by Paul Chafe
Lead speech with thought.
Idle time is wasted life.
Even the grlor fear the v'pren.
If you host a warrior, you host his pride.
Boldness makes Heroes, caution makes warriors, both make victory.
Better wise than strong.
Only the scribe can fill his belly with words.
A puddle is a strezka's [beetle's] ocean.
If you want no kstel [large slothlike scavenger] in your house, build it with a small door.
If the hunter gnaws bones, what does he bring home to the pride?
The teller's cloak makes no difference to the tale.
The warrior's first victory is over fear.
The best proverb holds no wisdom for a fool.
The Traveler's Moon will be home before the traveler tonight.
A wise Patriarch seeks wise counsel.
Education cures ignorance, but nothing cures a fool.
No sword is sharper than honor.
The noble earns hatred through envy, the outcast through contempt.
Only a fool does not learn from his own mistakes, but it is a wise [sentient] who learns from someone else's.
Test the water with one foot only.
A wise leader serves first his warriors.
Only a fool stalks tuskvor.
Anyone can catch grashi in mating season.
Rain falls the same on noble and outcast.
Kits are life's reward.
Stalk not the hunter on his home ground.
Sleep is the brother of death.
No thief may steal honor, nor wear it if he did.
When honor and shame balance on a needle, who holds the needle?
He who fights with his mind carries few scars.
THE FURNACE
Here the hammer and anvil wait
While broad shouldered Hephaistos stokes the fire high
Soon the red steel will be forged to the blade
And Achilles will march out to win or to die.
— Unknown
Hero's Square had changed since last time Tskombe saw it. He hadn't had time then to note details, but he remembered it had been bustling with life and commerce. Now even the kzinti seemed subdued, and the slaves scurried from place to place, narrowly focused on their errands to avoid the wrath of their masters. The mood was due to the rapsar-mounted Tzaatz patrols, but the patrols themselves weren't acting like triumphant conquerors. Their manner was tense, even nervous, and their tempers short. Their tension translated to the general populace. It made the environment dangerous, and Tskombe wasn't happy about that.
Not that he could do anything about it. He was on a slave's leash, pushing a float cart laden with boxes, and Night Pilot was leading him through stalls and markets. It might have been better if he'd bought a Kdatlyno to do the leading for him, but Night Pilot lacked strakh enough on Kzinhome, and he wasn't about to put in the time and effort to earn it. The disguise was effective enough, and though a few inquisitive noses sniffed at the distinctive scent of human, none questioned his presence.
All they had to do was find Provider's grashi stall but, unlike the disguise, their search strategy wasn't working. They were systematically quartering Hero's Square, trying to find a landmark that would orient him to the path he'd taken as he'd fled behind Pouncer in what now seemed like another lifetime. It was slow going in the crowd, especially since all of the kzinti and most of the slaves were taller than he was, making it difficult to orient himself. The slaves, at least, gave way without question, but other kzinti had to be given respect and space. For a kzin, Night Pilot was surprisingly calm about the inevitable frustrations the process engendered. Which is to say, Tskombe was reasonably sure he wouldn't simply decide to eat him when they got back to the ship. The upside was that he'd expanded his kzinti vocabulary considerably. He remained unsure of the exact meaning of most of the words, but he was confident they were all obscenities.
And it wasn't as if he'd been paying a lot of attention to the details of their route while they'd been fleeing. Pouncer had been leading the way, he'd just been following, unsure of the situation, concerned only with keeping up and staying concealed. And now they were on perhaps the tenth attempt to find Provider's stall since they'd come through the ancient walls of Hero's Square. There were a limited number of such startpoints. In theory it shouldn't have been hard to find the right one, but the details were blurred in his memory, and he'd already convinced himself that several possibilities were in fact the place, only to later rescind that judgment.
