by Paul Chafe
Where to run? For an instant he considered the House of Victory. Kchula-Tzaatz himself would be there, with just a handful of retainers to guard him. If I can get to him I can challenge him to skatosh. He is old and slow, and when he is dead his forces must surrender. I can end this before it has truly begun. But Kchula-Tzaatz would have planned for that, and his brother the Black Priest was there, the most accomplished single-combat expert in the Patriarchy. If Pouncer challenged for single combat, Ftzaal-Tzaatz would stand for Kchula, and while Pouncer was confident in his own skills, the Protector of Jotok was legendary.
No, if his duty was to survive he would survive. He headed for the Inner Fortress, aiming for his own chamber and the hidden shelter behind his bathing pool. Twice he crossed open courtyards under the noses of the invaders and their rapsari. Twice speed and surprise saw him clear. He gained the Hall of Ancestors without further pursuit, and thought he could hear the sounds of battle closing in around him. From the Hall a corridor led to the side. A dozen leaps down that was his chamber and safety.
He bounded the last length toward it, twisting in midair, touching down with hind claws extended to brake. He skidded sideways, already turned ninety degrees to face down the cross corridor, legs gathered to start running again with a leap as soon he cleared the archway. The water of his bathing pool would break his scent trail, and he would be safe there, for a time. Safe enough while the attack played itself out, safe long enough to plan an escape, to plan revenge for the betrayal Tzaatz Pride had visited upon his line.
The archway slid past and the corridor opened before him. In front of his chamber a full sword of Tzaatz warriors and a pair of rapsari raiders. No escape there! He let his momentum carry him past the opening, aborting the leap. There was a roar from one of the Tzaatz, and a high, keening cry from a rapsar. They had seen him. He twisted again, awkwardly, and leapt in the direction he had been going already, his mind calling up a map of the Citadel. Here in the ancient core of the fortress there were many twists and turns, many potential hiding places.
If only he could reach one of them. The sounds of pursuit grew behind him. He turned a corner and ran through a narrow light well in the second tier of the south curtain wall. On the other side he skidded to a stop, turned and ran out again, back to a doorway he’d already passed. Through the door he bounded up a circular staircase to another corridor. Hopefully that would confuse his scent trail enough to throw off the trackers.
He turned off his intended path again to avoid distant footsteps and ran blindly. Snarls and sounds of pursuit rose behind him and he chose the right-hand path at another intersection. Another corner and he found the corridor blocked by an ornate iron gate. He slammed into it painfully hard, using it to stop himself, and wrenched at it. It failed to open. He wrenched again, looking for the locking mechanism, then realized where he was. Beyond the iron gate was an open courtyard, exquisitely manicured hedges, ornate fountains, high stone walls with no windows. This was the Garden of Prret, and the gate would recognize only his father. Even if he could get it to open there was nothing beyond it but the kzinrette quarters. The only exit was the one he was standing in front of. Beyond the gate a couple of kzinretti were lounging on prrstet in the sun, not obviously disturbed by the fighting going on around them. Another, more skittish perhaps, was peering from the branches of a tangletree, nothing but her great, liquid eyes visible in the shadows between the leaves.
He wrenched at the gate again, though he knew it was pointless, feeling desperation flood through him as he realized he could go no further. Fear is death. The pursuit was growing closer. He turned around to face the oncoming hunters, drawing his captured variable sword and extending the slicewire. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide, and there were worse fates than to die defending his father’s harem. Guardmaster’s words came back to him: You will earn your name today. It would be a death of honor, and he would make sure the attackers paid in blood for their conquest. There was nothing else he could hope for.
The pursuing warriors caught up quickly, slowing and deploying as they realized their quarry was trapped. If they had netguns it would all be over. He scanned them and saw they had none, but…The second rapsar had fallen behind, but it came forward again to stand beside its twin. Its handler snapped commands and they moved forward, jaws hanging open to expose razor fangs. They were plated in mag armor themselves, mirror surfaces carefully articulated at the joints, lethal adversaries in close combat.
So they would use the beasts. Unless…
“You are cowards!” He spat the words. “You don’t dare face me claw to claw.”
One of the Tzaatz took a step forward. “So claims the one who ran like a vatach!”
