He sounded dubious, which woke some smoldering resentment, but Vetch didn't have to be told what to do twice. The last proper bath he'd had was—
He cut off the unwanted memory—of washing off blood. His father's blood. .
It was enough that he would have a proper bath now.
He pulled off the rope belt and the rags, and hesitated with them in one hand. Surely he should wash them?
"Feh, boy, you don't think that's worth saving, do you?" Haraket barked with distaste. "Throw it there, and get on with it!"
He pointed to a rubbish pile, and not at all loath to rid himself of the rags, Vetch tossed them aside. He headed straight for the water jars and ladled dipperfuls of water over himself, scrubbing himself down with a handful of lye soap and a loofah sponge. And he scrubbed every inch of himself as well, fingernails, toenails, even his back, though the soap got in the cuts and stung until he had to bite his lip, trying to get stains off his legs, wishing he had a razor so he could shave his skull bare as his father had used to do for him…
He scrubbed himself twice over, rinsing himself with more water from the jars, and was about to start on a third round when Haraket grunted. "That'll do, boy. Any more, and you'll have the skin off. I want you clean, not raw."
Haraket tossed him a folded piece of cloth to dry himself with, then another bundle of fabric when he'd done with that; he caught it, and unfolded it to find, not just a loincloth, but a proper linen kilt, such as he had not worn in—
—in too long. Not since the moment he had been made a serf.
But he still remembered how to wrap a simple kilt, or his hands did, anyway. Then, skin tingling and arrayed in that real linen kilt of his own, he turned obediently to the Overseer for the expected inspection.
Haraket surveyed him, and nodded with satisfaction. "Not so bad," he said, with reluctant approval. "You clean up better than I'd have guessed. By the way, dragon boys don't wear sandals; you'd lose them in the sand wallows. From the look of your feet, they're tough enough. Now, turn your back to me."
Vetch did so, as Haraket got one of the jars of unguent from a shelf, and applied it generously to the whip marks.
And the pain vanished, replaced entirely by a cool tingling.
Vetch couldn't believe it, and as Haraket put the jar back on the shelf, he turned, wondering if he should thank the Overseer.
But Haraket forestalled him with a question. "Hungry?"
Vetch tried, tried so hard, not to look too eager, but—
—well, he was only a little boy, after all, and not too practiced in disguising his expression except by the simple expedient of staring at his feet. Haraket, for the first time that day, actually smiled.
"Now it is me who is the fool. Of course you are. You look like a sack of gnawed bones. Come along."
Haraket strode out of the bathing chamber and Vetch scrambled after him, beginning to feel very dazed by this marked change in his fortunes. This morning, he had been filthy, starving, and about to be beaten. Now he was clean, well-clothed, and so far, he hadn't encountered anyone who was likely to have as heavy a hand with the stick as Khefti.
"What's your name, boy?" the Overseer asked gruffly. "I can't keep calling you 'boy,' or I'll have half the compound answering when I shout at you."
"Vetch, sir," Vetch replied, taking two steps for every one of Haraket's.
"And who was your master, Vetch? Ari's going to want that assessor out on him by tomorrow, I expect, so I had better get that sorted by this afternoon." Haraket gave Vetch another of those sidelong looks. "That's what I'm for; seeing the tallies are all correct, all the chickens put to roost."
"Khefti-the-Fat, sir. He's a potter and brick maker with six apprentices, and he has a tala field outside his house in the village of Muasen—" for a moment, Vetch worried that this wouldn't be enough to identify his former master, but Haraket interrupted him.
"That's enough, Vetch. There can't be more than one fat potter with a tala field within a hop of Mefis. The King's assessor will find him."
And then, as Haraket turned to open yet another door and he followed, he discovered that he had been led straight into paradise.
Or if not quite paradise, it was as near as Vetch had ever been to it.
"Paradise" was a kitchen courtyard of lime-washed mud-brick walls, shaded from the pitiless sun by bleached canvas awnings strung between the courtyard walls, additionally supported by ropes crossing underneath them, tethered to the other walls. It was full of simple wooden benches and tables set with reed baskets heaped with bread, pottery jars of beer with the sides beaded with condensation, wooden platters of cheese, baked latas roots, and sweet onions. And little bowls of the juice and fat of roast duck, goose, and chicken, such as he had not tasted since the moment he became a serf. The aroma of all that food made him feel faint and dizzy again.
He stared at it, not daring to go near, hoping beyond hope that he would be allowed the remains whenever Haraket and the other masters were finished eating.
And then his stomach growled, and hurt so much it brought tears to his eyes for a moment. And the anger returned, anger at these arrogant Tians for making him stand in the presence of plenty that he wasn't to touch—
"Well, what are you waiting for, boy?" Haraket said impatiently. "Sit down! Eat! You do me no good by fainting from hunger!"
And he shoved Vetch forward with a hand between his shoulders, making it very clear that this was not some cruel joke.
Vetch stumbled toward the table and took a seat on the end of the nearest bench, hardly daring to believe what he'd heard.
He looked up at Haraket again, just to be sure. The Overseer made an abrupt gesture with one hand; Vetch took that as assent.
He managed, somehow, to react like a civilized and mannerly farm boy and not cram his mouth full with both his hands. It took all of the restraint he had learned at Khefti's hands, though, for the aromas filled his nose, and the nearest platter of loaves filled his sight, and his mouth was watering so much he had to keep swallowing or he'd drool like a hungry dog.
He took one of the little loaves though his hands shook, tore it neatly in half. Helped himself to a single piece of cheese, to latas and onion, and a small jar of beer. He laid all of this on the wooden table in front of him, and only then began eating; the taste of fresh bread nearly made him weep with pleasure. It was still warm from the oven, the crust crisp and not stale, the insides tender and not dry, and it was three times the size of his ration under Khefti. Then he dipped the other half of the bread in the rich fat, and took a bite, and did weep, for the taste exploded on his tongue, and with it came all the memories of what home on a feast day had been like…
He glanced back at Haraket, but the man was gone. Which meant—his mind reeled with the thought—which meant that he was expected to eat his fill, and no one would stop him!
But the memory of a day during the rains when he'd found a discarded basket of water-soaked loaves in the market warned him against gorging. That day had been a disaster; he'd eaten himself sick, and had spent a horrible night, stifling his groans as his belly ached. He'd gotten punished twice, in fact, once with a bellyache, and the next day when his exhaustion made him sluggish and he'd soon collected a set of stripes from Khefti. He would eat slowly, and yes, eat his fill (or as near as he was allowed) but he would not stuff himself, or he would be very sick, and his new masters would surely be angry at him. So far, no one had been ready to add to his stripes. He would not let his greed give them an opportunity.