A sudden commotion spiked adrenaline through his system. Across the square a Tzaatz patrol on rapsari raiders had netgunned a spotted adolescent. He spat curses and clawed at the net as they hauled him away. Tskombe breathed out, trying not to smell afraid. He had missed whatever had triggered the incident. It didn't matter, it hadn't been anything to do with him. Night Pilot tugged his leash, as any kzinti master would do to a recalcitrant slave, and Tskombe gritted his teeth and went back to his search.
There. A stone tunnel, vendors' wooden stalls; were those barrels there before? They could have been moved there later. He looked around, saw a set of stairs running up the side of a crafter's shed.
He turned to Night Pilot. “This is it, we go right here.”
Night Pilot's lips twitched over his fangs. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“You have said so before.”
“And I've been sure before, and wrong before. I'm doing my best.”
Night Pilot just snarled and kept walking. Tskombe led him along a row of stalls, trying hard to verify each decision he made with memory's uncertain record. The sun was going down, and once it did they'd have to go back to the spaceport to spend another night on the ship. He wasn't looking forward to another day of searching, and while they searched for Provider, Contradictory was seeking out a cargo, spending his days talking to the Jotoki slaves of the major shippers for an inside track on a transshipment bid. When Black Saber got a cargo, Tskombe would be on his own.
And there it was, a busy stall on a lane branching from the main square. “This is it. Possibly…”
“Stay here.” It was bad manners to take a slave to a transaction. Night Pilot went up to the stall and Tskombe clicked on the vocom on his beltcomp to listen.
“I am Night Pilot. I search for a grashi vendor, Provider-who-was-Tank-Leader.”
“He is gone.” Tskombe didn't recognize the other's voice over the crowd noise.
“When will he return?”
“He is dead. I am his son, Far Hunter. What service may I give you?” Tskombe breathed out in relief and despair at once. He had found what he was looking for, but Provider was dead. There was the chance that Far Hunter might be able to help him. It was all he could hope for.
“I have a delivery for you.” Night Pilot went on.
“What is it?”
“This kz'eerkti.” Night Pilot pointed at Tskombe.
Far Hunter's eyes followed the gesture. “Bring it to the back.” His snarl showed sudden concern. Night Pilot motioned for Tskombe to come, but he was already moving, relief flooding his system. At last.
A minute later Tskombe came into the back of the stall.
“Tskombe-kz'eerkti!” Far Hunter's ears swiveled up. “I never dreamed you would return.”
“Far Hunter.” Tskombe claw-raked. “I have come back for my companion.”
“Of course. You are true to your honor. You fought well at the spaceport.”
“As you did.” Tskombe took a deep breath. Far Hunter would help him, he was sure of that now.
“Hrrr.” Far Hunter's snarl became deeper. “My father was killed by the Tzaatz. I managed to escape with my life. These misbred mongrels squeeze the kzintzag while the Lesser Prides do nothing.”
“And Pouncer?”
“First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is gone. His brother still holds the Patriarchy, in name at least, though he dances for Kchula-Tzaatz.”
“Gone wh
ere?”
“I don't know. We were separated in the fight, and I couldn't get to them. They stole a gravlifter.”
“You were wounded.” Tskombe gestured to the thin white lines on Far Hunter's chest that marked fur growing from scar tissue.
“A raider rapsar, that day at the spaceport. Since then I have had vengeance, for father and myself.” His paw went to the sheaf of ears at his belt and his fangs showed. “I will have more.”
“He lost his life helping us. I am sorry…” Tskombe found himself at a loss for words.
“He lost his life living up to his name, and the fault is not yours but that of the Tzaatz.”
Tskombe nodded. “And my companions, what happened to them?” Unconsciously he held his breath. This is the key question.
“I saw them, with Pouncer. The larger one, Kefan-Brasseur, was dead, or very badly injured. I couldn't join them, there were Tzaatz between us. Cherenkova-Captain was alive when I saw her last.”
Relief. “Where did they escape to?”
“I don't know. There are rumors that the Tzaatz found the loader abandoned high in the Long Range mountains. There are rumors First-Son fights the Tzaatz. Whether they are true…” Far Hunter turned both paws over. “I don't know. None of us who do fight the Tzaatz have seen him.”
