Joust (34 page)

At least with both Coresan and Seftu back on patrol, Ari could stop doing double-duty. Vetch had the idea that he was sleeping a good deal. Certainly Kashet was!

Haraket was as good as his word, too. By the time the planting season was over, in fact, within a moon, Haraket found another dragon boy for Coresan, another serf from a stolen farm like Vetch.

Presumably, having found that Vetch was such a good worker, Haraket was willing to try another of the same type.

Haraket brought the replacement in one afternoon, without any fanfare, though he had taken the time to get the new boy cleaned up, kilted, and all before he brought him to the pen. With any dragon, that was a good idea; they were used to Jousters and dragon boys in their uniform kilts and kit, and dragons were creatures of habit. Even the few servants like Haraket and the slaves wore pretty much the same uniforms, which varied only in quality of materials. Presumably a dragon couldn’t tell the difference between coarse linen and fine, and the similarity of costume told the dragons who “belonged” here, and who didn’t.

However, just the previous day Coresan had reacted poorly to the presence of a pretty woman friend of Coresan’s Jouster, Neftat. The bright fluttering gauze of her gown, the high voice, the jangling jewelry—whatever it was had made Coresan rear up and hiss angrily, her tail giving one of those vicious lashes that Vetch had not quite managed to train her out of.

Neftat had in his turn reacted as Vetch would have wanted, shooing his lady friend outside. This was one of the only times when Neftat actually spoke to Vetch.

“Keep her company for a moment,” he’d ordered (rather than requested). The tone made Vetch grind his teeth, but he obeyed, though he had no idea how to amuse a
lady.
He listened to Neftat soothing his dragon with one ear, while he directed the lady’s attention to the carvings on the walls, the construction of the pens, even the dragons peering over the pens with interest at them—babbling foolishly whatever came into his head in an effort to distract her.

Fortunately, Neftat finally came out and apologized to the lady. Vetch hadn’t even waited to hear what he said.

But now—it looked as if his patience wasn’t going to be on trial for much longer.

“Vetch, this is Fisk,” Haraket said shortly. “He’s a serf; I want him for Coresan’s boy. If you can train him to take Coresan, do it.” And he left, with the two boys staring awkwardly at one another.

It was Fisk who made the first move, though. “Ah,” he said, ducking his head in unconscious submission. “Could be you’d give me your name?”

Vetch had to smile, then;
he
knew in part how Fisk must be feeling, but poor Fisk knew nothing about his would-be mentor, perhaps not even that Vetch was a serf! The hair should tell him, but Fisk might not know that only Altan serfs wore their hair long as a sign of their indentured nature. “Vetch,” he replied. “And I’m a serf, too.” He looked the other boy up and down; could it be that Fisk had been a farmer’s boy, too? “Well, if I’m to teach you about Coresan, what do you know about animals in general?”

“Ah. Mostly I’ve tended goats,” Fisk ventured, and looked up at Coresan, who looked curiously down at him. “That be a mighty big goat . . .”

For a heart-stopping moment, Vetch thought the other boy was feeble-minded, but then he saw the slow grin, and realized with relief that Fisk was joking.

And it soon was apparent that Haraket had chosen well, so far as Coresan was concerned, for Fisk was not afraid of her, and had more experience with intractable creatures than Vetch ever had. For one thing, he was two years older than Vetch—and what was more, Fisk had actually been a goatherd in charge of a large number of animals, and goats could be the most stubborn and evil-minded domestic creatures ever created; he might not be very bright, but he was eminently practical, and he had a good rapport with beasts. Unlike Vetch, he hadn’t had a family to lose, as he was already an orphan when the Tians came, tending the herd of goats for a surly uncle. As a consequence, life in the Jouster’s compound was more than an improvement, it was an improvement without any previous loss attached. He had never really known what it was like to be free or to have a close-knit family, for his father was dead and his mother had been her brother-in-law’s servant. While she loved her son, she had been able to give him nothing but her love while her brother-in-law worked her to death and bid fair to repeat his treatment with her son.

