Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles (11 page)

“More like five times as big. Let me do the math on it,“ Alain said, kicking the kite, obviously intrigued by the problem.

“Nobody is building another death machine,” Tam said firmly. “This is our last day on Maintenance duty. I’ve pulled a few strings. We start stable duty the day after Restday.”

The Pack turned and stared at him, speechless.

“You are kidding, right?” Alain breathed out in disbelief. “You want us to muck out the stables for a week?”

“This is your surprise?” Megan asked in horror. “Punishment duty?”

Tam shook his head in frustration. This was obviously not going the way he had intended.

“Just because you don’t like to do things doesn’t make it a punishment. Stable duty is a sought after vocation. The apprenticeship spots are hard to get. You have to show real talent for handling animals. I thought that if Cheobawn could not have a pet, then maybe she could have the next best thing and learn to work with the fenelk.”

“I wanted something to sleep with,” Cheobawn said faintly, horrified that he thought a beast the size of a small hut could be any substitute for a dog. Alain sniggered.

“They have nasty tempers and their feet are twice as big as her head. She is going to get squished, for sure,” Connor said in delighted anticipation. Cheobawn punched him in the shoulder. Tam scowled, ignoring them all.

“I talked to Vinara, the head drover. I told her Megan was interested in becoming a drover. They just started training a new group of apprentices so she said we can audit the sessions to see if animal husbandry was a specialty we wanted to study.”

“Only girls can become drovers. What are we supposed to do while the girls learn how to ride?” Alain asked, acidly.

“I don’t even like fenelk,“ Megan said, to no one in particular.

“There is more to stable duty than just riding,” Tam said, his growing annoyance apparent in his voice.

“Yeah? Like what?” asked Connor.

“Like … Tell you what. Why don’t you look it up for yourselves. You’ve got two and a half days. Study up on the subject of caravans, fenelk, and proper ways to load pack saddles in your spare time so you don’t all come off looking like a bunch of bubble heads come Firstday.”

With that Tam turned and stalked back towards the North Gate, muttering under his breath. Connor scampered after him. Megan shrugged fatalistically and fell in step behind them. She had learned to pick her battles with Tam in the last year. This was obviously one she did not think she could win.

Cheobawn watched them leave and then looked forlornly down at her wing. It really had worked. Now she would have no chance to prove it. Why would no one ever listen to her? She nudged it with her toe, trying really hard not to be angry about the unfairness of the whole affair. Being the youngest and the smallest was sometimes more burden than benefit.

Alain joined her, studying the kite.

“The way the struts popped open, right there at the end, that was brilliant. Did you think that up all on your own?” he asked, stooping down to spread the wing between his fingers. “Too bad the silk tore.”

“It would have been fine if I hadn’t used it as a landing pad,” she said, annoyed with herself.

Alain gathered the kite up, folding the struts back against each other, moving them slowly so as not to trigger the memory steel, being careful of the broken section. He stood, tucking it under his arm and then held out his hand to Cheobawn. Cheobawn scowled up at him but finally relented and took his hand.

“Do you mind if I take this and study it? I am suddenly inspired to learn about airfoils.”

“Whatever,” Cheobawn said, scuffing her toes in the fine dust. She was trying hard not to feel offended by Tam’s brutish manners but was not very successful.

“He thought it would please you, the stable duty,” Alain said softly as they walked slowly back to the dome.

“Yeah? I’ll bet he thinks I should act grateful even if I am not.” she growled. Alain was silent for a moment, perhaps not wishing to annoy her further. He finally broke the silence as they approached the gate.

“Zeff’s dog, Lady, likes to catch the little treehoppers,” Alain mused.

“Huh? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. It’s just that she likes to bring them back to Zeff, sometimes alive, sometimes half eaten. She puts them at his feet. Zeff says she is trying to teach him to hunt because she thinks he is a little slow when it comes to catching his own dinner. He never yells at her. He just thanks her kindly and then disposes of the bodies when she is not looking.”

Cheobawn scowled at the ground, digesting this. Alain was still talking about Tam, it seemed.

“So I am to pretend I like the gift while I suffer in silence?” she asked doubtfully.

