"Yes, sir," Vetch replied, and ventured, "Could someone cut my hair, sir?" He didn't mean to cut it off, of course, but he hoped it might be trimmed up a bit…
Evidently he wasn't even to be allowed that much.
"You're not freeborn, boy," the Overseer rebuked him. "But— here—" He handed Vetch a coarse shell comb and another bit of leather thong, and at least Vetch was able to get the knots out of his hair for the first time in months and months, and braid it.
He handed the comb back to the Overseer, who stowed it away, wishing he could shave his head altogether. But only a free-born boy could shave his head and wear a wig; a serf was branded as such by his own hair, long and uncut. It was the easiest and cheapest way to mark a serf. Shaving took time, the resource of a good, sharp razor, and had to be done every day.
Hair damp, freshly kilted, wearing the glazed hawk-eye talisman, he followed in the wake of the last of the boys, knowing there were other chores that needed doing between now and when the dragons returned. So long as the others didn't notice his presence—
He felt better with the hawk eye around his neck; such talismans kept the night-walking spirits away, and demons, as well as guarding him from the crocodiles of Great Mother River. It wasn't the talisman that he would have chosen—he'd have taken one of Nofret's stars, if he'd had a choice, or better still, the sun-disk of Hakat-Re—but it was good to have it. The talisman wasn't only for luck; it marked him, should he ever need to leave the compound, as a servant of the Jousters. No one would interfere with him while he was wearing it. No one who was not of the Jousters wore the hawk eye; if a talisman of the God Haras was wanted, it would be one of the God Himself.
And yes, he learned as he walked boldly behind the last three boys into yet another chamber, that there were plenty of tasks to be done. For the first time, he found himself taking a place among all of the other dragon boys, who were lined up in front of some racks of equipment.
This was yet another proper room, a large one, smelling of oil and fresh wood, and yet another Overseer, this one a hard-looking man of a kind with Haraket, only leaner. This room was lined with rack upon rack of the lances that all Jousters used.
The Overseer intercepted him as he entered the doorway, stopping him by the simple expedient of stretching his arm out to keep Vetch from passing. "Jouster Ari's boy. Vetch—
Caught off-guard, he bobbed his head nervously. "Yes, sir," he managed.
"This way." He pulled Vetch off to the side, with one hard hand on his shoulder. He stationed Vetch in front of a rack of lances. Vetch could feel the eyes of every boy in the chamber on him, and it was all he could do to keep from cringing. He reminded himself of their scorn, and of his vow to be better than any of them. He would prove that an Altan was better than any two Tians put together!
He fastened his gaze on the rack of weapons, as he was no doubt intended to do. Now, except for that mashed lance of Ari's which had hardly been recognizable as such, this was the first time that Vetch had ever seen these lances up close, and much to his surprise, they appeared to be made, not of wood, but of bundles of reeds or papyrus somehow bound and glued together into a whole. The surface was very shiny, the bindings of linen thread wrapped in intricate patterns and varnished into place with a lacquer that turned everything shiny gold.
"Vetch, this is important; I want you to check each one of these. Because this is your first time here, I've set this up as a learning exercise. I put some damaged ones in this rack to show you what to look for and how to check the lances for breakage and weak spots. Here; this is a good one." He thrust the lance, which was just a little longer than he was tall, into Vetch's hands. It was astonishingly light, and even more astonishingly strong. "First, flex it, like this—" he gestured with his hands to illustrate, and Vetch tried. Another surprise; the thing was springy, much more so than wood. And strong.
"You feel that? That's how a good lance should behave. If it doesn't flex like that, it's gone dead; toss it." He handed Vetch a "dead" lance, which had nothing like the flexion of the first; after trying it, Vetch obediently tossed it onto a pile of other discards.
Behind him, he heard the other boys at work at their own racks; presumably they already knew what they were doing.
Learn quickly, he reminded himself.
The Overseer showed Vetch other defects to look for; broken tips—they weren't so much broken as crushed—weakened spots, which were soft and gave when poked, lances gone out of true. So this was one of the important jobs of the morning, and Vetch could see why it was vital.
He could figure out why the lances would have broken or had gotten weak places by himself; after all, the lances weren't for show, the Jousters used them to fight with. But he couldn't reckon why they'd go dead, or out of true. Well, that wasn't his job. His job was to pull them off the racks when they did. There were a lot of lances, and each one had to be inspected minutely. Furthermore, every boy had to inspect every lance that passed, and the Overseer followed behind them inspecting every one that they all passed, sometimes discarding one for no reason that Vetch could fathom. Perhaps it had something to do with magic. Perhaps it had more to do with caution and experience. A Jouster's life could depend on his lance, and whether or not it held up in combat. It didn't take long, but by having the boys look the weapons over and discard the ones with obvious flaws, it surely must save the Overseer a great deal of time.
When they were all done with the lances for the day, they filed off in a group for another task that required all their hands. He trailed along behind, not too close, not so far that he would lose them at a turning. They ignored him.
This one took them to a huge walled court, filled with coarse linen cloths, loosely woven, stretched over frames that were held above the ground on wooden legs, at about the same height as a sleeping couch. And on the linen cloths, were the very familiar yellow-green, rounded shapes of ripened tala fruit.
This time he didn't have to be told what to do; a farmer's child knew drying racks when he saw them. He went straight to the baskets of tala waiting to be spread out on the racks, and took one to the nearest empty cloth waiting to be filled.
Not hard or difficult work, but it was hot out here, and the sun bore down on him without mercy. Nor was his task over when the last of the fruits were spread out on the linen; then he must go to the other racks to turn the fruits so that they dried evenly. Each thumb-sized fruit had to be turned by hand, of course; a rake would have damaged the coarsely-woven sheets.
That wasn't the end of his involvement with the tala either. Next he was sent with a dozen of the others to pound tala berries that were fully dried into the familiar powder that was mixed with the meat. Each of them stood at a heavy stone mortar the size of a bucket. The mortars stood on the floor in a row, each with a wooden pestle as tall as he was waiting in it, ready to make the tala into the form in which it controlled the dragons.
He was no stranger to grinding things either; when you were a serf, tending the land, you either ground the grain you were allowed to glean after the harvest into flour for yourself, or you did without bread. The scent of the tala filled the air, green and bitter, a little like gall, but without the acrid aftertaste. He pounded the pestle into the stone mortar at his feet in rhythm with the other boys, thinking as he did so that this was not as bad as it might have been. They were allowed to take a break for a drink of cool water from jars along the wall whenever they needed one, which was far more than Khefti had ever allowed, and although the drying chamber was in full sun, the mortars were ranged under shade. No, this was not as bad as it could have been, though the other boys complained loudly that they were ill-used. He simply set himself to produce more of the powder than any of them.