by Paul Chafe
And all of a sudden she realized the subtle genius of the torture she was being put through. Enough pain would push any sentient being into unconsciousness, but by making her position deliberately awkward the Hot Needle of Inquiry forced her to stay awake to maintain it, and therefore fight the relentless pain. The asymmetry guaranteed that her mind would find nowhere to escape, short of final capitulation to her captors, or death, if she was that lucky. That was why there were no questions. The only goal of this stage of the inquisition was to break her, utterly, in the shortest possible time.
After what seemed like hours Ftzaal-Tzaatz finished. By then Ayla was beyond screaming, beyond resisting, each new penetration of her flesh barely registering against the burning agony which had enveloped her body. There were hundreds of needles, she’d lost track of them all, and it didn’t matter anyway. She still had not begged for mercy, but only because she knew it would not come. Perhaps Ftzaal interpreted that as stubborn defiance, but if he did that didn’t matter either.
He left, for a time, and she suffered while he was gone, straining to maintain the position that brought the least pain. He returned eventually, the time interval long enough that she grew to want sleep, but sleep was impossible. Strangely she didn’t feel hungry, though she must have missed several meals. Her world space was strangely ethereal, as though she were drugged, and even the pain had somehow transformed itself into something else.
“Now, kz’zeerkti, we will discuss First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.”
“I have no information for you.”
“You lead raids for him. You lead kzinretti smart enough to plan and fight. I need to know about this.”
“I am fighting for myself.” And if he’s asking, then my kzinretti all got away. It was a small victory. It lent her courage for what she knew would come. I can win other victories here.
“Hrrr.” Ftzaal touched one of the needles in her arm, and the slight motion freshened the dulled pain back to agony. She gasped, eyes watering. “You are stubborn.”
“I have nothing to tell you.” The words came around deep breaths as she fought to control herself.
“Then tell me of his sister. She wasn’t like other kzinretti, was she? She spoke and planned like a male.”
“If you know, why ask me?”
“I need confirmation.”
“His sister is dead.” Ayla took some satisfaction in disappointing her captor.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t have any other information for you.”
The Black Priest considered her at length. “Why do you maintain fealty to First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit? You are kz’zeerkti and he is kzinti. War has come again; our species are enemies.”
“I have my own honor to maintain.”
“You hold your pledge to an enemy alien higher than loyalty to your species? I don’t believe that.” Again he touched a needle and she gasped.
“Believe what you want. I’ll stand by my pledge.” How much more of this can I take?
“Hrrr. Did you know your fleets are sterilizing kzinti worlds?”
“I had heard something like that.”
“And this makes no difference to you?”
“I have my own war to fight. Against you, and your brother.”
Ftzaal ran a soft paw over the handles of the rows of needles that skewered her left side from collar bone to thigh, provoking another scream. “My brother has an interesting mind. He is less bound by honor than most kzinti, even as you seem to hold yourself to a higher standard than the average kz’zeerkti.”
Ayla remained silent. It took effort to answer, and she needed every ounce of strength to hold her position and withstand the new pain. The tiniest deviation from perfect stillness was excruciating, and she breathed in and out in short gasps in order to minimize the movement of her rib cage.
“This doesn’t interest you?” She could hear the mocking tones in Ftzaal’s voice. “It will interest you to know he has violated the Hunt Traditions, although I will add, not without severe provocation. Do you remember the razing of K’Shai, the world you call Wunderland?”
“It was…” The words hurt and Ayla took time to breathe before continuing. “…before my time.”
“But you know of it, yes?”
“I’ve been to Thor’s Crater.” Pause, breath. “And others.”
“Hrrr. You are a savage species. The galaxy has more to fear from you than us, but we are sentients too. We can learn what you teach us, and you have taught us much. The use of fusion drives as weapons, for example, and interstellar communications lasers. Those were the first lessons. We have learned the use of relativistic weapons too, and how easy it is to destroy a world if you don’t desire to conquer it later.”
