by Paul Chafe
“Don't they ever sleep?” Cherenkova was clearly surprised at the amount of activity so early in the morning.
Brasseur shook his head. “Kzin are crepuscular predators, most active at dusk and dawn. They catnap at midnight and midday. The square will slow down as the sun gets higher.”
She nodded. “We have to be out of sight by then.”
He shrugged. “I'm sure our Hero there knows what he's doing.” Cherenkova gave him a look. Even now the scholar seemed more interested in the opportunity to observe kzinti cultural interactions up close than in the possibility that they might end the day as guests of honor at a Tzaatz hunt. It turned out to be easy to get into the square; there were simply too few of the invaders to cover every possible entrance. The wall was a tradition rather than a defense, and had been since the kzinti went to space. There were many stairs over it and arches through it, put there over the generations for the convenience of some long-forgotten merchant trader and maintained for the convenience of those who followed him. The little group slipped through a smaller arch, barely more than a tunnel, and quickly lost themselves in the bustle of commerce. As soon as they were in the market district Pouncer obtained several well-worn fur blankets from a wide-eyed trader, who abased himself and tried to convince them to take his best stock when he saw who his customer was. He tried to appear brave, worthy of the honor being bestowed upon him, but even Cherenkova could see his fear clearly.
Pouncer ripped holes in the blankets for vision and the humans wore them over their heads. The furs were hot, uncomfortable and musty, but they served to disguise the humans from casual recognition, and more important, masked their smell from both kzinti and rapsari sniffers. They were paid no particular attention. A young kzin with three fur-swaddled aliens and an unleashed kzinrette were far from the strangest thing to be seen in Hero's Square on even an average day, and this was not an average day. There was still the risk that Pouncer himself would be recognized, but it was still too dark for that at any distance.
They made their way in silence through the brightening dawn, twice turning away to avoid Tzaatz patrols with sniffer rapsari. As the sun rose, Cherenkova began to worry about the possibility of someone recognizing Pouncer, and a glance traded with Tskombe showed he had the same concern. There was nothing they could do but follow where the kzin led.
Ahead of them Pouncer had the same worry. He knew where he was going, he knew how to get there, but the Tzaatz patrols were making it difficult. Every time he grew close to his goal he was forced in another direction to avoid them. There was no doubt in his mind that he was the primary subject of the Tzaatz search. Kchula-Tzaatz's attack had been wildly successful, but it would be useless if he could not show the heads of all of the Rrit. Pouncer alive was more of a danger to him than the entire Rrit fleet. The rapsari sniffers were the primary danger; the smells of the market crowded too close for a kzinti nose to pick out any one scent at any distance at all, but one look at the long, questing proboscises of the sniffers had told him all he needed to know about the function of that particular breed of genetic construct. They would have his scent from the Citadel, from his chambers if nowhere else, and if they picked him up it would be the end of his run.
The sun was nearly over the horizon when he finally found his destination, and at first he didn't recognize it. What had been a poor stall had been markedly improved, the front rebuilt with fine flamewood, a new awning of oiled posrori skin, the stalls next door taken over to make room for an enclosed feeding area already half built. Provider had gained strakh indeed from the patronage of the Patriarch's son, and wasted no time taking advantage of it.
The old kzin was in the front of his stall, dispensing water to the vatach on display there. He took good care of his stock. He turned as Pouncer and his small band arrived at the counter, his eyes widening in instant recognition.
“Sire! Patriarch! You… We feared… They've been searching for you… You must come inside.” He glanced over their shoulders to see who might be watching, then beckoned them to the side of his stall, where a door led into a storage area behind the front cages. It was the response Pouncer had hoped for, and he went in, T'suuz and the humans behind him. It was cramped quarters for all of them. Vatach and grashi scrabbled in their cages, and a preparation board held a pungent array of chopped roots beside a large tub of half-stirred sauce. The air was heavy with animal scents.
“Not Patriarch yet, Provider, not while my father still lives.” And I pray to the Fanged God that he does. “I thank you for your hospitality. We will not stay long; you are endangering yourself in sheltering us.”
