the kitchen.

  Haraket came for him about the time that he had decided he couldn't safely eat another morsel. That w
as long before the other boys finished—but then, he'd had a head start on them, and they were lingering over their food.

  The boys hushed their chatter when Haraket appeared in the doorway, and watched as Vetch scrambled to his feet in response to the beckoning hand. The chatter began again as soon as Vetch cleared the doorframe, following Haraket, and his ears burned with embarrassment and resentment, imagining what they were saying about him. Making fun of his looks, his intelligence, his imagined habits. Comparing him to the brutes of the desert, the beasts of the fields.

  It doesn't matter, he told himself, though in truth, it did. They were no better born than he! Tians were by no means morally or mentally superior to Altans! The Altans were the older race, and were dwelling in civilized surroundings when the Tians were grubbing latas roots with pointed sticks!

  But—"Don't pay any attention to those idle lizards," Haraket said dismissively. "There are three creatures here you have to please; Jouster Ari, myself, and Kashet. No one else matters."

  Easy for him to say, Vetch thought, recalling all the nasty tricks that used to be played on him by Khefti's apprentices and the freeborn boys of the village. He was surely in for more of the same from this lot.

  But Haraket might have had the mind-reading power of a Clear-Sighted Priestess, for he seemed to pluck that thought right out of Vetch's skull. "Freeborn, serf, or slave, a dragon boy is a dragon boy, and if they try any tricks with you, you come to me," Haraket said, with some little force. "Remember what I said; your duty is your Jouster and Kashet, first to last. Anything, anything, that interferes with you doing that duty is an offense against your Jouster and his dragon, and believe me, boy, we take that very seriously. Beating is the least of what I'll deal out to a troublemaker."

  "What?" he blurted, so taken aback that he spoke the word aloud. And winced involuntarily, expecting a buffet for his insubordination.

  But Haraket didn't cuff him. "You please me, your Jouster, and your dragon," he repeated once again. "And that is all you need to concern yourself with. But don't antagonize the brats," Haraket added. "Have the proper attitude. They are freeborn, and you're not."

  "Yes, sir," he murmured. That was more like what he'd expected to hear…

  "But if you're keeping your proper place, and they interfere with you, I'll give them something to weep about," Haraket said, and it sounded to Vetch as if a tinge of grim satisfaction colored the words. "They'll be cherishing stripes for a week, if they harm you. But enough of that; you'd best be sure you're pleasing me and Ari and Kashet," Haraket continued. "And believe me, there's a lot to do to please us."

  Of that, at least, he had no doubt.

  Chapter Three

  BACK and forth Haraket led him, showing him where the Jousters' quarters were, the armory, the little Temple of the god Haras, the Jousters' particular patron. Vetch was beginning to get the sense of how to navigate around the complex; really, once he got over his bedazzlement at the size and scale and luxury of this place, it wasn't any more difficult than negotiating the tangle of streets and houses of Khefti's village. It had, at first blush, seemed a maze, but now he realized that the dragon pens, at least, were all at the eastern end of the compound, with the great landing court right in the middle of them. Everything else was west of the pens and court, and the area closest to the pens was devoted to the butchery. So long as he kept going east from wherever he started, he'd come into the area where the dragons were housed, so even though the complex was the size of several villages, he couldn't get entirely lost.

  And the walls were not bare and featureless either; he hadn't paid much attention before because he had been concentrating on Haraket, but now he saw that at every intersection of corridors, on the walls at the corners, there were engraved images of gods, all different. Nearest to Kashet's pen, where there was an intersection of two corridors, the gods upon the east-running corridor were the fat little dwarf god of good fortune and fertility, Khas, and on the north-running one the charming little goddess of the dawn, Noshet, with her beautifully plumed wings spread wide against the sand-colored wall. It wasn't lost on him, when he realized each corridor was marked by a god, that he could navigate among this maze of corridors by means of these carvings.

  The dragons were not peering over their walls now; in fact, there was no sign of them at all, and when Haraket beckoned to him to follow into his own dragon's pen, he saw that Kashet was still drowsing in his sand wallow. "It will shortly be time for the Jousters to take their second patrols of the day, since there is not, at the moment, any actual war taking place."