Now, with only a single, nonwandering creature to be in charge of, good treatment, and much better food, Fisk was convinced he’d fallen into a honey pot. He’d understood exactly what Vetch meant when he described Coresan’s quirks and personality, and he didn’t let her bully him.

More to the point, to both Vetch’s and Haraket’s delight, Fisk and Coresan took to each other with a great deal of mutual respect and even affection. It was nothing like the bond Vetch had with Kashet, but it was as close to that as any other dragon boy’s, and closer than most.

That released Vetch from his duties to Coresan, which was a great relief. Coresan needed someone who understood her and cared about her, and Vetch’s heart was given to the creature growing inside his egg and to Kashet. Haraket was overjoyed, and within the week, Vetch overheard him speaking with Ari about finding more goatherd serfs in the future to use as dragon boys.

As for Vetch—Fisk might not be anyone he could have a deep and meaningful conversation with, but he was friendly, and he
was
another serf, so at least now he had someone who would share a meal and a joke with him. The cold shoulders of the other dragon boys weren’t so hard to take when there were two to face them instead of one alone.

Gratefully, he went back to his old chores, which, after all the work of tending Coresan, Kashet
and
a dragon-in-egg, seemed infinitely lighter. The growing season was well underway, and the increasing heat would surely be the trigger to hatch his egg, and soon he would need all the extra time he could get.

He certainly completed his round of ordinary chores faster than he had before he’d been doing double-duty with Coresan. Or perhaps it was just that he was putting on muscle and strength himself. He practically flew through his cleaning chores, and as for the others, the old leather worker and the Weapons Overseer had taken to giving him an allotment of work, so that the others wouldn’t shirk theirs, knowing they could load it onto him when he finished the sooner.

All this came just in time.

The egg was starting to move.

T
HE egg was starting to move because the devel oping dragon inside was shifting restlessly. It was definitely fertile, and was going to hatch if nothing went wrong with the dragonet, there was no doubt whatsoever about that. Though how long it would be before the egg really hatched now that it was starting to move, well, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure that even Ari did. It could be days; it might be weeks. The only thing he could be absolutely sure of was that it would be within the moon.

The timetable seemed about right as well, given what he’d learned from Ari, though it did not seem possible that so much time had passed so quickly. By his reckoning, it should barely have been time for the Planting Festival.

But there it was; caught up in the peculiar schedule of the Jousters’ compound and as busy as he was, time was all distorted. Among the Jousters, there were only two real “seasons”—the season of the rains (which included part, but not all, of flood season) when the Jousters and dragons could rest a little, and the season of no-rain, which meant full patrols and everyone working flat-out. The Temple-regulated festivals of the seasons, so important when he’d been working for Khefti-the-Fat, had slipped by him without noticing. Now growing season was well under way, the plants were all sprouting in the fields, and he hadn’t even noticed. If Ari was right, eggs hatched well inside Growing season, giving the richest time of the year, so far as game was concerned, for the critical first weeks of a dragonet’s life. Then, when the little one was old enough not to need feeding so often, came Dry season—and in the heat of Dry, the dragonet could grow and develop without needing to be kept warm by a parent.

Soon. The egg must surely hatch soon.