“I stand before you now at eight-to-one. Which of you has the liver to make it even odds?”
No doubt they were brave Heroes. Would they be so foolish as to take on a noble trained in single combat? He took up v’scree stance. They had not yet seen what he could do. He could take two at once, probably three, perhaps four. There were eight in the sword, plus the rapsari. If they all came at once he would die.
“Only because your hole is blocked, vatach.” The warrior took another pace forward. Pouncer took his measure: big and competent looking, hard muscles rippling under his fur. He wore rank tattoos on his ears, but Pouncer couldn’t read the Tzaatz symbology. Was he the sword leader?
“At least I do not scavenge the carrion of beasts. Send on your reptiles so I can take a worthy challenge.”
The big kzin’s jaws relaxed into a fanged smile. “You will die for your insults.”
“At eight to one. This vatach trembles to face your heroism.”
“I would face the Fanged God and win.” The other made a gesture, and the rest of the sword fell back a step. Yes, he was the leader, and his anger was going to lead him to a fatal mistake.
There was a clang behind him and Pouncer’s ears jerked back even as he leapt sideways to face a new threat. A tawny flash sped by him: a kzinrette. The gate was standing open now. How had she got through the gate? Had it been unlocked after all? He cursed the lost opportunity under his breath. It was far too late now to run now. He spun back to face his enemy, bringing his sword up and over to block a leap, but the kzinrette had startled the Tzaatz too. For a moment she hesitated, and he recognized the eyes he’d seen peering from the tangletree. “T’suuz!” It was his litter sister, her back carrying the same distinctive stripe pattern that marked his own.
She didn’t appear to recognize him, her attention focused on the alert warriors in front of her. They watched her, unsure what to do, and then she bolted through a gap between two of them and disappeared down the corridor and around the corner.
For a moment Pouncer considered bolting himself, through the now open gate. It would be chrowl for some of the kzinretti, and no doubt these warriors would find themselves distracted by the wealth of available females. They might even fall to fighting among themselves and give him a chance to escape. He abandoned the thought. If he had got through the gate before the standoff he might have had a slight hope. As it stood now, facing down the enemy a leap away, they would be on him before he could get eight leaps if he turned.
So he must fight, but on his terms. “You don’t even deserve the death I would give you.” Let their anger be their counsel. Pouncer kept his eyes locked on the warrior, alert for the leap he knew would come. The other bared his fangs and gathered himself. Rage is death, and the other kzin was very angry. “Sthondat!” he spat, with contempt in his voice. His abdominal muscles tightened in anticipation. Fear is death. He steadied his grip, aligned the marker ball of his sword with his opponent’s nose.
The warrior’s scream of rage echoed down the corridor. His sword was drawn back, coming around as he leapt in a two-handed overhead swing that would cleave steel. Pouncer swept his own weapon up to block the blow, deflecting it down and to the side. His attacker’s momentum carried him tumbling forward, and Pouncer brought his own sword
down, aiming for the weak joint between the neck and carapace plates of the other kzin’s armor. A subtle twist of his wrist at the last moment slid the monomolecular slicewire between the articulated grooves and thrust it home, decapitating his opponent. Motion blurred in the corner of his eye, and he yanked the weapon back up in time to block a second attacker whose leap had come a heartbeat behind the first one. The shock of the impact jarred his wrists, spattering the droplets of blood that surface tension stuck to the otherwise invisible wire. The other turned the parry into a spin, coming at him from the other direction and forcing a counterparry. Pouncer managed to get his blade into position to block again, but the force of the attack nearly slammed his own slicewire back into his face.
Again the Tzaatz warrior turned the block into an attack with a fluid twist. This one is better than the first. Pouncer fell back a pace to give himself room as he blocked and got in a counterstroke himself. The other blocked it effortlessly and followed up with a strike, feint, strike that pulled Pouncer’s guard down. The second strike glanced off his shoulder but the angle wasn’t quite right to slide through the gaps in his armor’s articulation. Pouncer fell back another pace. This one is dangerous.
For a moment the dueling pair faced each other, breathing heavily through gaping fangs. The other’s eyes bored into his, pupils dilated almost round. His ears were up and swiveled forward, but his stance was relaxed, and Pouncer realized the extent of his adversary’s craft. He had not been goaded to attack by Pouncer’s insults. He had expected his aggressive companion to leap, had readied himself and taken advantage of the first warrior’s suicidal attack to catch Pouncer with his guard down.
