were all new to Vetch, and they didn't know him from any of the new serf boys. He probably would have missed his friendly serving woman more than he did, but by the time he sat down to dinner, he was usually so tired he could hardly think.
Still, when he took his place in that out-of-the-way corner tonight, he wished she would move to doing the late serving. The slave who left him a jar of beer and a platter of bread did so without even looking at him. He sighed, reached for a loaf, and tore off a piece with his fingers, hoping that there was someone still grilling fresh meat, and he'd get a plate of that, instead of cold leftovers. And that thought made him realize just how far he'd come. Last year at this time, he'd have done nearly anything for a scrap of meat, burned hard enough to need pounding between two rocks before he could actually eat it!
A shadow fell over his table; a tall one. He looked up.
'Well, Vetch,' said an unsmiling Baken. The slave must have just gotten a bath; his hair was wet, and slicked neatly back, his hands were clean, his kilt fresh. Vetch noted without surprise that Baken wore a hawk-eye talisman made, not of the usual pottery, but one like Haraket sported, cast from silver and inlaid with enamel. Never had it been so obvious that Baken was not from Tia—he had a Tian's black hair, but it was curly, and not all the water in the world could make it lie straight on his head. His eyes were a disconcerting blue, and his complexion, beneath his tan, was a fine olive-color rather than Tian bronze or Altan ivory. His features were mathematically symmetrical; deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, small nose, generous mouth, chiseled chin with a cleft in it. Definitely not Tian, nor Altan.
Vetch blinked at him, taken by surprise by the young man's appearance at his table. 'Well,' he replied, not knowing what else to say. Baken seemed to take that as an invitation to sit down, because he did so, sliding onto the bench opposite Vetch's.
'So, you're Kashet's boy, I'm told,' the young man said, taking a small loaf, but just holding it in his hands, rather than tearing it open to eat it. 'You're the serf. The first serf to be made a dragon boy. The one that gave serfs a good reputation as dragon boys.'
Vetch nodded warily. What was this leading up to? Did he have something against serfs?
'So it's largely thanks to you that I'm here at all.' Baken regarded him steadily, the torchlight in the court illuminating only one side of his face, and once again Vetch nodded, feeling even more alarmed.
'So why do you hate me?' Baken asked, as calmly as if he was asking why Vetch was eating bread instead of an onion.
Vetch started. 'I—I don't hate you,' Vetch protested, feeling horribly guilty, and caught completely off-guard by the unexpected question.
'Then in that case, just what is it that makes your eyes go so dark and angry when you see me?' Baken persisted, pressing his advantage like a hunting cat trying to flush a pigeon, and with every bit of that intensity. 'I'd like to know. I don't make enemies, and if someone has decided on his own that he wants to be my enemy, I want to know why.'
Since Vetch had thought he was keeping his feelings securely to himself, Baken's accusation made him tense and nervous. What else wasn't he keeping secret? And why was Baken confronting him about this, anyway? It wasn't as if he was trying to make himself into Baken's rival. He didn't want to be Haraket's assistant—he didn't even want to be here! 'I'm not your enemy,' he said brusquely, looking away. 'I don't wish you ill. How could I? You take better care of the dragons than anybody but me!'
Baken's head lifted at that, like a hound on a scent, and Vetch felt another pang of alarm. Now what had he given away? 'Anybody but you. Is that jealousy I hear?'
'No!' Vetch snapped. Then honesty drove the truth out of him. 'Well—not jealousy. Envy.'
Baken's eyes lit, and he nodded; at that moment, he looked like one of the falcons he had once taken care of, with prey in sight. And Vetch already knew what prey felt like; it was a familiar sensation, a helplessness that—oh, yes—he was certainly feeling now. 'Ah… envy. Let me see—what have you learned or seen or heard that could possibly make you envious of me? I'm not your rival for Kashet. Jouster Ari would never accept another boy even if Kashet might. You're far too young to consider yourself as a potential assistant to Haraket, but Haraket offered me a great deal else besides that position…'
Vetch winced a little at the mention of Haraket's promises, and the falcon stooped on the prey that had just been flushed before its eager eyes.
'Ah. I see. In that case—would it be that promise of freedom that Lord Haraket made me?'
Freedom. Vetch felt his gut twist up inside him, and he set the bread aside, uneaten. Why was Baken tormenting him like this? It wasn't fair! 'Yes,' he replied, biting off the word, making it a challenge. Leave me alone! he thought angrily. Why twist the knife in the wound? What have I done to you to deserve this?
The falcon looked at the prey in its claws—and then, unexpectedly opened its grip. Baken sighed, relaxed, and shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Vetch,' he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. 'I can't help what I am, nor what you are. When a slave is offered freedom, well—
'I'm more of a slave than you are, or ever could be,' Vetch grated. 'A serf is less than a slave, for all that the masters pretend otherwise. I don't hate you, but don't expect me to love you for it either.'