“Perhaps. But Tam is not a dog. Instead of yelling about what you don’t like, maybe you should let him know what would please you more so that next time he wants to shower you with gifts he will be closer to the mark.”

Cheobawn cocked her head, listening to the possibilities behind this suggestion. Were all Packs like this, everyone dancing around each other, trying to create good feelings without triggering the bad? She only had intimate knowledge of Mora’s Pack. That was not a good example, what with Mora being bossy and Hayrald having to obey her. A thought sucked the breath out of her lungs. Would she and Tam become like Mora and Hayrald when they got old? Cheobawn pressed her lips together, wishing with all her might that would not come to pass.

Chapter Ten

On Firstday, after the Pack had seen to their chores, lessons, training, and practice sessions and Cheobawn had done the same with her class of the underagers, they all met up in the Common Room for lunch. The older children were halfway through lunch when Cheobawn filled up her plate in the serving line and then slid, breathless, onto the bench next to Alain. Without any preamble, she shoved a whole fruit tart into her mouth.

“Pie is for dessert. Eat your meat first,” Megan sighed in exasperation.

“Mmmph,” Cheobawn said, picking up another pie as she chewed and swallowed.

“They aren’t as good cold,” Connor interpreted for her, taking a bite out of one of his own. Purple juice ran down his chin. “Ya gotta eat them while the innards are still hot and runny to get the full effect.”

Cheobawn gulped down her pie and grinned a purple grin at him. Connor giggled.

“I love berry season. Nedella bakes the best pies,” Cheobawn said, taking a deep sniff of the pie in her hand. “It will be Darknight Eve before we see berry pies again. The Mothers hoard the preserves in the lock boxes in the Pantries and only bring them out for feast days.”

“Good thing. You little kids would just eat them until you got sick,” Tam observed, as he polished off his third roll after cleaning up the gravy on his plate with it.

“Who are you calling little?” growled Connor, waving his fork in a very aggressive manner.

His timing was unfortunate. Nedella, who happened to be passing by on one of her many surveys of the dinning room, stopped and flicked Connor in the ear with a finger. Connor yelped. Cheobawn blinked in surprise. She had not heard her coming nor had she been aware of the Master chef’s presence until the last moment. It was almost magical, the stealth by which the tall Mother navigated her domain. To Cheobawn, it was one of her most admirable qualities, taking second only to her berry tarts.

“None of that in my dinning room, Little Father. Mind your manners. Animals eat out back and don’t get dessert, as you may well remember,” Nedella said sternly.

“Thank you, Mother,” Tam said as Connor rubbed his abused ear. “I have a hard time keeping the young ones in line.” He sounded like an oldpa. Cheobawn ducked her head down and tried not to giggle until Nedella had passed.

“I see you, Cheobawn,” Nedella growled “Don’t be giving me any of your airs. I’ve seen you eat when Mora isn’t around, like the food is going to get up and run away if you don’t shove it in fast enough. You’d think Mora starved you which I know is not true. You better listen to your Alpha if you want to make your Pack proud.”

Cheobawn sat up straight, threw her shoulders back, and tried to make sure her elbows were nowhere near the edge of the table as she blinked innocently at the scowling cook.

“Yes, Mother, I will try to do better. Thank you for the reminder,” she said politely. She knew she had the tone and the facial expression just right. It helped to practice in front of the mirror, saying the words over and over again. That phrase had gotten her out of many a sticky situation with an Elder.

Nedella scowled down at all their cherubic smiles, not fooled in the least. “Gah! Enough. Finish up. Serving line closes in ten minutes. Don’t you have lessons or work details you need to be at?”

With that parting shot, Nedella sailed gracefully away, her skirts swaying gently, her slippers sliding silently over the highly polished stone floor, pausing occasionally to swipe her ever present dish towel over the already pristine tables. Nedella’s apprentices would not have dared to leave so much as a fingerprint for her to find. She was a tough taskmaster, having no tolerance for fools. Which made the fact that there was a waiting list to get into her apprenticeship spots all the more puzzling. Cheobawn stared after the tall Mother, deep in thought, her lunch forgotten.

