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fact, he was not inclined to farm at all. He wished to enlarge his fortunes by becoming an absentee landlord.
    This had resulted in the actual dispersal of all of the remaining members of Vetch’s family—his three sisters, mother, and grandmother. Khefti kept only Vetch. What happened to the rest of them, Vetch had no idea; Khefti had taken him to his own house in this village on the outskirts of Mefis, and had rented out Vetch’s home and its tiny garden to yet another Tian. Taken was perhaps too mild a word; Vetch had been dragged away from his family, literally kicking and screaming, as the girls were led away weeping by their new masters. Grandmother had given him a last look that told Vetch she knew that she would never see him again, then shuffled off after her new master, head bowed, with every fiber of her registering defeat. The last Vetch saw of his mother was a final glimpse of her collapsing to the earth. Then Khefti had begun beating him to make him stop screaming, which was the last thing that Vetch remembered before waking up to a bucket of water poured on his head and being tied to the back of Khefti’s cart to follow along as he could.
    Why Khefti had kept Vetch at all, the boy had no idea. Perhaps it had only been for the sake of the records; certainly a man with the look of a tax collector came every so often and Vetch was trotted out for his inspection. Perhaps in order to hold any land, you had to have at least one of the serfs that came with it.
    If that was true—then what would happen when he and his family were all dead? Vetch didn’t know that either. He didn’t really want to think about the alternative—that his sisters and his mother would become “breeding 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 perpetuate 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; they were tied to the land, 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