A sudden thrill of adrenaline shot through Ayla, momentarily overriding the pain. “You haven’t…”
“Yes, we have.” Ftzaal’s mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. “Even now our attack ship is in hyperspace to your singularity with enough lightspeed impactors on board to flay your homeworld bare. My brother intends to end this war.”
“You wouldn’t do that. Tradition won’t allow it.” Even as she said them Ayla’s words rang hollow in her own ears. Kefan Brasseur had taught her the power of tradition in kzinti affairs, but her own experience told her that power was not absolute. The Tzaatz especially were prone to bend ideals to expediency.
“Is it any different than what humans are doing to kzinti worlds right now? Our traditions demand that we conquer, not destroy, but honor demands vengeance.” He paused letting it sink in. “I have a bargain to offer you, Cherenkova-Captain. It is a generous one, in the circumstances.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You may not want it yet, but you will soon. I disagree with my brother’s methods, and I disagree with his assessment of priorities. I see no need to destroy your species when we could do so much more with you in partnership. My interest lies entirely in First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the Telepath War and the line of Vda.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words hurt to say.
Ftzaal rippled his ear. “Yes, you do. I also know about it, in some detail. I know how they have hidden from the Black Cult for so many generations. It is unfortunate for them they have chosen to throw their lot in with First-Son; before that the priesthood had little idea they existed. I had my own suspicions. The telepath gene has not gone extinct in eight-to-the-fourth generations of vigilant culling, nor have the genes of the reasoning kzinrette. There had to be a natural reservoir somewhere. Even I did not suspect the full truth, though in retrospect it seems so clear. Where else could such a line exist but on Kzinhome? Where else on Kzinhome but in the jungles, among the czrav who live beneath the notice of the Patriarchy? Such facts as I could divine I raised to Priest-Master-Zrtra, but the Priest-Master would not hear them, nor would the Black High Circle.”
“How frustrating for you.”
“Perhaps, but that time is over. The Black Cult will not be able to deny the evidence I present to them, and they will thank me for exterminating in a season what they could not since the time before time. I will rule the High Circle, if I can keep my incompetent brother from destroying the Patriarchy beforehand.”
“At least we agree on something.” She spat the words, and the defiance cost in waves of pain.
Ftzaal rippled his ears, amused. “I think we will agree on a bargain very shortly. Here is what I offer. Tell me where to find First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit and I will tell you the launch coordinates and trajectory information for the ship that will destroy your world. Nothing less will save your world, Cherenkova-Captain. In addition, I will send you back to your Earth in a fast courier. You, and you alone, can save your species.”
Ayla remained silent, gritting her teeth. Billions of lives are at stake. How could she know he was telling the truth? How could she be sure he would keep his end of the bargain if he was? He is kzinti, his honor is his life. She had learned that honor could be a sl
ippery concept, even among kzinti. But he is more than kzinti, he is a warrior. She didn’t want to believe it because she didn’t want to face the choice she was now facing, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was telling the truth. Earth would be destroyed if they weren’t given the information necessary to intercept the impactors, and Ftzaal-Tzaatz would give her that information and send her home to give warning if she gave him what he was asking for. But I cannot betray Pouncer. The pain didn’t make it any easier to think.
Ftzaal held up another red hot needle, looking over her body as if deciding where to place it. “This is a generous offer, Cherenkova-Captain. I will give you some time to consider it.” For a long moment he waited while she breathed in and out, trying not to anticipate the pain she knew her lack of cooperation was about to bring. Finally he put the needle down in front of her close enough that she could feel the heat of the glowing shaft on her face. It was a warning that there was more to come if she didn’t make the right decision. He turned to the acolytes. “Watch her. Make sure she remains alive.”