Provider made the gesture that meant irrelevant. “You will stay as long as you need.” He unfurled his ears to show the tattoos of the Rrit. “I commanded a grav tank in the Kdatlyno uprising, and led a full four-sword at Patriarch's Reach, and again at Avenari, where I was wounded.” He raised his arm to show a long white streak of fur that grew over a scar on his flank, evidence of some weapon that must have nearly cut him in half. “The Tzaatz will have to kill me to take you from beneath my roof.”
Pouncer made the gesture that meant I-am-in-your-debt. “I am honored by your fealty. You have the gratitude of the Rrit, for what that is worth now.”
“The thanks of Rrit are priceless in any circumstances. Think no more of it, sire.” He held up a paw before Pouncer could speak further. “Here, you must eat; you must be starved. We will make plans later.” Provider was already fishing a vatach from a cage. Pouncer was hungry enough to eat it whole, but it would not do to insult the prowess of their benefactor, so he carefully beheaded the runner and dipped its body in the sauce. T'suuz, dropping instantly into the part of the trained kzinrette, knelt beside him to be fed. It was a role, he suddenly realized, that she had played her entire life, and with that realization came the understanding of how galling that role must have been for a mind as quick and ambitious as hers. He had a bite of the vatach, so as to not insult his host, then gave her the rest. The next he offered to Kefan-Brasseur, who refused it, as did the other humans. Provider brought out some Jotoki popfruits, slave food for his Kdatlyno, and the kz'eerkti ambassadors found them more to their taste.
Many vatach later the feasting stopped, and a kzin younger than Pouncer brought water bowls to wash the blood from their paws and jowls. This is Provider's son, Pouncer realized, he who hunted beyond the Mooncatchers for wild-caught grashi, and no doubt larger game as well. The youngster was only in mid-adolescence, his fur still carrying the faint spot pattern of a kitten, but he carried himself with confidence and his movements had an economy and purposefulness that made him a presence. There is strength to be found in the lone hunt, strength that cannot be assigned by title or privilege. It was a truth he knew from his own hunts, but there was a difference between an occasional afternoon's pleasure chase and a lifetime of hunts on which livelihood and life depended. Pouncer, born to rule and trained to that role since birth, found himself in awe of this near-kitten.
And this I cannot express. To be Rrit was to rule. To doubt his own ability to carry out his birthright was impossible, at least publicly. The best I can do is strive to be worthy of the honor birth has given me.
“I hesitate to interrupt.” Kefan-Brasseur was speaking. “We have to resolve our current predicament as soon as possible.”
If Provider was surprised at the alien's speech he did not show it. Nevertheless he addressed his reply to Pouncer. “What are your intentions, sire?”
“These kz'eerkti are under my protection. I must see them safely to their ship at the singularity's edge.”
“Have they a ship at the spaceport?”
“No, but Chuut-Portmaster will grant me one.”
“The Tzaatz are heavy on the ground there. Sire, it is too dangerous for you to go.”
“May we borrow your gravcar?”
“All I have is at your disposal, sire.”
“We will go and look.” He raised a paw to forestall Provider's objection. “And I gi
ve you my word we will do nothing foolish.”
Provider's gravcar was old but serviceable. Pouncer flew because T'suuz could not. The humans sat in the rear, all three easily fitting in the space meant for two kzin. He lifted out and rotated for the spaceport. Treetops slid beneath them. Pouncer kept them low in order to evade possible detection by Tzaatz patrols, inasmuch as that was possible. It was not long before the spaceport came into view. Pouncer swung around to enter the local traffic landing pattern. T'suuz grabbed his shoulder and pointed. “Look.”