  Tell that to my people, Vetch thought, the anger that was always with him sullenly flaring. But Haraket was still speaking—ordering him, rather.

  "Now, you come saddle Kashet again," Haraket told him, as Vetch stood gingerly on the edge of the sand wallow. Kashet was already easing himself up out of the hot sand, slowly and reluctantly, making little grunting sounds. "Go over to the saddle stand and call him. Say, 'Kashet, stand,' and make it sound like you mean it."

  Vetch took his place beside the wooden rack holding the saddle and harness. He glanced at Haraket, but got no clues from the overseer's expression. Make it sound like you mean it. Well, ordering an ox around, or a goat, you had to sound firm. But it had been very, very long since he had been permitted to give orders even to an animal. He wasn't even used to raising his voice…

  Finally, he tried to imagine how he would feel if he were the master, and it was one of those boys who had sneered at him back at the kitchen who was the serf. He tried to think of himself ordering the boy to fetch something. "Kashet!" he called, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears. But at least it didn't sound uncertain. "Stand!"

  Kashet snorted; the snort sounded amused. But the dragon came readily enough, and stood towering above him, neck craned over, head looking curiously down at him. Again, he was struck by the heat of the dragon's body; it was as if he stood beside a clay bread oven during the baking.

  Kashet looked even taller than he recalled. He couldn't have touched the dragon's shoulder even if he'd stood on tiptoe.

  Now, how was he going to get the saddle on the beast when Kashet's shoulder was higher than Haraket's head?

  Haraket watched him, eyes narrowed, waiting—for what? The overseer passed a hand over the top of his shaved head, and Vetch knew that he was waiting for Vetch to do something.

  Was Haraket waiting for him to deduce how to handle the dragon from the clues he'd been given?

  It wasn't fair—but it was a test of whether or not he could think for himself. He looked around, and couldn't see anything to climb onto in order to get the saddle onto the dragon's back. If he couldn't get the saddle up on Kashet's back, could he get Kashet to come down to him?

  "Kashet!" he shouted, hearing his voice squeak a little at the end. "Down!"

  And that, it seemed, was the answer.

  With a grunt, the dragon knelt at the side of the sand pit, just the forequarters, putting his back just low enough for Vetch to reach. He heaved the saddle off the rack, taking care not to tangle the straps. He remembered how it had lain on the dragon's back, just in front of the wings; he thought he remembered how all of the straps buckled. He manhandled the saddle over Kashet's neck, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and took a quick glance at Haraket.

  The overseer looked satisfied. Or at least, he wasn't frowning. So that was probably it; but Haraket wasn't going to give him any more clues. He would either manage to carry his orders out on his own, or—

  —or back to Khefti.

  But it couldn't be that hard; it couldn't be any more complicated than harnessing a donkey to carry a load, or an ox to the plow. It ought to be logical. There were just not that many ways that you could buckle a harness!

  He didn't think Haraket expected or wanted him to fail, either, which was a refreshing change. No, he got the feeling that Haraket merely wanted to see if he could do the job, how quickly, and how much help he would need.
>
  Maybe, whispered that angry voice, he expects that you're going to botch it because you're an Alton barbarian…

  Well, if that was the case—Haraket would find out he was better and smarter than those freeborn Tians.

  While Kashet was still crouched, Vetch took the opportunity to buckle the highest neck strap on the saddle, the one that carried what he thought was the breast strap fastened in the middle of it. Then he ordered, this time with more confidence, "Kashet! Up!"

  The dragon stood, and Vetch puzzled out the straps that fastened the front of the saddle at the neck and throat. But the rest of the harness was not immediately clear, and he paused with a strap in his hand. There were a lot of straps.

  Maybe there were a lot of different ways you could fasten a harness. Or, at least, this particular harness.

  "Find the mate on the other side," Haraket prompted. "And bring them under the forelegs to that breastband that's sewn to the neckband. That's the fat strap that should follow his keelbone. After you fasten the neckband, the straps are always in pairs."