'The other dragons all get tala mixed with their meat at every meal; make sure you never get one of those barrows,' Haraket cautioned. 'Kashet is never to have tala. Not even at morning feed—and believe me, when you see the others snapping at their boys, you'll be grateful that you've got Kashet, and not mind the extra work he makes for you. Maybe the other boys will have less work than you, but yours will be easier. And Ari's a good master.'
With Kashet fed and digging himself a hollow in the sand in which to sleep, Haraket gave Vetch a grudging smile.
'All right, serf boy,' he said gruffly. 'You've done as well as anyone else his first day. You're finished until morning. Go back to the kitchen and get your supper, and you're free to do whatever you wish until dawn. You'll sleep on a pallet in here with Kashet, though, and not with the other boys. Ari's particular about Kashet, and he wants someone with him all the time.'
'Yes, sir,' Vetch said feeling that for once he'd encountered Tians who deserved being called 'sir.'
And he was going to sleep here, away from the other boys— potential tormentors. He felt another burden of worry ease away from him.
'You're how old, boy?' Haraket demanded suddenly. 'And what in Tophet were you before you were bound to the land?'
'Ten or eleven, sir, though I'm not sure.' He'd lost track of the seasons, really, it wasn't hard to do so when your days were exhausting and the work never ending. 'Maybe older.' Maybe much older, but he wasn't going to say that. Much older, and he might be deemed too old for this task. 'My father was a farmer,' Vetch stammered, surprised by the abrupt demand. Masters did not, in his experience, give a toss about how old you were, or what you'd been when you were free.
'Not too old, not too young. Good.' Haraket nodded. 'Right. Off with you; get that dinner. I'll have the pallet brought here for you; it will be waiting for you when you're ready to sleep.' With that, he left Vetch at the door to Kashet's pen, stalking off with his long, ground-eating strides. Vetch gathered his courage, and looked for the kitchen.
By now, he had a rough map of the place in his mind, and he found the kitchen by dead reckoning and following his nose. This time he was not the first one to reach the place. There were other boys there already, but they were largely too full of themselves and their doings to pay much attention to him, particularly as he settled himself at a table out of their way.
The sun was just setting, and torches were being lit, so he was left to himself at first. But there was already food on the table, as before, so he didn't mind. Wonderful bread, stewed greens and fresh onions, boiled latas roots; all of it fresh and cooked well, not burned, not left over. There were more little bowls of fat, too, for dipping bread into, and a spiced paste of ground chickpeas. Eventually one of the girls serving drink noticed him. She slapped down a pottery jar of beer in front of him in an absentminded sort of way and nodded to another, who left him a hot terra-cotta bowl of pottage. Then, as he was scooping up pottage in pieces torn from a piece of flatbread, came the surprise.
Because the next thing that was left at his table was a plate full of meat.
Now, Vetch hadn't had meat in—well, longer than he could remember, because even a farmer as his father had been didn't slaughter his animals very often. In fact, the meat he'd gotten most often had been wild duck, goose, and hare, except on one memorable occasion when someone's ox had broken a leg, and the whole village had a feast before the meat went bad.
This was a whole platter of sliced beef, cooked until it was just barely pink, and oozing juices. He stared at it dumbfounded. Why, this was the sort of thing that only rich men ate at dinner!
But then it dawned on him why they all got meat—all the sacrifices from the Temples, of course! And why not? Compared to what the dragons ate, the amount of meat that would be cooked and served at a single meal was trivial. So why shouldn't the Jousters and their staff share in the bounty?
Nevertheless, Vetch wasted no time in helping himself, tearing the slices apart with his fingers. He stuffed the first bite into his mouth, and closed his eyes in purest pleasure.
This wasn't like that long-remembered stewed beef. This was better; incomparably, amazingly better! The salt-sweet meat practically melted on his tongue, bombarding him with a savory complex of flavors that made his toes curl with delight.
Well, and of course it was better—you didn't offer the gods your old, work-worn ox or a cow aged and tough with bearing calves and producing milk! You brought the gods a fine, young bull or heifer, or even a tender calf. You'd be stupid to do otherwise! The best of the best came to the gods, who drank in the blood and the essence, which left all that perfectly wonderful meat for mortal enjoyment.
If this was what the dragon boys and other slaves and servants got who were last on the chain—after the priests had taken their pick, then the Jousters, then the dragons—what must the priests be feasting on every night?
No wonder no one ever sees a skinny priest…
But there; it was dangerous, serving the gods. Sometimes it was deemed necessary that someone go to serve them in person… then there would be a sacrifice that would not be passed on to the Jousters'
