it to cool before biting off a mouthful.
'It isn't that they're the masters either. It's more complicated than that.' Baken took an empty beer jar from the table and brooded down at it. 'As I said, I've always been treated well; I don't think anyone ever realized how I feel. As I'm sure you've noticed, no one ever pays any attention to the feelings of serfs and slaves.'
Vetch waited, patient as a cat at a mouse-hole with only one entrance.
'What do you call a man who calls up his servants, has hunting birds brought out to him, takes one on his fist, unhoods and casts it, and basks in the admiration of his peers when it takes a fat duck?' Baken asked, after a time.
'Um—' Vetch replied, and shook his head. 'Um—a noble? A rich man?' he hazarded.
'Ah. Good answer. But not the one that makes me angry.' Baken's lip curled. 'You see, what he calls himself is 'falconer.' He has not caught the birds nor taken them at great hazard from the nest, scaling the cliffs to find them and bring them down. He has not tended them, he does not feed them, he has not trained them.' The bitterness in Baken's voice made Vetch blink in surprise. 'If the bird flies away, his wrath is only for the loss of a valuable possession, not because he is losing something he has invested a part of his life and self in. If it is recovered, he is pleased only because his possession is returned to him, not because he has gotten back something that is near as dear as a child. But the man who has done all those things, is all those things, is not called a 'falconer.' He is called slave, servant, and he has not even the right to challenge the master when the master says 'I will have this bird,' and he knows that the bird is not fit to fly that day.'
There was a story behind that—perhaps many. Vetch didn't want to know them. There was already enough pain in his own short life; he didn't want to add the burden of Baken's to his own. Already he had three people besides himself in his prayers—his father, Ari, and Avatre. If he added any more, the gods might begin to wonder what was wrong with him, that he assailed their ears with so many pleas.
'Now—at least there is a separate name for the man who takes a dragon who is cared for by someone else, trained by someone else—who mounts into the saddle and flies it off, caring nothing except that it do what it is trained to do and bring him glory,' Baken continued, his jaw rigid. 'And at least he is named for what he does, and not the good beast that he treats as he would a mere chariot.'
Vetch started, hearing his own thoughts echoed so exactly.
'He takes a creature that would, on its own, serve him in— say—hunting, and he turns it into a weapon, a horrible weapon, and exposes it to the spears and arrows of enemies with his only thought being where he would get another if this one fell.' Baken's gaze smoldered. 'And which of these Jousters truly knows his dragon, or has studied its ways and made it his friend, or has even cared for his own beast for so much as a day?'
'Ari has,' Vetch said, stoutly, raising his chin. 'Ari raised Kashet, trained him all by himself, and comes to be with him nearly every night. And he would tend Kashet himself, now, if he had the time. And he doesn't trust Kashet's care to just anyone either!'
Baken's rigid expression softened, and he patted Vetch on the head like a small child. Vetch bristled a little, but kept his resentment on a tight leash. To Baken, doubtless, he was a small child. That was the hazard of being so little. 'So I have been told, and see no reason to disbelieve it. So your Ari is a single paragon among the Jousters, as the Commander of Dragons is a paragon among the nobles, given that he has taken, cared for, and trained his own birds, dogs, and horses.' Now there was plain admiration in Baken's voice, and Vetch guessed that of all of Baken's masters or the men those masters consorted with, the Commander of Dragons had been the only one who had earned Baken's highest regard. 'Such men are worth serving, and serving well. Our Haraket is another such. But such men are few, and often given names they do not deserve, when they take the praise that is rightly given to men that they think beneath their notice.'
Oh, there are many stories there, Vetch thought, somberly, and now wanted to hear them even less. Stories—and heartbreak. And I have troubles of my own. 'Thank you for explaining,' he said, carefully. 'I—I won't tell anyone.'
Baken nodded, accepting his word. 'Now, that isn't the only reason why I wanted to see you,' he continued, his tone now so light, his expression so casual, that Vetch could hardly believe what he'd looked like mere moments before. 'I have need of your help, you see. I'm training one of the dragonets myself.'
Vetch blinked. 'You are?' That was unheard of! Trainers were trainers, and dragon boys—whether or not they were Haraket's assistants—were merely dragon boys, not to be entrusted with the training!
'Haraket wishes to see if my methods—things that I have learned from training both horses and falcons— produce a better beast than the methods used now,' Baken explained, with an ironic lift of his eyebrow. 'As I said, another remarkable man, our Overseer. He does not answer a question of 'why' with the answer 'because we have done it thus-and-so for ten hundred years'.'
Vetch stifled a laugh with his food.
'I need you, young Vetch, because you are four things. You are brave, you are agile, you know and like dragons, and you are small,' he continued. And smiled. 'And if you will agree to take time to help me, you will see why I need someone who is all these things.'
Vetch could ill spare the time—but—
But he was going to have to begin training Avatre himself in another moon. And if he could learn how to do