He followed her pointing, saw clustered assault rapsari on the stabilized turf of the boost field. A dozen or more assault shuttles were down on the field, as well as a pawful of Swiftwing couriers and a flight deck's worth of transatmospheric fighters. The glint of mag armor highlighted Tzaatz warriors. A steady stream of freight haulers was falling out of orbit to be marshaled on the ground by the Tzaatz, and around the perimeter of the spaceport, weapon carriers stood in defensive positions with others circling overhead to intercept incoming traffic. The route off-planet was very firmly in enemy hands. Pouncer guided the gravcar into a tight loop to take them out of the approach path, hoping they were too far out for the aborted approach to draw attention. There were a few tense moments when a Tzaatz patrol seemed to be following them, but it veered away without incident. Pouncer guided the car back to Hero's Square and they again took refuge in Provider's shop.
Inside Pouncer raked the air with his claws in frustration and turned to Tskombe. “If we could gain access to Chuut-Portmaster we would have a ship for you!”
The human stroked his chin. “Perhaps we could wait until he leaves. Do you know where he lives?”
Brasseur interrupted before Pouncer could answer. “I would be very surprised if he has not been removed from power.”
Pouncer turned to face the historian. “He is not of the Rrit; the declaration of skalazaal does not apply to him.”
Brasseur shrugged. “I know your traditions, but I also know the demands of power. The Tzaatz need control of the spaceport for its cargo handling facilities. They would not leave such an important asset in enemy hands. Tradition demands they leave him at his post, but you can be sure he's not alone in it, and he will not be free to do as you ask.”
“Hrrr.” Pouncer flicked his tail in annoyance. “You are probably right.”
Cherenkova pursed her lips, thinking. “The key question is, will the Tzaatz allow us to leave?”
“We cannot know this.”
“Sire, I can find out for you.” Provider's son had come in, bringing water. The group turned to the adolescent. “I can bring food to the guards on the perimeter; it will not be seen as unusual. They must have been given instructions. Perhaps they hunt these aliens as game; perhaps they have no interest in them. I will learn the truth.”
“No!” Provider snarled at his son, fangs exposed. “Have you no honor? We will not trade the strakh of the Rrit for that of the Tzaatz.”
The adolescent started to answer but Pouncer held up a hand to stop him. “Your son trades no strakh, Provider. His suggestion is clever, and brave. Let him go.”
There was a long pause, then Provider signaled his agreement. His son began loading cages of grashi, vatach, and other delicacies into the antiquated gravcar. Its rear, Pouncer now noticed, had been modified so it could serve as a mobile market stall, with indentations to hold jars of sauce without slopping. He began to help, carrying cages to speed the loading, and quite quickly the car was ready. The adolescent took the pilot's seat with casual confidence and powered up the polarizers. Pouncer stopped him before he could lift out. “How are you known, youngling?”
The adolescent claw-raked. “I am called Far Hunter, sire.”
“Because you travel far to find the best grashi, yes? Do you also hunt alone?”
“I do now, sire. When I was younger my father came with me, but his injuries no longer allow it.”
“You are young for a name, Far Hunter, but I can see you have earned it. Your father brings honor to your house, and you are well worthy of his inheritance.”
“Thank you, sire.”
Far Hunter left on his mission, and Pouncer, T'suuz, and the humans waited in Provider's storeroom. Provider himself was kept busy serving customers, and twice Tzaatz ground patrols came by asking after any of Rrit Pride. Provider quite truthfully told them that the Patriarch's heir had visited his shop just two days ago. He played the role masterfully, distracting the searchers with food while he cleverly shifted the conversation without the Tzaatz realizing that he had not quite answered the question they had asked. After the second patrol Provider closed his jars and came back to wait with the fugitives.
Pouncer got up in protest. “We must leave, Provider; we cost you strakh with your custom by forcing you to close.”
The old kzin gestured for him to sit down. “No, sire, you honor me with your faith in my loyalty. Those Tzaatz sthondat ask questions only as an excuse to wolf down my best vatach. We will wait here for my son to return.”
Tskombe's eyebrows went up. “You're just going to leave your stock unguarded in the front?”
Provider looked at him. “The Tzaatz have no honor, but not even the most craven would stoop to stealing from a public market stall in daylight.”
