Free Joust by Mercedes Lackey

it either. Unless—they might have other serfs here, or they might have him sleep with the slaves. That wouldn’t be bad. At least they wouldn’t have a reason to plague him.
    When he tipped out the last of the droppings on the pile, Haraket signed to him to leave the barrow over to one side of the room. “Someone else will clean the barrow. Now you have lessons that go along with tending your dragon. You’ll be seeing to Kashet’s harness and saddle, so now it’s time for you to begin to learn to clean and mend harness,” said Haraket, and led him off again into the maze of corridors.
    At the very edge of the area of the pens, just past the butchery, where pens and open courtyards gave way to real buildings with roofs and doors, was his next destination. Now that the noon meal was over, there was more activity here, and along the corridor marked by the sign of Teleth, the wise god of scribes and engravers, it now appeared that the doors there marked a series of workshops. This was where Haraket led Vetch, who was certain now that he could at least find his way back to Kashet’s pen from where he was.
    “Hu, Shobek,” Haraket called, pushing open a door to a dim room, full of shadows, that smelled of leather and leather oil. It was also full of dragon boys, presided over by a dour old man.
    “Hu, Haraket,” replied the old man, a thin and wiry individual with a leather cap fitted over his shaven skull. “The new one?”
    “The same,” Haraket replied, and before Vetch could ask anything, turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Vetch standing just inside the doorway.
    This time, it appeared, his work was to be accomplished under someone else’s supervision besides Haraket. The old man examined Vetch for a moment; the other dragon boys here were ranged in neat rows all down the room, each sitting cross-legged on a brown reed mat, each one with his hands full of some piece of harness or other leather work, head bent in concentration. Clearly this man Shobek had charge over them all, and enforced discipline completely. The other boys might glance up at Vetch, but it was a brief glance, and each one quickly returned his gaze to the work in his hands, lest the Overseer of this workshop catch him staring too long. The air was redolent with the pleasant smell of new leather, of leather oil, and of some spice he couldn’t identify.
    “Ever worked leather?” the old man growled. And when Vetch shook his head, he just sighed, as if he had not expected any other answer. “You are the newest and most ignorant of everyone here, boy,” the man said roughly. “You have a lot to learn, and you’d better make up your mind to learn it quickly. I’ll have no idlers in my workshop. Show me your hands.”
    Quickly, Vetch stretched out both his hands, grateful that he’d gotten that bath. His nails might be broken, his palms callused hard, but at least both were clean. The old man grunted.
    “Good. You’re no stranger to work. And you’ve got clever, small hands. I can make some use of you now, so mind what you’re told, for I won’t tell you twice.”
    Within moments, Vetch was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat of his own, discharging the dirtiest job of all, that of cleaning the saddles.
    Old saddles, actually, with the leather cracking and going dry; evidently he wasn’t to be trusted yet with saddles that weren’t all but ruined.
    “No one is using these at the moment,” Shobek said, as he piled four of them beside Vetch’s mat. “Clean and get these fit to repair, and then I’ll put you on Kashet’s spare harnesses.”
    As Shobek instructed him, he was relieved to find that there was not much that was going to be difficult about this job. His first job was to clean the saddles, using some concoction in a pottery jar, his second, to oil, and try and revive the elderly leather by rubbing in a compound of wax and tallow, with precious myrrh added to give it fragrance.
    And it was myrrh that his nose had