Tam glanced up at the chronometer on the wall.

“Move it,” he said, gathering up his tray. “We need to be in the stables by last bell. What do we all know about fenelk that we didn’t know before?”

Connor jumped up with his tray and fell into step behind Tam. “They weigh around two tons and stand as tall as two grown men at the shoulder. You can’t ride one without a strong psi connection which is why girls become drovers. Boys become wranglers because the wranglers have to be big and strong to get the packs and saddles on them,” he said enthusiastically.

“The healers cut off their dew claws at birth and remove the tusks and antlers when they are yearlings to keep them from killing their drovers by accident,” Alain added. “Being a drover used to be a lot more dangerous than it is now. The mortality rate was …”

“Alain,” Tam growled, flicking his eyes towards Megan. Megan scowled at both of them.

“The surgery is more to protect them from themselves in the close working conditions of the caravans,” she said, unfazed by Alain’s bloodthirsty admiration. “It is far more dangerous being a wrangler, because you have to work under their bellies, closer to the hind claws. Drovers are very rarely injured. Their psi link with their animals prevents it. Fenelk measure 3 : 3 on the psionic scales, receiving being about equal to sending. Not great but enough to establish a link so the drovers can get them to behave. Drover training involves classes in advanced meditation and visualization.”

They dumped their trays and slid them into the wash bin slot. Cheobawn shoved the last couple of meat balls into her mouth and grabbed her roll before following behind. Tam looked back at her, waiting expectantly.

“What?” she said around a mouthful of meat and bread.

“Fenelk? You did study, right?”

Cheobawn chewed slowly, stalling for time. Truth be told, she did not find fenelk that interesting. The domesticated ones, at least. The wild ones, out on the mountain, had minds filled with the simple pleasures of wandering the forests in search of grazing. Sometimes a predator would try to take one down but but few were big enough or stupid enough to want to brave two tons of enraged flesh armed with all sorts of horns, tusks, and claws. Even fuzzy gangs, the swarms of tiny animals that were no more than balls of fur with teeth, were leery of them and would only take a fenelk on if there was nothing else available. In the fall, the high meadows would ring with the bugling calls of the males, their minds gone all foggy with their hunger for a herd of females to boss around and protect against all rivals. She would listen to them, lying in her bed at night, until their minds grew dark with exhaustion.

By comparison the caravan fenelk were just plain boring. They were all female, for one thing. The Fathers would ride out in the spring to capture a bull. The healers would milk him of his seed before releasing him back into the wild. The closest the dull minded domestic animals came to the pleasure of the rut was having the drovers insert the semen capsules, after Amabel injected them to counteract the anti-birth drugs that stopped their estrous cycles, a process she had witnessed in confused horror when she was four, while Amabel and Mora chatted on about the finer points of breeding over her head.

No, fenelk were not fun. The stables hung in the ambient like a mind numbing vacuous void of mild contentment. Cheobawn suspected that if she opened up the gates in an attempt to set them free, they would ignore her and continue chewing with their noses buried in their mangers.

Tam cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. Alain nodded encouragingly behind his back as if to remind her of something. Cheobawn swallowed the wad of food in her mouth, reaching for something – anything - to say.

“Uh, one of the fenelk has toe rot. Vinara is worried about it. She doesn’t want to have to put it down because it is pregnant with twins. One of the fetuses is male. I don’t know why. Amabel usually makes sure the calves are female. Perhaps she is trying to breed a more docile bull. Vinara’s Pack brought in a fresh remuda from the high meadows. The tame ones talk to the wild ones, out there. They remember they were once free, hundreds of generations ago which makes them forget they are tame. They set the others off when they bring them in for caravan and everyone begins to misbehave. One of the wranglers got stepped on this morning. He is in the infirmary. He might lose a few toes.”

Her Pack stared at her for a moment, digesting this information.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Tam said, with an enigmatic nod, “but good information to have. Let’s go.”

He jogged them across the plaza and down the avenue towards the South Gate, only stopping at the changing room to replace their village slippers with sturdy, hard-toed work boots.