Tskombe nodded, absorbing this, and the little group lapsed into silence, listening to the bustle of the market die down as the sun grew higher. It was some hours later by his beltcomp that Far Hunter returned.
“I visited all the port entrances. It's tightly guarded by Tzaatz and their creatures, and shuttles are coming down to unload more all the time. There were gravtanks and combat cars as well, and Tzaatz warriors checked every vehicle allowed to enter. I asked after Chuut-Portmaster as though we shared strakh and was cuffed for my trouble, but I overheard that they search for the kz'eerkti, as well as any of Rrit Pride.”
“Then we cannot get the aliens off-planet.”
Far Hunter turned his paw over. “The Tzaatz are sloppy and ill disciplined. It would be possible to get in, perhaps.”
Pouncer's whiskers twitched. “It is one thing to gain access, but we need a ship, and a pilot.”
“I can fly a ship. Given an automanual I can learn to fly a kzinti ship,” said Cherenkova.
“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. “I cannot accompany you off-world. I would be unable to stand for your protection. I can turn that duty over to a loyal Rrit warrior, but not to you.”
Cherenkova turned to him. “With respect First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, as a passenger on a ship I was piloting there would be little you could do to protect us anyway. We greatly appreciate your loyalty to your uncle's oath, but at some point we must resume responsibility for our own fates. I suggest that point comes when our ship boosts for orbit.”
“Hrrr…” Pouncer considered this.
“You kz'eerkti wear the Patriarch's sigil,” Provider said. “You are welcome to stay in my home until the Tzaatz are gone. The population of kzin will not stand for their dishonor long.”
Cherenkova was about to answer, but Tskombe cut her off. “No.” The soldier spoke Interspeak to the other humans so the kzinti couldn't understand him. “We have to get back to human space. The Tzaatz are looking for our Hero there because he's the Patriarch's heir, and their victory won't be recognized until they kill him. So why are they also looking for us? Meerz-Rrit has agreed in principle to peace. The only reason Kchula-Tzaatz would want to prevent us from leaving is if he intended to change that. I would bet my career he is planning a war with humanity, at least a continuation of the conquest program. There's obviously pressure for that to happen, and his leadership isn't solid; he can't take the risks Meerz-Rrit was prepared to in the name of peace. Leading a war will help him consolidate his role. The UN needs to know this.”
Brasseur nodded. “I think you're right.”
“We thank you for your generosity, Provider,” Cherenkova answered in the Hero's Tongue, carrying on as though Tskombe's w
ords had made no difference to what she was about to say. “But we must return to our own world as quickly as possible.”
“What ship would you fly, Cherenkova-Captain?” Pouncer asked.
“I saw some Swiftwing-class couriers on the field when we landed, fast and long ranged. One of those would be best. I need the documentation to learn to fly it.”
“My half brother is Cargo Pilot. I will see what I can do to get you an automanual,” Provider said. “Until then we will hide you at my home.”
T'suuz said nothing, but her tail lashed. Her disapproval was clear.
They took Provider's gravcar to his home, then he and his son left, the one to reopen their market stall, the other to find his half brother Pilot and perhaps obtain a Swiftwing automanual. Provider's home was spartan but comfortable, located in a forest clearing shared with a couple of similar structures ten or fifteen kilometers from Hero's Square. It was small by kzin standards, ample on a human scale. There were four rooms on one level, built around a central sand-floored den and backed against a layered sedimentary cliff face. The front two rooms were built of thick stonewood timbers; the rear two were actually hollowed out of the cliff. A fireplace in the middle of the den led to a chimney that went up through the rock, although there was no need for it with the approach of the dry season. A loft above the outer rooms provided storage, and it was here that the humans were quartered among anonymous boxes and dusty war trophies from the time when Provider had been Tank Leader. It reminded Cherenkova of her aunt's attic, where she had explored as a little girl and found all kinds of fascinating treasures long discarded by the adults in her life, a keyhole glimpse at her elders' history before she was born. There was something compellingly human about an attic full of forgotten memories, something probably common to any sentient that led a settled existence. She said as much to Brasseur and he smiled.