“As you command, sire.” Ayla barely registered the words; the pain was reasserting itself over her consciousness. She was still coherent enough to be startled when, seconds later, Ftzaal opened his robe and urinated on her, the hot stream splashing over her body, burning where it ran over the needle wounds. In spite of herself she gasped in pain anew, fighting the urge to struggle that would only make it hurt more. He is scent-marking me, to let the others know I’m his property. It was a protective gesture, to keep the acolytes from becoming careless with his prize, but she found it degrading anyway. This means he will be gone longer than before, perhaps much longer. Sleep deprivation and hunger would soon start to erode her will to resist, even her will to survive. Ftzaal left and the acolytes faded into the darkness, leaving her alone with her torture. She would not weep, but her eyes were bright with tears. She could only wait for it to be over. Some timeless time later, in the twilight world of consciousness enforced over sleep by pain, she thought she saw a herd of tuskvor surging over a kill drop, as she had dreamed a lifetime ago coming over the high mountain passes on the czrav migration, only this time it was not Pouncer but Quacy Tskombe who leapt to save her, and this time she could not fly to save them both.
The greatest illusion is the illusion of control.
—Kzin-Conserver-of-the-reign-of-Vstari-Rrit
The broadleaf trees gave pleasant shade to the Sundial Grove. Kzin-Conserver sat on the grass beside a bench, performing the Eight Variations of Honor in his mind. The tranquility of spirit he had felt in his days as Rrit-Conserver was increasingly eluding him. I am a slave to events, and events are not tranquil. He controlled his breathing, and focused on the discipline.
“Kzin-Conserver.” It was Ftzaal-Tzaatz. Kzin-Conserver abandoned the sixth variation, took a moment to steady his mind before opening his eyes to greet the Black Priest.
“I would walk with you, Conserver.”
“As you wish.” Kzin-Conserver rose and together they headed on the path that led from the grove back to the Citadel. A Tzaatz patrol mounted on rapsar raiders went past, and Ftzaal said nothing until they were alone again.
“We still fight the Honor-War we declared when we took this fortress. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has become a formidable enemy.”
“For a time I think you thought you had won your honor-duel.”
“My brother was convinced. I was not.”
“And now?”
Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The storm is gathering. I can sense it. Now it is my brother who is unconvinced.” He paused. “You favor the Rrit in this.”
“Second-Son is Rrit as well. You mean that I favor Zree-Rrit over the puppet of the Tzaatz.”
“Of course.”
“When I was Rrit-Conserver, I favored the Rrit over the Tzaatz, and yes, First-Son over Second-Son for reasons of both tradition and character. Now it is not my place to favor one side or the other. I only pass judgment on adherence to the Traditions, and give guidance to the other Senior Conservers.”
“And give advice to the Patriarch.”
“When he asks for it.”
“Scrral-Rrit has changed since the Hot Needle.”
Conserver rippled his ears. “I have noticed.”
“Hrrr.” Ftzaal’s tail lashed. “He is still unworthy of the title he bears.”
“His future carries the stain of his past.”
“And despite your neutrality you favor his brother in this challenge.”
“I favor no one, which does not mean I have no judgment. Zree-Rrit has shown himself honorable so far. He is the elder brother and so entitled by blood to be Patriarch. For these and other reasons I believe he will serve the Patriarchy better than his brother.”
And my brother. Ftzaal started to say it and didn’t. He remained silent until they reached the bank of the Quickwater. On the other bank the Citadel wall rose straight up, its coppery surface glinting in the light of high noon. They turned to parallel it. “There are ships in orbit now. Churrt Pride and Vdar Pride and Dcrz Pride, and others.”
“I have heard.”
“They tell my brother they have come in case the kz’zeerkti come, to defend Kzinhome.”
“And you believe differently?”
“I do not believe Zraa-Churrt would dishonor himself with untruth. They are here for the reason they have given. I believe there is a further truth. They have come to bear witness to skalazaal.”