“You are skilled.” The other’s eyes were locked on his.
“You will not defeat me.” Pouncer’s breathing was heavy, and he wished he felt the conviction he put into his words.
The other rippled his ears. “You are also alone.” He made a gesture to bring the rest of the sword forward.
Pouncer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You lack honor, sthondat.” If he could provoke the other to leap…
His adversary just rippled his ears again. “Perhaps, but I claim victory.” He repeated the gesture, and for the merest fraction of a second Pouncer’s eyes flickered from his opponent’s gaze to the rest of the sword. Fangs showing and variable swords extended they advanced. He tensed himself, ready to die with honor.
“Chrrrooowwwlll…” It was a low, warbling cry, primal in its need, and sexual desire rose in Pouncer. He knew it was death to let his gaze waver from his opponent, but he couldn’t help flicking his eyes to the side a second time.
T’suuz! His sister hadn’t fled, she had only let the warriors think she had. She was behind them now, crouched low in the mating posture, her invitingly tufted tail raised and flicking back and forth in open invitation. It was not her fertile time, her scent told him that much, but…
“Chrrroooowwlll…” The sound tugged at deep buried instincts in Pouncer’s brain, and he fought to keep his eyes locked on his opponent. Some of the Tzaatz had turned to watch her, the battle forgotten. Again her tail flicked, and one of them took a step toward her. The warrior facing Pouncer didn’t shift his gaze, but Pouncer’s expression must have told him what was happening behind him. “Forward, you fools. There will be kzinretti for us all when this is done.”
The Tzaatz who had moved first took another step, and that was all it took. Another Tzaatz grabbed at him and he turned and slashed with his variable sword. Another screamed and leapt and in an instant the entire sword was slashing at one another, screams of rage and pain filling the corridor. And suddenly T’suuz had a variable sword and was slicing out the throat of one of the Tzaatz. Pouncer’s opponent sensed the danger at his back and lunged forward. Pouncer stepped back to clear and counterstrike, but the move was only a feint, and the other pivoted to leap and strike at T’suuz. She had shifted her attack to one of the rapsari and had taken off its hind limbs. Before it hit the floor she was at the second rapsar, gutting it with her captured weapon. She had no armor and her back was turned. Pouncer’s opponent’s pivot-and-strike was going to slice her in half.
Pouncer screamed and leapt. Startled by the scream, the other aborted his pivot, but it was too late. Pouncer’s foreclaws were at his face, followed an instant later by the variable sword, driving deep into the neck joints. The blade bit home, and the other died drowning in his own blood. For a moment Pouncer stood there, muscles straining against the sagged weight of his now dead opponent, and then he let the body fall. Breathing hard he screamed the zal’mchurrr to consign the spirit of a worthy warrior to the Fanged God’s Pride-Circle.
“I’ve been watching for you. I thought you’d never arrive.”
He looked up. T’suuz was speaking, and the enormity of what had just occurred sank in. “You…you…” Pouncer could not articulate the words. Kzinretti did not fight Heroes, not with the finely trained reflexes she had just shown him, not with weapons, not with deception.
Not with success outnumbered six to one. But she had done it.
“How did you open the gate?”
She rippled her ears. “I can open that gate. I expected that you would come here. I was waiting for you. I had already unlocked it. You had only to pull the latch.”
He looked, saw the simple mechanism he had not seen in his earlier haste. He had allowed himself to be motivated by fear and felt ashamed. That was over with now. “How did you know I would come here?”
“Patriarch’s Telepath exerted such influence as he could on the course of the battle.”
Pouncer’s ears swiveled up and forward. What did that mean? “Patriarch’s Telepath—”
“Everything will be made clear later. We have to move now.” She ran past him to the still open gate. “Come! This way!”
“But how—”
“There is not time. These will have reported finding you. Come!” Still he stared at her, his disbelief growing. Report was not a word of the Female Tongue nor even the Kitten’s Tongue but the Hero’s Tongue, and kzinretti could not speak the Hero’s Tongue. Their brains were not advanced enough. It was a fact. He had learned it.
