Ari presumably felt that Kashet was in reliable hands now, for he'd left without a single backward glance. That left Vetch, under Haraket's supervision, to take the saddle and harness off Kashet. This time Haraket didn't lift a finger; he left it to Vetch to manage by himself.
But at least, he gave some signs of approval when Vetch did everything, did it correctly, and without guidance.
"Now bring him along, and follow me," Haraket decreed, and strode off, expecting Vetch to keep up. He put one hand on Kashet's shoulder, as he had seen Ari do, and set off after the Overseer.
Kashet didn't need any encouragement; wherever they were going, it was a place that Kashet liked. The dragon nearly bowled them both over in his eagerness to reach it.
They remained within the area of the pens, but this time they followed an east-west corridor with the cat-goddess Pashet on the walls. Eventually, when they reached what must have been the southeast corner of the complex, Haraket turned into another open-roofed area.
"This is the buffing pen, where you'll give Kashet his sand baths," Haraket said, leading them both inside. "Every day at this time, in fact."
This was another open-air court, a place of huge stalls, like those for horses, but big enough for dragons. Haraket guided Kashet into one of them. There were rings here for chaining the dragons, but of course, that was not a precaution that Vetch needed to use with Kashet.
"Go get one of those buckets of sand," Haraket said, pointing to a place where buckets—yes, full of sand—were lined up against the wall. Vetch did as he was told, while Haraket got a basket heaped with soft cloths from a storage shed. Then Haraket showed him how to take a handful of sand and polish the dragon's hide with it. Kashet seemed to love it, leaning into the grit like a dog being scratched. The sand polished off dirt and anything else that had stuck to the scales. And the sand was particularly good at cleaning the hide of the wings.
Those peculiar wings… they weren't like the wings of any other creature that Vetch had ever seen. Certainly not like bird wings, nor like bats, nor like insects. They had many peculiar folds and planes, layers of skin and flexible tendons and thin, flat bones that were almost as flexible as the tendons. But all of those surfaces made for places where itchy things could lodge, so Vetch set to scrubbing with a will.
Kashet wasn't scaled everywhere; the wing webbings were made of tough, thin skin, there was skin at the eyes and nostrils and in the joints. All of the skin needed oiling, when he was done' scrubbing Kashet with the sand. The oil soaked in quickly, leaving the hide softer and more flexible; in fact, it vanished so quickly that not one grain of sand stuck to the hide afterward. His beautiful blue scales were like the curved, shiny iridescent wing covers of beetles, they shone with a deep and luminous color so rich it was like nothing in Vetch's experience.
And Kashet adored it; loved every bit of attention, and even helped Vetch to get to inaccessible spots by crouching down or contorting himself to bring some area where Vetch could reach it. Vetch burnished him with sand first, then at Haraket's direction, with soft, oil-soaked cloths, until the dragon gleamed. While he worked, other boys brought in their dragons, until all the other dragons were in the buffing pens as well, and the whole place was full.
He couldn't help but notice that every other boy brought in his dragon with a heavy collar around its neck, and a strong chain attached to the collar. The least tug on the chain would somehow close the collar down around the dragon's throat, cutting off his breath.
So that was how a mere boy could control a huge creature like a dragon!
"Only Kashet is safe to handle without chains when he's around the others," Haraket observed, as another dragon boy brought his charge into the pen, but not as Haraket had, with only a hand on his shoulder. "They're like dogs sometimes, snappish and quarrelsome. That's why the walls of the pens are so thick, so they can't reach each other over them."
This green-bronze dragon wore her chain around her neck like the others; just at that moment, she balked and tried to pull the chain loose from the boy. He gave the chain a yank, and the collar closed down around her windpipe, choking her for an instant. She wheezed for a moment, and then subsided; the boy gave the chain a flip to loosen it, and continued where he'd been heading to chain his charge to a post at the far wall of the pen. "Right now, Par-kisha is sated by the tala on her food, but he's wise to chain her," Haraket observed. "Fights between dragons are impossible for anyone but the Jousters to break up, and—" he fixed Vetch with a knife-sharp glance, "—remember this, boy. Fights are generally fatal to handlers caught in the middle."
Vetch nodded, and gulped.
But Kashet was nothing like the half-wild thing chained to the post next to him; he had turned into a veritable puddle of dragon, leaning into each buffing stroke with his eyes half closed. Like an enormous cat, he loved grooming and being groomed. Oh, the others enjoyed it, too, but not to the extent that Kashet did.
Finally Haraket deemed the task done even to his exacting standards, and allowed Vetch to lead the dragon back to his pen for the last time that day. Leaving Kashet to bask in the sun while his hide absorbed the oil—which imparted that spicy scent to him—Vetch got another barrowful of meat.
By now, drowsy and relaxed and more certain of his new dragon boy, Kashet was not so impatient to be fed. He ate in a leisurely fashion, while Haraket and Vetch watched.
"The other dragons all get tala mixed with their meat at every meal; make sure you never get one of those barrows," Haraket cautioned. "Kashet is never to have tala. Not even at morning feed—and believe me, when you see the others snapping at their boys, you'll be grateful that you've got Kashet, and not mind the extra work he makes for you. Maybe the other boys will have less work than you, but yours will be easier. And Ari's a good master."
With Kashet fed and digging himself a hollow in the sand in which to sleep, Haraket gave Vetch a grudging smile.
"All right, serf boy," he said gruffly. "You've done as well as anyone else his first day. You're finished until morning. Go back to the kitchen and get your supper, and you're free to do whatever you wish until dawn. You'll sleep on a pallet in here with Kashet, though, and not with the other boys. Ari's particular about Kashet, and he wants someone with him all the time."
"Yes, sir," Vetch said feeling that for once he'd encountered Tians who deserved being called "sir."
And he was going to sleep here, away from the other boys— potential tormentors. He felt another burden of worry ease away from him.
"You're how old, boy?" Haraket demanded suddenly. "And what in Tophet were you before you were bound to the land?"
"Ten or eleven, sir, though I'm not sure." He'd lost track of the seasons, really, it wasn't hard to do so when your days were exhausting and the work never ending. "Maybe older." Maybe much older, but he wasn't going to say that. Much older, and he might be deemed too old for this task. "My father was a farmer," Vetch stammered, surprised by the abrupt demand. Masters did not, in his experience, give a toss about how old you were, or what you'd been when you were free.
"Not too old, not too young. Good." Haraket nodded. "Right. Off with you; get that dinner. I'll have the pallet brought here for you; it will be waiting for you when you're ready to sleep." With that, he left Vetch at the door to Kashet's pen, stalking off with his long, ground-eating strides. Vetch gathered his courage, and looked for the kitchen.