He slipped away every night as soon as it was quiet to turn it and speak softly to the dragonet within the shell, and woke before dawn to turn it again. So far, no one had caught him at his tending—but then, there wasn’t anyone about that early or that late. Not even the most diligent of Jousters rose any earlier than he had to—and who could blame them when they were flying long patrols to prevent Altans from sabotaging the crops in the fields? Burning crops was an easy way to strike back at the hated enemy; you left no traces behind if you were clever, and every field burned was more grain that the enemy would have to purchase with precious gold—which in turn, could not be used to hire and equip soldiers. Altan serfs, and those Altans who still retained possession of their own farms through some miracle, would not burn their own crops—they’d starve if they did, for they would get cold charity from the Tian masters. But that wouldn’t stop Altan insurgents from firing the fields, regardless of who owned them. About the only relief there was from
that
threat was that Altans, like the Tians, could not be persuaded to go out into the fields at night, when homeless, hungry ghosts were a-prowl. Not even the rebels would take that risk, a very real one, and not the sort of thing that even Haraket dared. Unhomed spirits were very real, and it never seemed to occur to the Tians that their rigor in denying slaughtered Altans the proper rites and funerary shrines only made more angry ghosts to plague their nights. It was dangerous enough to walk the streets of a village, where the protection of the Temples held sway, and the lights and lamps drove the ghosts out. Only a priest or a witch would dare venture into open fields by night, and what priest or witch would trouble to fire a field when their time was better served making magic? But every so often, someone too foolhardy or desperate or sure of his protections went out at night, beyond the protections of the streets, and was found dead in the morning. Usually there wasn’t a mark on him, but his face was generally contorted with pain or horror.

No, the rebels were bold enough, but not that bold. They did their work between the first hint of dawn and the last light of dusk.

So the Jousters were in the air whenever possible, reminding those below that the Great King had more than just soldiers to enforce his will, scanning the fields at dawn and dusk for creeping forms that should not be there. That meant more time in the sky, tired dragons and Jousters, and the most profound of silences from sunset to sunrise within the walls of the compound. No time for festivities now—oh, no! Once in a very great while, Vetch would hear music coming over the walls, but it was all quiet music, harp and flute, and never went much past the time that a late dinner would be. Probably some of the more aristocratic Jousters were having music with their dinner.

So Vetch’s ventures were secure. Not even Ari caught him, even though the Jouster came to the pen nearly every night, for at least a little while. At least now that Neftat was taking up patrols on Coresan, Ari had been able to cut back his territory, which gave him a little time of his own again. He spent most of it with Kashet, and Vetch had to wonder if Ari was as lonely as
he
was. Certainly he didn’t spend much time with his fellow Jousters.

Sometimes Vetch wished that he was just a bit older, more Ari’s age. Often, as he listened to Ari talk softly in the darkness, to Kashet and to him, he wondered if he was the closest thing to a friend that Ari had, other than Haraket. Did he ever talk to Haraket like this? Maybe not—there were things he said to Vetch that Vetch didn’t think Haraket would ever accept tamely. Ari could criticize his own leaders and his own people freely with Vetch; Haraket might well feel he had to report such “disloyal” talk.

Maybe that was why he spent some time every night here. He had to unburden himself to someone, and Vetch was safe.

And he wished one other thing—a wish that he could never have imagined himself making before he’d come here. He wished, for Ari’s sake, that he was Tian. For if he had not been Altan, and a serf, he could have confided his egg theft to Ari, who would have been delighted, and would surely have helped him when the egg hatched. If he had been Tian, he could have a dragonet openly, and become a Jouster, joining the ranks of the rest.

He could become Ari’s friend, and not—what he was. Whatever that was, now. Dragon boy, serf, mostly Altan, no longer able to unthinkingly hate his Tian masters—but knowing that nothing would ever induce them to accept him either, with a life that was a strange mixture of the bitter and the sweet, with nothing in between.

And it occurred to him the same night, as he lay thinking about that wish and staring up at the stars, that the one time when his anger stopped gnawing at him altogether was when Ari was around. With everyone else, except maybe Haraket, there was always that edge, the feeling that underneath it all, if a choice had to be made between him and a Tian, well, he’d come out second-best.

And even Ari and Haraket, if the choice had to be made publicly, would probably favor the Tian.

Maybe that wasn’t true, but it was something he didn’t want to have to put to the test.

It was an unpalatable thought.

He resolutely shoved it away. He would just have to make certain it never came to that.

Besides, he had another worry that he ought to be concentrating on. That egg would hatch within days, and that would bring the next hurdle, a successful hatching. He had to be there. He daren’t take any chances. Baby chickens thought that the first thing that they saw was their mother—the same might be true of a dragonet—

And that was when, once again, it seemed as if the Altan gods had heard him and were answering him with subtle aid.