Quietly, Kiron took Kalen and Pe-atep aside when they knew that at least some of the eggs were going to hatch. He intercepted both of them after their dragons were bedded down for the night, before they went looking for something to eat for themselves. Lord Ya-tiren had issued a standing invitation to the Jousters to come to his kitchen whenever they needed to be fed, and they had jumped at the offer. Anything other than have to eat their own cooking. . . .
But Kiron wanted to talk to these two alone, and had asked Aket-ten to bring food for four to Avatre’s pen. She had been so curious about the odd request that she hadn’t even registered a weak protest.
She was waiting with the plain fare that all of them subsisted on these days; flatbread, vegetables, herbs, and whatever the Jousters scavenged from their dragons’ kills. Kiron had decided a long time ago that meat was meat, and it was better to wrestle with a bit of tough wild ass in freedom than the sweetest cut of young calf with one eye out for the Magi. Since he didn’t hear any complaints from the others—except, perhaps, the sort of complaining one always heard in situations like this one—he thought it reasonable to suppose the rest felt about the same.
“I suppose you have a reason for this little party,” Kalen said, blunt as ever. “And from the look on her face, you didn’t tell Aket-ten what it is.”
The interesting thing about Kalen was that although he was small, thin, and almost as dark as a Tian, he was nothing like the falcons he had once tended. He was more like one of the small brown owls, always watching, silent and still—and when he moved, moving so quietly you were unaware that he had until he was gone.
“We have eight fertile eggs, and more coming, I expect,” Kiron replied. “That’s eight new Jousters. They’ll have to be trained—we’ll have to train them, once they get into the air. And then?”
“I don’t think we should have a wing any larger than eight,” Kalen said, after a moment of struggle with his strip of meat. “Eight’s more than enough to muck up coordination. More would be impossible to keep track of.”
“Exactly my thought,” Kiron agreed. “And now we get to the reason why I had you all choose colors in the first place. Eventually, each of you will have a wing, and each of your fliers will wear one of your colors, so we can tell who the wingleader is because he has two.”
“Oho!” Pe-atep said, raising his eyebrows. “Now it makes sense!”
“You two are the two steadiest, and you’ve come from lives where you were used to being in charge of something other than servants,” Kiron continued, as Aket-ten nodded sagely. “I want you to take the first two new wings as wingleaders. But if you don’t feel equal to it, I want to know now, please, so I can take my third or fourth choice.”
“Oh,” Pe-atep said, with a glance at Kalen, modulating his deep voice into a more conversational tone. “I think we can manage. These dragon boys aren’t really boys at all. They’ve been training young wild dragons with that Baken fellow. And they’re the faithful, the ones that stuck after the tala wore off and the dragons escaped. The Altans are our own dragon boys from home, so they should be all right, too.” He smiled, then frowned. “The only question is, how are we going to feed all those growing dragonets?”
“Kaleth says he’s arranging something with the Bedu.” Kiron replied. “That’s all I know.”
But Kalen, the former falconer who shared that passion with the nomadic desert dwellers, snickered. “What he’s arranging is cattle raids in Tia. The priests have told the Bedu where the sacrificial herds are, how they’re guarded, and how to frighten off the herders. The Bedu either don’t believe in our night-walking ghosts, or don’t care. They’re going to come in by night, convince the herders that they’re demons, and ride off with the herds.”
Kiron stared at him for a moment, and then began to laugh. Pe-atep looked at his friend with something akin to affrontery.
“What?” Kalen demanded.
“But those cattle are meant for the gods!” Pe-atep protested.
“If the gods put this idea in Kaleth’s mind, I suspect they don’t care,” said Kalen carelessly. “And besides, the priests can sacrifice them here just as well as there.”
“Well,” Pe-atep said, with some reluctance. “Ye-es.”
“And if people begin to get the idea that the actions of the advisers have so displeased the gods that their priests have abandoned the temples and night demons are stealing the sacred herds, that’s good for us.” Kiron remembered only too well his former master’s fear of the night demons and hungry ghosts, and Khefti-the-Fat was by no means the only Tian to fear those supernatural creatures so profoundly that any misfortune that befell after dark was immediately laid to their influence. So if actual (as opposed to imagined) catastrophes befell the gods’ own property—there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that if the gods had not yet abandoned Tia, they were certainly angry.
“Ah, now that’s a stone that can strike a rock and rebound to hit the caster in the head,” said Kaleth, strolling in at the end of that sentence. “There is always a problem, you see, with making people afraid of you. Ari and I were just discussing this. I trust we are welcome to this discussion?”
“It started with me asking Pe-atep and Kalen to be the wingleaders for the new wings,” Kiron replied, as Ari joined Kaleth in the doorway. “Ari, I—”
“I don’t need to be wingleader of anything,” Ari replied, with a mournful, harried expression. “I have enough to concern me. When I am in the air, unless it is hunting, I want someone else to be in charge for a change. It will be a relief not to have to think a hundred moves in advance.”
Kiron sighed. He felt a little sorry for Ari—but only a little. The responsibility might be a burden, but everyone else was carrying burdens of their own these days.
“Explain to me how striking fear into the hearts of the Tians is bad for us!” Kalen demanded.
“Because fear is a sword with no hilt,” Ari replied. “It is as like to be turned against you as against the right target.” He sat down on the edge of the platform. Avatre opened one eye, saw who it was, and wriggled her way around so she could plant her head on the stone beside him, silently demanding a head scratch. Ari absently obliged. “Here is how it goes. The priests vanish. The Great King will surely not say they have run away! No, the advisers will concoct some wild tale of how they were abducted by Altan Magi, and the proof of it is the very bodies of the acolytes that proved to the Tian priests that their own lives were in danger.”
“But nobody will believe that,” said Pe-atep, then added doubtfully, “will they?”
“There are, and always will be, people who are so loyal to their leader that they will believe no evil of him, even if he were to commit the murder of an innocent before their faces,” Kaleth replied with a heavy sigh. “They would say that the victim was a threat, or that the leader was mistaken, or worst of all, convince themselves that the victim somehow deserved it and brought the punishment on himself. So, yes, there will be a solid core of those who will be convinced that the Altans somehow made away with the priests and murdered the acolytes, even though they know the acolytes were summoned to the Great King’s palace and were never seen alive again. In fact, I have no doubt that such tales are being bruited about as truth even now.”