villages, he couldn’t get entirely lost.
And the walls were not bare and featureless either; he hadn’t paid much attention before because he had been concentrating on Haraket, but now he saw that at every intersection of corridors, on the walls at the corners, there were engraved images of gods, all different. Nearest to Kashet’s pen, where there was an intersection of two corridors, the gods upon the east-running corridor were the fat little dwarf god of good fortune and fertility, Khas, and on the north-running one the charming little goddess of the dawn, Noshet, with her beautifully plumed wings spread wide against the sand-colored wall. It wasn’t lost on him, when he realized each corridor was marked by a god, that he could navigate among this maze of corridors by means of these carvings.
The dragons were not peering over their walls now; in fact, there was no sign of them at all, and when Haraket beckoned to him to follow into his own dragon’s pen, he saw that Kashet was still drowsing in his sand wallow. “It will shortly be time for the Jousters to take their second patrols of the day, since there is not, at the moment, any actual war taking place.”
Tell that to my people, Vetch thought, the anger that was always with him sullenly flaring. But Haraket was still speaking—ordering him, rather.
“Now, you come saddle Kashet again,” Haraket told him, as Vetch stood gingerly on the edge of the sand wallow. Kashet was already easing himself up out of the hot sand, slowly and reluctantly, making little grunting sounds. “Go over to the saddle stand and call him. Say, ‘Kashet, stand,’ and make it sound like you mean it.”
Vetch took his place beside the wooden rack holding the saddle and harness. He glanced at Haraket, but got no clues from the overseer’s expression. Make it sound like you mean it. Well, ordering an ox around, or a goat, you had to sound firm. But it had been very, very long since he had been permitted to give orders even to an animal. He wasn’t even used to raising his voice. . . .
Finally, he tried to imagine how he would feel if he were the master, and it was one of those boys who had sneered at him back at the kitchen who was the serf. He tried to think of himself ordering the boy to fetch something. “Kashet!” he called, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears. But at least it didn’t sound uncertain. “Stand!”
Kashet snorted; the snort sounded amused. But the dragon came readily enough, and stood towering above him, neck craned over, head looking curiously down at him. Again, he was struck by the heat of the dragon’s body; it was as if he stood beside a clay bread oven during the baking.
Kashet looked even taller than he recalled. He couldn’t have touched the dragon’s shoulder even if he’d stood on tiptoe.
Now, how was he going to get the saddle on the beast when Kashet’s shoulder was higher than Haraket’s head?
Haraket watched him, eyes narrowed, waiting—for what? The overseer passed a hand over the top of his shaved head, and Vetch knew that he was waiting for Vetch to do something.
Was Haraket waiting for him to deduce how to handle the dragon from the clues he’d been given?
It wasn’t fair—but it was a test of whether or not he could think for himself. He looked around, and couldn’t see anything to climb onto in order to get the saddle onto the dragon’s back. If he couldn’t get the saddle up on Kashet’s back, could he get Kashet to come down to him?
“Kashet!” he shouted, hearing his voice squeak a little at the end. “Down!”
And that, it seemed, was the answer.
With a grunt, the dragon knelt at the side of the sand pit, just the forequarters, putting his back just low enough for Vetch to reach. He heaved the saddle off the rack, taking care not to tangle the straps. He remembered how it had lain on the dragon’s back, just in front of the wings; he thought he remembered how all of the straps buckled. He manhandled
And the walls were not bare and featureless either; he hadn’t paid much attention before because he had been concentrating on Haraket, but now he saw that at every intersection of corridors, on the walls at the corners, there were engraved images of gods, all different. Nearest to Kashet’s pen, where there was an intersection of two corridors, the gods upon the east-running corridor were the fat little dwarf god of good fortune and fertility, Khas, and on the north-running one the charming little goddess of the dawn, Noshet, with her beautifully plumed wings spread wide against the sand-colored wall. It wasn’t lost on him, when he realized each corridor was marked by a god, that he could navigate among this maze of corridors by means of these carvings.
The dragons were not peering over their walls now; in fact, there was no sign of them at all, and when Haraket beckoned to him to follow into his own dragon’s pen, he saw that Kashet was still drowsing in his sand wallow. “It will shortly be time for the Jousters to take their second patrols of the day, since there is not, at the moment, any actual war taking place.”
Tell that to my people, Vetch thought, the anger that was always with him sullenly flaring. But Haraket was still speaking—ordering him, rather.
“Now, you come saddle Kashet again,” Haraket told him, as Vetch stood gingerly on the edge of the sand wallow. Kashet was already easing himself up out of the hot sand, slowly and reluctantly, making little grunting sounds. “Go over to the saddle stand and call him. Say, ‘Kashet, stand,’ and make it sound like you mean it.”
Vetch took his place beside the wooden rack holding the saddle and harness. He glanced at Haraket, but got no clues from the overseer’s expression. Make it sound like you mean it. Well, ordering an ox around, or a goat, you had to sound firm. But it had been very, very long since he had been permitted to give orders even to an animal. He wasn’t even used to raising his voice. . . .
Finally, he tried to imagine how he would feel if he were the master, and it was one of those boys who had sneered at him back at the kitchen who was the serf. He tried to think of himself ordering the boy to fetch something. “Kashet!” he called, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears. But at least it didn’t sound uncertain. “Stand!”
Kashet snorted; the snort sounded amused. But the dragon came readily enough, and stood towering above him, neck craned over, head looking curiously down at him. Again, he was struck by the heat of the dragon’s body; it was as if he stood beside a clay bread oven during the baking.
Kashet looked even taller than he recalled. He couldn’t have touched the dragon’s shoulder even if he’d stood on tiptoe.
Now, how was he going to get the saddle on the beast when Kashet’s shoulder was higher than Haraket’s head?
Haraket watched him, eyes narrowed, waiting—for what? The overseer passed a hand over the top of his shaved head, and Vetch knew that he was waiting for Vetch to do something.
Was Haraket waiting for him to deduce how to handle the dragon from the clues he’d been given?
It wasn’t fair—but it was a test of whether or not he could think for himself. He looked around, and couldn’t see anything to climb onto in order to get the saddle onto the dragon’s back. If he couldn’t get the saddle up on Kashet’s back, could he get Kashet to come down to him?
“Kashet!” he shouted, hearing his voice squeak a little at the end. “Down!”
And that, it seemed, was the answer.
With a grunt, the dragon knelt at the side of the sand pit, just the forequarters, putting his back just low enough for Vetch to reach. He heaved the saddle off the rack, taking care not to tangle the straps. He remembered how it had lain on the dragon’s back, just in front of the wings; he thought he remembered how all of the straps buckled. He manhandled
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