She grabbed his paw and yanked. “Come!”
He followed her into the Garden of Prret. She paused to close the gate behind them, sliding the heavy locking mechanism home with a solid thunk. She turned and ran through the garden and he followed her, past ornate carvings and inviting prrstet, heading for the Inner Quarters beyond the Garden. Pouncer found himself strangely uncomfortable. The architecture, stone, the smell, it was still the Citadel, but he hadn’t been into the kzinretti’s quarters since he had left his mother’s teats. Penetrating his father’s sanctum was a violation of the most severe dishonor. Only alien slaves were allowed past the gate, to tend the gardens and care for the kzinretti and their kits.
T’suuz led him to an archway that opened into the high-domed vault that was the entrance to the Inner Quarters. A fountain burbled in a pool surrounded by tapestries and cushions. Prret reclined, washing themselves, playing idly. Most of the kzinretti ignored them, but one young female flipped her ears up inquisitively at the sight of him. She was barely past kittenhood, with sleek fur and great, limpid eyes. She sidled toward them, tail flipping flirtatiously, chrowling deep in her throat. It was probably her first fertility, and Pouncer found himself suddenly flooded with the same desire T’suuz’s trick had raised in him, only stronger, much stronger. The immediate danger of their position washed away in the urge to mate. Her ripe scent came to him and he took a step forward.
There was a snarling hiss and T’suuz bounded in front of him, facing down the kzinrette. “Mine!” she spat, raking her claws. The kzinrette startled, looking unsure. T’suuz snarled again and advanced on her, fur bristling. The kzinrette looked from T’suuz to Pouncer and back, looked again. T’suuz advanced again and the kzinrette bolted.
Pouncer growled in sudden frustration, found himself looking deep into his sister’s eyes.
&nb
sp; “Focus! We must not delay. Do you understand?”
“Yes…”
“This is your life! If we escape you will be Patriarch. You will have many prret. If we linger you will die. Focus!”
“Yes…” Pouncer shook himself, the prret’s scent still rich in his nostrils, her inviting, chirruping chrowl still inciting his desire.
“Come!” He followed. She took him deeper into the Inner Quarters, past bright nurseries and quiet crèches and lavish couching suites. There were other prret in their time, other temptations, but Pouncer kept his focus narrowly on following his sister, some distant part of himself amazed at his body’s response to fertile females.
A door in a cut stone wall led to a staircase down, another door to a service tunnel. The corridor was dusty, lined with conduits for power, air, water, vacuum, liquid nitrogen, and liquid hydrogen. Its walls were unadorned stone blocks, its floor worn smooth by the feet of generations of servitors. Machinery hummed in the background. It was low and narrow, part of the ancient fortress converted now to a modern purpose. How long since a kzin had trod this way? Maybe never; it was beneath the dignity of a warrior to visit the domain of slaves.
The corridor branched, and branched again, doors leading off to either side. Pouncer quickly lost his sense of direction but T’suuz took them unerringly forward, through a door into a storage room full of musty equipment of uncertain purpose. Behind a heavy rack a hole had been cut through the stonework to pass a set of conduits. Stones had been pulled from the wall to enlarge the hole just enough to squeeze through. T’suuz wriggled through with ease, her lithe body fitting snuggly through the gap. Pouncer had a harder time, breathing hard and struggling. His hip caught on a projection. She pulled hard and he felt fur ripping, then tumbled through, falling awkwardly to the gritty floor. The corridor he found himself in was of more recent construction, utilitarian sprayed fibercrete, filled with the distant hum of turning machinery. T’suuz led on again, and the hum grew to a roar as they passed through a chamber where the conduits were big enough to stand in. A control panel glowed against one wall. A maintenance hatch set low by the floor led onto a metal mesh catwalk high on the wall in a cavernous hall, too dimly lit for kzinti eyes to see with comfort. Far below, the bulking silvery domes of fusion generators marched in ranked pairs into the murk, and the air vibrated with the essence of their power. At the control wall Kdatlyno technicians were making obeisance to a full four-sword of Tzaatz warriors who were securing the area with snarled shouts, backed up by half a dozen rapsari. He did not need T’suuz’s cautioning gesture to warn him to silence. They crept along the catwalk, hugging the wall to take the scant cover the shadows there provided.
