And damned if he would ask anything of any of them. But by the time he was settled here, their Jousters would be asking them, 'Why can't you be like Kashet's boy?'
After breakfast, he trailed behind the others, having gathered from what he overheard that it was time to get a bath and a new kilt. They all went straight to the same bathing room where Haraket had taken him when he first arrived. He debated loitering until the others were done, then decided to edge inside and hope they ignored him.
They did; and despite some horseplay and a little shoving amongst themselves, the presence of another adult Overseer who was handing out clean, white-linen kilts and inspecting the boys for cleanliness must have kept them on good behavior. He did loiter just long enough for the greater part of them to clear out, taking the opportunity to scrub himself really well, much to the evident satisfaction of the watching Overseer. 'Very good,' the man said, as he handed Vetch a loincloth, a kilt and a leather thong with the glazed-faience talisman of a hawk eye on it that he had seen around everyone else's neck here. 'Kashet's boy, aren't you? Jouster Ari is a stickler for cleanliness; I'm pleased to see that you are, as well.'
'Yes, sir,' Vetch replied, and ventured, 'Could someone cut my hair, sir?' He didn't mean to cut it off, of course, but he hoped it might be trimmed up a bit…
Evidently he wasn't even to be allowed that much.
'You're not freeborn, boy,' the Overseer rebuked him. 'But— here—' He handed Vetch a coarse shell comb and another bit of leather thong, and at least Vetch was able to get the knots out of his hair for the first time in months and months, and braid it.
He handed the comb back to the Overseer, who stowed it away, wishing he could shave his head altogether. But only a free-born boy could shave his head and wear a wig; a serf was branded as such by his own hair, long and uncut. It was the easiest and cheapest way to mark a serf. Shaving took time, the resource of a good, sharp razor, and had to be done every day.
Hair damp, freshly kilted, wearing the glazed hawk-eye talisman, he followed in the wake of the last of the boys, knowing there were other chores that needed doing between now and when the dragons returned. So long as the others didn't notice his presence—
He felt better with the hawk eye around his neck; such talismans kept the night-walking spirits away, and demons, as well as guarding him from the crocodiles of Great Mother River. It wasn't the talisman that he would have chosen—he'd have taken one of Nofret's stars, if he'd had a choice, or better still, the sun-disk of Hakat-Re— but it was good to have it. The talisman wasn't only for luck; it marked him, should he ever need to leave the compound, as a servant of the Jousters. No one would interfere with him while he was wearing it. No one who was not of the Jousters wore the hawk eye; if a talisman of the God Haras was wanted, it would be one of the God Himself.
And yes, he learned as he walked boldly behind the last three boys into yet another chamber, that there were plenty of tasks to be done. For the first time, he found himself taking a place among all of the other dragon boys, who were lined up in front of some racks of equipment.
This was yet another proper room, a large one, smelling of oil and fresh wood, and yet another Overseer, this one a hard-looking man of a kind with Haraket, only leaner. This room was lined with rack upon rack of the lances that all Jousters used.
The Overseer intercepted him as he entered the doorway, stopping him by the simple expedient of stretching his arm out to keep Vetch from passing. 'Jouster Ari's boy. Vetch—
Caught off-guard, he bobbed his head nervously. 'Yes, sir,' he managed.
'This way.' He pulled Vetch off to the side, with one hard hand on his shoulder. He stationed Vetch in front of a rack of lances. Vetch could feel the eyes of every boy in the chamber on him, and it was all he could do to keep from cringing. He reminded himself of their scorn, and of his vow to be better than any of them. He would prove that an Altan was better than any two Tians put together!
He fastened his gaze on the rack of weapons, as he was no doubt intended to do. Now, except for that mashed lance of Ari's which had hardly been recognizable as such, this was the first time that Vetch had ever seen these lances up close, and much to his surprise, they appeared to be made, not of wood, but of bundles of reeds or papyrus somehow bound and glued together into a whole. The surface was very shiny, the bindings of linen thread wrapped in intricate patterns and varnished into place with a lacquer that turned everything shiny gold.
'Vetch, this is important; I want you to check each one of these. Because this is your first time here, I've set this up as a learning exercise. I put some damaged ones in this rack to show you what to look for and how to check the lances for breakage and weak spots. Here; this is a good one.' He thrust the lance, which was just a little longer than he was tall, into Vetch's hands. It was astonishingly light, and even more astonishingly strong. 'First, flex it, like this—' he gestured with his hands to illustrate, and Vetch tried. Another surprise; the thing was springy, much more so than wood. And strong.
'You feel that? That's how a good lance should behave. If it doesn't flex like that, it's gone dead; toss it.' He handed Vetch a 'dead' lance, which had nothing like the flexion of the first; after trying it, Vetch obediently tossed it onto a pile of other discards.
Behind him, he heard the other boys at work at their own racks; presumably they already knew what they were doing.
