Small wonder the King wasn't willing to train dragons for the Jousters that way…
For not just anyone could train the young hatchlings that way. The gosling hadn't followed any human as its mother, it had only followed Vetch. No, that task would have to be taken on by the Jouster who meant to fly that particular dragon. Which meant that the Jouster could not be fighting at the same time, because bringing in regular meals to keep a baby dragon's belly full would be a full-time job. As well as the cleanup, afterward.
Not that Vetch particularly wanted to see more Jousters in the air; not when they were leading the fight against his people…
It made him feel very queasy inside, to be reminded of that. Here he was, serving the enemy—
—not that he had a choice.
Not if he wanted to live, eat—not, in particular, if he wanted to do more than eke out a miserable existence.
He shook his head a little. Too many complicated things! he told himself fiercely, redoubling his efforts on the saddles. And what was the point of thinking about it, for what could he do? He was only a little boy. No matter what he did, no matter what became of him, nothing in the greater world would change. The war would still go on, and Ari would just find another boy for Kashet.
Shobek came over at that moment to inspect what he'd done, and grunted his satisfaction with the work.
Vetch noticed then that the other boys were putting their work aside for Shobek to inspect and gather up. Some he nodded over, some he scolded for shoddy workmanship. "You'll only get it to do over again tomorrow," he said crossly, as one of the boys looked sullen. "Haven't you gotten that through your thick skull yet? Well?"
"Yes, Shobek," the boy replied.
"Then if you don't want to keep seeing the same job on the same saddle again, over and over for the rest of your life, do it right tomorrow!" He looked around at the rest of the boys, whose attitude had changed, and who all looked eager to be gone from there. "Well, off with you."
They were off, like a shot. Vetch didn't know what to do, but he was saved from having to ask by the arrival of Haraket.
"You, Kashet's boy—remember that you are to come here right after pen cleaning after the noon meal," the old man said, as Haraket took possession of him. "Remember! Every day!"
"Yes, sir—" he called back over his shoulder, though he wasn't certain the old man heard him, for a new crop of six or eight boys came crowding in to fill the small room.
"Now," Haraket said, as he led Vetch down a corridor decorated with royal hawks, the token of the god Haras. "You will learn what it means to serve your Jouster as well as your dragon."
VERY shortly, Vetch had a good idea where he was. They had gone this way earlier, in Vetch's whirlwind tour of the compound. This corridor, where the Temple of Haras also stood, marked, in fact, by the images of the god Haras, led to the Jousters' private quarters. This place wasn't so difficult to find his way around in after all!
The Jousters' importance would have been evident even to someone who didn't know what they were, just by virtue of the wall decorations on this corridor. Rather than simple carved images at the intersections of other corridors, the walls here were adorned with stunning, brilliantly colored paintings of the god Haras, in his falcon-headed human form, in his falcon form, in his form of Haras-re, the falcon of the sun. These paintings were huge, covering the entire wall, from top to bottom, and Vetch had never seen anything like them for sheer beauty. Certainly nothing could compare to them, even in the Temples he had been in. If this was what the corridor outside the Jousters' quarters looked like, what must the palace of the Great King be like? Were his paintings not paintings at all, but inlaid with precious materials?
They ended up at the doorway arch leading to the Jouster's quarters. This was a very large opening, with the royal hawks carved into the limestone wall in bas-relief on either side, and a third hawk with wings spread wide carved over the lintel, all so incredibly painted he expected them to spring to life at any moment.
Why not a dragon? he wondered. But this was not the time to ask. "Here," Haraket said, but not to Vetch, "This is Ari's new boy. His name is Vetch. Ari chose him himself."
"So I've heard," replied the resplendent personage at the door. The person to whom Haraket was speaking was in every possible way the opposite of Haraket. Where Haraket was muscular, this man was thin as a reed; where Haraket was bald and apparently disdained the use of a head covering altogether, this man wore an elaborately braided and beaded wig—though truth to tell, beneath the wig, he was likely shaved bald as well. This was no coarse, horse-hair or linen-thread wig. This was a wig made of human hair, dark and lustrous, each tiny braid no thicker than the cords of a snare, and ending in a turquoise, gold, or carnelian bead. It made Vetch's head spin to think how much it must have cost— and this Overseer was wearing it as an everyday ornament!
Haraket was brisk, but not entirely unfriendly; this fellow was haughty and cold. Haraket's clothing was simple; this man had an ornately pleated kilt of fine linen and a belt, armbands, and collar of faience and woven beads, as well as ornamented sandals. His collar featured the royal hawk with outstretched wings, rather than merely a faience ornament of the hawk's eye, and he clutched a gilded, carnelian-tipped wand of office as if he feared to permit it to leave his hand.
The man looked down at Vetch with a thinly veiled sneer. "And this—is to tend to Jouster Ari."
Haraket shrugged; he looked indifferent, but Vetch sensed an undercurrent of disdain and dislike—not for him, but aimed at the other man. He also had the feeling that Haraket understood this haughty fellow much better than the fellow understood Haraket.
"He may surprise you; they tell me he's surprised everyone else today with how diligent a worker he is."
"A serf?" the other man's eyebrow raised.
Haraket made a noncommittal sound. "We all know how phenomenally lucky Ari is, maybe he's the kind that can look into the muck of a newly-flooded field and find the Gold of Honor."
The other Overseer looked pained. Haraket ignored him, and tapped Vetch on the shoulder.
"Vetch, this is Te-Velethat, the Overseer in charge of the Jousters' personal quarters. You do what he tells you, until he sends you back to me or I come to fetch you." Haraket still sounded indifferent, but Vetch read the warning in his words. Haraket had no power here; this was Te-Velethat's realm, not his. It was up to Vetch to keep himself out of trouble and satisfy the Overseer of the Jousters' quarters.
Well, this was familiar territory. There was only one way to satisfy someone like Te-Velethat.
Grovel and work. Grovel a very great deal, with such subservience that he might just as well offer his head to the Overseer's sandal, and work as hard as ever he had for Khefti. Well, he could do that. He had a great deal of practice at both by now.
Vetch bowed, as low and as well as he possibly could, noticing as he did so that the skin of his back felt tight, but not sore. Whatever Haraket had rubbed on the whip cuts had worked a wonder!