“Perhaps. You have overstepped the traditions, though no one has proof-before-the-pride-circle. The Great Prides fear this more than anything.” Kzin-Conserver looked to the fields beyond the Citadel’s northern wall, where a formation of lumbering assault rapsari were going through their paces. “You are expecting a battle. Your forces are growing stronger every day.”
“I have committed everything I can to the defense of this fortress. This is the critical point. My brother believes we must protect Jotok, but it is here we will stand or fall.”
“Against the kz’zeerkti or against First-Son?”
“Against both.” Ftzaal paused again. “If First-Son comes here, he will die. If he does not come here…” Ftzaal’s lips twitched away from his fangs. “I will rake out his hiding place soon.”
“You have put his kz’zeerkti female to the Hot Needle.”
Ftzaal’s ears swiveled up. “You have good ears to have heard that.”
“When you are Kzin-Conserver you hear many things. I have also heard the kz’zeerkti are in hyperspace to our singularity. I have not heard how your brother intends to deal with them.”
“He has given command to Ktronaz-Commander.”
They walked in silence for awhile, then stopped to watch a squad of Kdatlyno who were setting long metal spikes in a freshly dug defensive ditch. Kzin-Conserver turned to the Black Priest. “Why do you follow your brother?”
“I am his zar’ameer.”
“Even when he violates the traditions?”
Ftzaal started to speak, stopped, started again. “It is not for the sword to question the paw that wields it.” His voice held an edge.
“You had a question for me.”
Ftzaal shook himself angrily. “No. I have answered it for myself.” The Black Priest turned and walked back the way he had come.
Kzin-Conserver watched him go. Events are beyond his control now, and his brother’s, and mine. He looked up at the sky, where the ships of eight Great Prides were circling invisibly, defense against the kz’zeerkti fleet which would inevitably arrive to scour Kzinhome, defense against the temptation for Kchula-Tzaatz to use energy weapons against Pouncer in his War-of-Honor. Each of those Great Prides would be pursuing its own interests too, interests that were now starting to tear the Patriarchy apart. Stability, that sacred goal of the Circle of Conservers, was long gone. I have failed in my responsibility. It didn’t help that he knew there was no way he could have succeeded. It was too late by far to save the Patriarchy he had been born into
; perhaps it was too late to save it in any form at all. He thought back to the last Great Pride Circle. Stability had seemed so close then. At the time he had no idea how violently the apparent path of history would be diverted. The storm is gathering, and this time I know it. The question is, when will it strike?
Seize the critical moment and the battle is yours.
—Si-Rrit
It was time. Pouncer climbed aboard the tsvasztet strapped to the huge herd-grandmother. Ferlitz-Telepath was already there, and Tskombe-kz’zeerkti and the Trina manrette, and Swift-Claw, Z’slee and Night-Prowler, acting now as his personal bodyguards. He looked across to the other beasts, where V’rli had Ztrak Pride marshaled, and where Czor-Dziit led Dziit Pride. The other czrav prides were farther back in the herd; the honor of the fore went to those who had fought with him the longest.
But they are all here! The czrav army was eight-to-the-sixth strong, eight-cubed prides and sub-prides, half eight-to-the-fifth tuskvor, the beasts armored and armed, articulated assault ladders on their necks and heavy weapons on their backs so they could serve as living siege towers at the walls of the Citadel of the Patriarch. His Heroes were trained to a standard even Guardmaster would be proud of, confident and ready for battle. He looked up into the darkening sky, streaked bloodred as the last rays of sunset lit the clouds from the western horizon. And they will have blood themselves, soon enough. Up there were Kzinhome’s orbital fortresses, capable of wiping out his entire force in heartbeats. Today is the supreme gamble. The Tzaatz knew something was happening; his spies had told him that. The Great Prides were watching overhead. Skalazaal will be declared and open for all to witness. Kzin-Conserver who had been Rrit-Conserver would ensure that it was. Kchula-Tzaatz might yet decide to wipe out the threat to his rule with lances of fire from space. He would not do it with impunity.