“Far Hunter…” Tskombe paused. How to ask for this favor, to an alien enemy who had already paid too high a price to help him? “I need to find Cherenkova-Captain. She is my mate.”
“Hrrr. I hunt the Mooncatchers, I know the mountains. I know others who have sources of information. We can find the loader, perhaps, if it is there at all.”
“I have to try.”
“Of course you do. I need to trap more grashi. We will see what we can learn.”
“Who will mind your stall?”
“My half-uncle's son trains as my assistant. He is diligent and intelligent, if not yet wise.” Far Hunter raised his voice. “Apprentice!”
“Sire!” A young kzintosh appeared from the front section of the stall, his coat still dappled with the spots of youth.
“I will be going hunting, for the Hunter's Moon at least. The stall is yours until I return. Be thrifty, industrious, and courteous. You have the opportunity here to earn much strakh, both for our pride and yourself.”
The youngster claw-raked. “I will strive to be worthy of your trust, Senior Cousin.”
Tskombe turned to Night Pilot. “Black Saber's sensors may be helpful here.”
“They can be.” Night Pilot turned a paw over. “It will cost fuel. Your retainer is too thin, Tskombe-kz'eerkti.”
“Retainer? What is that?” Far Hunter was puzzled.
“It is…” Tskombe paused. The word for money in the Hero's Tongue was k'rna, a phonetic translation of kroner, stolen from Wunderland's North European argot, with its use confined to the kzinti who had to trade with humans. There was another word that meant exchange token, but it didn't encompass the nuances of invisible credit that were attached to modern funds. How to explain that to Far Hunter? When it came down to it, money was just a recognized store of value. It was alien on Kzinhome, where value was stored in your status and the universal recognition of it by the entire society. The system of strakh worked, so far as he could see, only because kzinti lived and died by their honor. As an economic working fluid it was only a small step up from barter. Electronic funds transfers, digital money, stocks, futures, the miracle of compound interest and all the rest of the working machinery of an advanced economy were impossible to them. A human trader could take over the markets of Hero's Square in a month by streamlining trade, except a human would be eaten first, for insulting a Hero with the suggestion that next month he would have to pay back more than he had borrowed today.
None of which would give any enlightenment to Far Hunter. “It is a form of strakh, formalized for exchange purposes,” he finished. It was not really an explanation at all, though Far Hunter accepted it at face value.
Far Hunter nodded. “I have strakh with my half-uncle, Cargo Pilot. In turn he will have strakh enough at the spaceport for fuel.”
Night Pilot's ears fanned up. “A stall vendor has strakh to fuel a starship?”
Far Hunter rippled his ears. “My strakh does not come from trading grashi. I fight the Tzaatz for what they did to my father, but I am not alone. The Rrit governed fairly; the Tzaatz demand too much from us. The Lesser Prides are afraid to act but we of the kzintzag have little to lose. We leap in the name of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. A search for Cherenkova-Captain is a search for First-Son. For this purpose I command all the strakh on Kzinhome.” He smiled to show his fangs. “Tell me how much fuel you need, you will have it.”
“This is good. We will need maps too.” Night Pilot tapped at his beltcomp. “Coordinates. I can track you on the ground in real-time as you move, and search terrain ahead of you. Our sensors are better than you might think for a ship our size, and I know how to avoid notice from the orbital tracking net.”
Tskombe looked at him. “Have you smuggled on Kzinhome before?”
Night Pilot rippled his ears. “Smuggling is unknown to kzinti, in the human sense.”
“Because it's against the honor code?”
Night Pilot rippled his ears. “Because there are no import or export restrictions in the Patriarchy. What Great Pride would accept such an arbitrary imposition by the Patriarch?”
“So what is your role here then?”
“There are still those who make shipments in secret, to avoid the oversight of rivals, just for example. In honor, this is not smuggling.”
Tskombe shrugged. The difference between the rules of human honor and kzinti honor was as wide as the gulf between barter and a market economy. “So we need maps, survival gear, food and water, transportation to the area, what else?”
