stock,' producing a bloodline linked to the property, to allow the new owners to hold it, giving them more hands to work it…
But why Khefti had decided to keep Vetch, rather than one of the girls or Vetch's mother—that was something only Khefti knew. Not that Vetch would have wanted to see his sisters or mother or grandmother under Khefti's untender care. No, better it was him, not them.
Better that Khefti hadn't gotten the idea to produce the bloodline…
Best of all that the need to keep a serf ended when the serf was dead. And perhaps that was why Khefti had kept Vetch; smallest of the lot, cheapest to keep, and likely the quickest to die of ill treatment. Too bad for Khefti, Vetch was tougher than he looked; he was never sick, no matter what trash Khefti fed him.
Vetch had never thought he would ever envy the lot of a slave, but he had learned better, under Khefti. For slaves, there was always the possibility of freedom; a master might free them at his death, or a slave might earn his freedom in some way. Not so for a serf; tied to the land they were, from birth to death, and tied to the master that owned the land. As property that could be bought and sold readily, slaves were as valuable as any other livestock. Not so for serfs; they came with the land, and one could not sell them without selling the land. Khefti could never realize a profit by having Vetch trained to some skill or great strength and selling him at a profit.
Khefti had no reason to do more than keep Vetch alive, and work him as hard as possible. Vetch would never be worth more to him than he was at this moment. And from the look on Khefti's face as he glared at a Vetch who was not at this moment working, his value had just dropped again.
Khefti had not seen the Jouster; he certainly hadn't seen the dragon. All he saw was Vetch, standing on the steps of the cistern with empty hands and no bucket in sight.
With an inarticulate roar, Khefti snatched up the little whip that never left his side, and descended on Vetch. For all his bulk, Khefti-the-Fat moved surprisingly fast; Vetch only had time enough to crouch down and cover his head with his hands when the quirt descended on his shoulders, leaving a stripe of fire across his back that made him gasp with pain.
Once. Twice. Vetch squeezed his eyes shut, ducked his head further, stuffed both hands in his mouth and bit his knuckles, strangling his cries with his hands. Khefti never delivered fewer than a dozen blows even at the best of times, but sooner or later he had to see the Jouster, and then he would stop, if only to gape in shock. If Vetch could just hold on without fainting until his master realized they were not alone—
But the third blow never came.
Vetch risked a glance backward over his shoulder, and saw, with astonishment, that the Jouster had caught the wrist of Khefti's whip hand and was holding it effortlessly at shoulder height. Never quick-witted, Khefti's expression was frozen between the moment of rage when his hand had been caught and the dawning realization of just who and what had stopped him from beating his property.
The Jouster's helmet concealed most of his face. Vetch could not see enough to read his expression.
But why had he stopped Khefti from striking?
'The boy is not at fault,' the Jouster said, in a mild voice, 'I took his bucket to quench my thirst. He could hardly take it away from me.'
Vetch's mouth dropped open with astonishment so great that the pain of his two stripes seemed to fade. The most he had hoped for was that Khefti would be too embarrassed to beat him in front of the Jouster, which would give Vetch a chance to explain himself. He had hardly thought the Jouster would take his part!
Khefti went red-faced and spluttering, but what could he say? Nothing, of course; the Jousters were a kind of nobility, and certainly outranked a mere tala farmer, potter, and brick maker. Nor would he dare do anything further to Vetch while the Jouster was there, since the Jouster had so forcibly expressed his disapproval.
Once he was gone, however, he would certainly extract a double dose of punishment out of Vetch, for having looked a fool in front of a Jouster. Unless—
Unless the Jouster continued to speak with his master. Then, perhaps Vetch could slip away, get the bucket, and go back to his task again while Khefti was talking to the Jouster. If Khefti saw that Vetch had run back to his appointed labors at the very first moment possible, he might feel the beating he'd already given Vetch was enough. Vetch kept one eye on them both, and eased one foot down the stair.
The dragon snorted again, and the Jouster looked up at it, then down at Khefti. 'From the look of things,' he continued, in that same mild voice, 'you've been abusing and neglecting the Great King's property. This boy looks half starved, half beaten, and treated like a masterless cur. You do remember, don't you, that serfs are the Great King's property, and not yours? Or is it possible you had forgotten that little detail?'
Khefti went from red to white, all the blood draining from his skin until he looked like an enormous damp, white grub.
The Jouster turned his gaze from Khefti to Vetch. 'I need a boy,' he said casually, as if it were no great importance to him. 'And if you're getting any amount of work from one that starved, he must be remarkable. I'll have him.'
