Learn quickly, he reminded himself.
The Overseer showed Vetch other defects to look for; broken tips—they weren't so much broken as crushed—weakened spots, which were soft and gave when poked, lances gone out of true. So this was one of the important jobs of the morning, and Vetch could see why it was vital.
He could figure out why the lances would have broken or had gotten weak places by himself; after all, the lances weren't for show, the Jousters used them to fight with. But he couldn't reckon why they'd go dead, or out of true. Well, that wasn't his job. His job was to pull them off the racks when they did. There were a lot of lances, and each one had to be inspected minutely. Furthermore, every boy had to inspect every lance that passed, and the Overseer followed behind them inspecting every one that they all passed, sometimes discarding one for no reason that Vetch could fathom. Perhaps it had something to do with magic. Perhaps it had more to do with caution and experience. A Jouster's life could depend on his lance, and whether or not it held up in combat. It didn't take long, but by having the boys look the weapons over and discard the ones with obvious flaws, it surely must save the Overseer a great deal of time.
When they were all done with the lances for the day, they filed off in a group for another task that required all their hands. He trailed along behind, not too close, not so far that he would lose them at a turning. They ignored him.
This one took them to a huge walled court, filled with coarse linen cloths, loosely woven, stretched over frames that were held above the ground on wooden legs, at about the same height as a sleeping couch. And on the linen cloths, were the very familiar yellow-green, rounded shapes of ripened tala fruit.
This time he didn't have to be told what to do; a farmer's child knew drying racks when he saw them. He went straight to the baskets of tala waiting to be spread out on the racks, and took one to the nearest empty cloth waiting to be filled.
Not hard or difficult work, but it was hot out here, and the sun bore down on him without mercy. Nor was his task over when the last of the fruits were spread out on the linen; then he must go to the other racks to turn the fruits so that they dried evenly. Each thumb-sized fruit had to be turned by hand, of course; a rake would have damaged the coarsely-woven sheets.
That wasn't the end of his involvement with the tala either. Next he was sent with a dozen of the others to pound tala berries that were fully dried into the familiar powder that was mixed with the meat. Each of them stood at a heavy stone mortar the size of a bucket. The mortars stood on the floor in a row, each with a wooden pestle as tall as he was waiting in it, ready to make the tala into the form in which it controlled the dragons.
He was no stranger to grinding things either; when you were a serf, tending the land, you either ground the grain you were allowed to glean after the harvest into flour for yourself, or you did without bread. The scent of the tala filled the air, green and bitter, a little like gall, but without the acrid aftertaste. He pounded the pestle into the stone mortar at his feet in rhythm with the other boys, thinking as he did so that this was not as bad as it might have been. They were allowed to take a break for a drink of cool water from jars along the wall whenever they needed one, which was far more than Khefti had ever allowed, and although the drying chamber was in full sun, the mortars were ranged under shade. No, this was not as bad as it could have been, though the other boys complained loudly that they were ill-used. He simply set himself to produce more of the powder than any of them.
Then, at long last, when even his work-toughened arms were tired, came lunch.
He was more thirsty than hungry, and drank an entire jar of beer before he even touched a bite of food. While he drank it, though, he kept his eyes on the table in front of him, but kept his ears open wide.
'Going to come fishing with us after supper, Hafer?' asked one of the boys whose piping soprano betrayed that he could not be too much older than Vetch.
'Not unless you can promise more sport than last time,' Hafer replied. 'Joset and Mata are going bird hunting, and said they'd take me along to hold their throwing sticks. They almost always get ducks.' He smacked his lips ostentatiously.
But the other boy only laughed. 'Ducks! Nasty little mud hens, more like! You can have my share! Grilled fish, now that's more what I like.'
For a moment he was surprised, but then he realized that of course fish would be a rarity on the table here, despite the abundance of other luxuries. You couldn't sacrifice a fish to the gods, after all. So what was common fare for practically anyone else with the time to spend on the river was a treat for the dragon boys.
A discussion of the superiority of grilling over coals versus baking in mud ensued, and when another conversation caught his ear, held in the deeper voices of a couple of older boys, he switched his attention to that.
—and I've two copper coins, which ought to be plenty,' one said. 'You can drink like the Great King himself at Neferetu's beer shop on two coppers.'
'Your Jouster won't care if you go into Mefis to spend it?' the speaker sounded envious. 'Mine's afraid if I go into the city, I'll decide this is too tame a life. He doesn't mind my hunting and fishing, but—
—but carousing in beer shops is out of bounds, eh? Worse luck for you!' Out of the corner of his eye, Vetch saw one of the older boys slap the shoulder of the other in a gesture of commiseration.
Well, after yesterday, he knew where they got the money to spend. Fortunate creatures. Dragon boys
