master, but Haraket interrupted him.
'That's enough, Vetch. There can't be more than one fat potter with a tala field within a hop of Mefis. The King's assessor will find him.'
And then, as Haraket turned to open yet another door and he followed, he discovered that he had been led straight into paradise.
Or if not quite paradise, it was as near as Vetch had ever been to it.
'Paradise' was a kitchen courtyard of lime-washed mud-brick walls, shaded from the pitiless sun by bleached canvas awnings strung between the courtyard walls, additionally supported by ropes crossing underneath them, tethered to the other walls. It was full of simple wooden benches and tables set with reed baskets heaped with bread, pottery jars of beer with the sides beaded with condensation, wooden platters of cheese, baked latas roots, and sweet onions. And little bowls of the juice and fat of roast duck, goose, and chicken, such as he had not tasted since the moment he became a serf. The aroma of all that food made him feel faint and dizzy again.
He stared at it, not daring to go near, hoping beyond hope that he would be allowed the remains whenever Haraket and the other masters were finished eating.
And then his stomach growled, and hurt so much it brought tears to his eyes for a moment. And the anger returned, anger at these arrogant Tians for making him stand in the presence of plenty that he wasn't to touch—
'Well, what are you waiting for, boy?' Haraket said impatiently. 'Sit down! Eat! You do me no good by fainting from hunger!'
And he shoved Vetch forward with a hand between his shoulders, making it very clear that this was not some cruel joke.
Vetch stumbled toward the table and took a seat on the end of the nearest bench, hardly daring to believe what he'd heard.
He looked up at Haraket again, just to be sure. The Overseer made an abrupt gesture with one hand; Vetch took that as assent.
He managed, somehow, to react like a civilized and mannerly farm boy and not cram his mouth full with both his hands. It took all of the restraint he had learned at Khefti's hands, though, for the aromas filled his nose, and the nearest platter of loaves filled his sight, and his mouth was watering so much he had to keep swallowing or he'd drool like a hungry dog.
He took one of the little loaves though his hands shook, tore it neatly in half. Helped himself to a single piece of cheese, to latas and onion, and a small jar of beer. He laid all of this on the wooden table in front of him, and only then began eating; the taste of fresh bread nearly made him weep with pleasure. It was still warm from the oven, the crust crisp and not stale, the insides tender and not dry, and it was three times the size of his ration under Khefti. Then he dipped the other half of the bread in the rich fat, and took a bite, and did weep, for the taste exploded on his tongue, and with it came all the memories of what home on a feast day had been like…
He glanced back at Haraket, but the man was gone. Which meant—his mind reeled with the thought—which meant that he was expected to eat his fill, and no one would stop him!
But the memory of a day during the rains when he'd found a discarded basket of water-soaked loaves in the market warned him against gorging. That day had been a disaster; he'd eaten himself sick, and had spent a horrible night, stifling his groans as his belly ached. He'd gotten punished twice, in fact, once with a bellyache, and the next day when his exhaustion made him sluggish and he'd soon collected a set of stripes from Khefti. He would eat slowly, and yes, eat his fill (or as near as he was allowed) but he would not stuff himself, or he would be very sick, and his new masters would surely be angry at him. So far, no one had been ready to add to his stripes. He would not let his greed give them an opportunity.
When he'd finished the first round of bread, he started on the cheese and onions, and about that point, the other dragon boys started coming in.
A group of four came in together, chattering away. Like him, all were clothed in simple linen kilts and barefoot. Like Haraket, all wore a hawk-eye talisman at their throats. They were older, taller and stronger than Vetch was, though; and well-fed, and moving with the kind of casual freedom that no serf or slave ever displayed. And unlike him, if their hair wasn't cut short, their heads were shaved altogether. That was the mark of an Allan serf; long, unbarbered hair, like some wild barbarian tribesman from the desert, like one of the Bedu, the nomads who had no king, only tribal rulers. Tians, the masters, shaved their heads, or trimmed their hair at chin length.
He made himself as small as he could on the bench.
They stopped dead at the sight of him, and eyed him with curiosity. 'Who's that?' one asked of the largest of the four.
'Kashet's boy,' said the other, with a knowing glance. 'I heard Jouster Ari brought in a serf over his saddle bow that he'd decided to make into his new dragon boy.'
'Huh,' the first replied, and looked down his long nose at Vetch, his black eyes narrowing with superior