“A place to start.” Night Pilot turned to Far Hunter. “You said a vehicle was found?”
“It was. There are snippets of information. Kchula-Tzaatz's brother leads raids to distant places, first the jungle, then the desert and the high forests. It is said they search for First-Son.”
Tskombe shook his head. “We need something better than that.”
“I have friends among the cvari savannah hunters. Little escapes them. I will see if I can learn where the grav loader crashed, and we can start there. In the morning I will arrange to have your ship refueled.”
Night Pilot twitched his tail. “Where should I aim my sensors?”
Tskombe shrugged. “Can we find out where the Tzaatz have launched these raids?”
“Hrrr.” Night Pilot turned a paw over. “I have contacts who will know. In the morning I will ask.”
Tskombe nodded. “I'm grateful for your help, Far Hunter.”
Far Hunter waved a paw. “It is nothing. My father swore fealty to the Rrit, and I have sworn to serve his memory. You wore the Patriarch's sigil. I am at your service.”
“I still have it.” Tskombe held up the medallion he had carried a hundred light-years.
“You are true to your own honor, Tskombe-kz'eerkti. We need a toast.” Far Hunter raised his voice. “Apprentice! Blood mead for our guests!”
Apprentice appeared with a set of huge flagons and a ceramic decanter and poured a thick, dark red liquid. Tskombe looked at it dubiously, but there was no way to refuse it.
Far Hunter stood up. “To vengeance,” he snarled, and Tskombe was about to echo him and drink when Night Pilot stood up.
“To success!”
They looked at him expectantly. Kzinti toasts are individual. No matter; it was amazing enough that a custom like toasting existed in any form in another species's culture. He stood up. “To the Rrit!” It seemed the thing to say.
The kzinti snarled in approval and drained their flagons at a gulp. Tskombe drank his as quickly as he could. The mead was heavy, thick, and bitter, and he nearly gagged getting it down. And to Ayla.
He sat down, stomach churning and head already swimming. The flagons were two lit
ers at least, and the drink's alcohol content was high. He had never been much of a drinker, and the rest of the night was a blur.
61 Ursae Majoris was high in the sky when he woke up, and painfully bright. He was back in Provider's house, now Far Hunter's, though he couldn't remember getting there. His head was pounding, and he wished for a fistful of detox pills and the rest of the day to stay in bed. Not the smartest way to start the mission. But he couldn't have avoided it. Far Hunter and Night Pilot were his only allies, and he was lucky to have them. Perhaps they wouldn't have been insulted if he'd turned down the toast, but he couldn't have taken the risk.
He dragged himself up to find Trina waiting for him. “Good morning.”
“What are you doing here?” The same two silent Kdatlyno were performing their morning cleaning rituals. It's as if I never left.
Trina smiled far too cheerily, she was enjoying her adventure. “Night Pilot brought me here. Contradictory is refueling the ship. They're taking off tomorrow.”
Tskombe nodded and suppressed the urge to scold her. It wasn't her fault, and though he'd be more comfortable with her safe on the ship, Night Pilot couldn't take responsibility for her forever. Instead he sat, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“There's some meat here. The kzin in the front gave it to me. The sauces are good. Night Pilot went out with the other one; they said they'd be back this evening.”
Tskombe looked at the serving. She was eating with a serrated skeceri knife, slicing off chunks of still warm raw meat, dunking them in sauce, and swallowing them almost whole. She'd developed a taste for kzinti cooking, or lack of it, on Black Saber. He looked away. His stomach wasn't ready to consider food yet.
Trina saw his look. “There's these eggs, too. Nay-something, they use them raw in the sauce, but I boiled mine.” She held one up, a mottled round sphere, fuzzy like a peach. “I can make some for you too.” She seemed eager for him to say yes.
“It's pronounced nyalzeri.” He avoided her question to avoid disappointing her. “You don't speak the Hero's Tongue, do you?”
She laughed. “No. When would I have learned that?”
