Destiny's Forge

by Larry Niven

  “Your line ends here, sthondat.” Guardmaster’s words were laced with contempt, and Pouncer knew he had lost.

  “Hold!” By the wall First Trainer had his arms upraised, stopping the duel. “First positions.”

  Panting hard, Pouncer retrieved his variable sword and made the chest-to-nose-to-chest gesture that acknowledged his opponent’s victory. Guardmaster responded in kind. “Well fought, Pouncer. Well fought, but you leapt with anger again.”

  “You taught me yourself, when in doubt, attack.”

  “And were you unsure of what I was going to do?”

  “I knew you were about to attack.”

  “I know you knew, I saw it in your eyes. So you had no doubt, but you attacked anyway. When you are sure of your opponent’s intent, anticipate it in order to defeat him. When you are unsure, attack to make him unsure also, but do not overcommit yourself.”

  Pouncer moved back to his starting point. “You insulted me, Guardmaster.”

  The battle scarred warrior rippled his ears. “Of course. I fight to win, and if I can cloud your mind with anger I will win. Insults will not kill you, but losing self-control is fatal. Rage is death. Anger makes you fight hard, but you cannot win if your mind is not clear.”

  “It is easier to say than to exercise.”

  “One day you will be Patriarch, Pouncer, and then you will have no one but yourself to keep your rage in check.”

  “I will do better, Guardmaster.” Pouncer took a deep breath to ready himself for the next bout. “Again, First Trainer?” He moved to resting guard position in anticipation of the command.

  “Again! V’scree!”

  “Wait!” All three of them looked up to the gallery that ran around the top of the arena. Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was there watching them. Pouncer’s younger brother had the same Rrit-characteristic orange/black coat as he did, but he was short and broad compared to Pouncer’s lean form, with a distinctive series of black bands along his shoulders and back.

  “Your training time is long over, Elder-Brother. This is my time for the Arena.”

  A momentary annoyance washed over Pouncer. Second-Son was right, but as always his manner was unnecessarily hostile. He raised his ears and kept the irritation from his voice. “Of course, Black-Stripe, I am tired of looking up at Guardmaster’s blade anyway.”

  Second-Son’s lips curled in a suppressed snarl at the sound of his hated familiar-name but he too kept his voice level. “Rrit-Conserver is expecting you.”

  “My test is tomorrow, brother.”

  Guardmaster watched the exchange in distaste, offended by Second-Son’s antagonism. He trained First-Son because he enjoyed it and Second-Son because it was his duty. He hefted his variable sword and cocked an ear in not-quite-sincere invitation. “Would you care for a bout, Second-Son?”

  “I will confine myself to the training drone.” Second-Son’s voice held an arrogance he was entitled to by birth if not by ability. “Guardmaster, First Trainer, you are dismissed.”

  Guardmaster swirled his tail in indifference. “As you wish.” Trainer gathered his training aids, turned to Guardmaster and Pouncer, and gave a claw-rake salute.

  “Sires, until tomorrow.” He left through the training gate.

  Guardmaster turned to Pouncer. “A quick hunt in the Darkmoon Park might make a meal.”

  Pouncer depowered his mag armor, the perfect mirror surface reverting to lustrous copper, and tossed it aside for the pierin training slaves to collect. “The Hero’s Square Market has easier prey for a tired student.” He rippled his ears in amusement.

  Guardmaster twitched his tail as he depowered his own armor. “Hrrr. You know I disapprove of the risk.”

  “What risk, with you as my sword and shield?”

  “I’m too old to duel on some kzintzag’s whim.” Guardmaster twitched his whiskers grumpily. “But I’d better come so you don’t get yourself lost.”

  On the gallery above them Second-Son watched them leave, his lips curling up over his fangs in distaste. He had been watching them for some time from the shadows of the gallery, his impatience growing steadily. First-Son used the arena as though it belonged to him, as he acted about all things in the Citadel of the Patriarch. The knowledge that one day it would belong to him, along with the Patriarchy and all that went with it galled Second-Son. The jotok beside him sensed his displeasure and tried to slip away, but a curt gesture stopped it. He ignored her, his thoughts occupied with his brother. It pleased him to see Guardmaster administer humiliation to his father’s favored son, but there was no denying Pouncer’s skill at single combat. Second-Son disdained the rigors of the formal combat form and its emphasis on self-restraint. Instead he preferred live meat. There was little danger in a duel between a hapless slave and a noble equipped with mag armor and a variable sword, but much excitement. Dueling slaves was forbidden, and First-Son lacked the liver to defy their father’s edict, but simple obedience was not what it took to wield the power of the Patriarchy. For now there was little that Second-Son could do but bear his brother’s unfounded arrogance and keep his trophies well hidden, but one day his moment would come. When Second-Son was Patriarch he would wear his ears with pride, and everyone who saw them would know he backed his rule with his own claws.

  With a gesture he ordered the cowering slave onto the arena floor and then screamed and leapt from the balcony, his variable sword a blur of slash attacks as he channeled the rage he felt at his brother into his weapon.

  Generosity gives a generous life.

  —Wisdom of the Conservers

  The sun was up and on its way down again, filtering soft light through the high canopy of sheetleaf trees in the Eastern Park, warm on Pouncer’s fur as he and Guardmaster went over the burbling Quickwater at the River Gate bridge in the outer fortress wall. Once the Citadel had sat on an island in the river, but the fortress had long since outgrown its boundaries. Only at River Gate was the Citadel’s outer wall still protected by water. Upstream the other fork flowed through an ornate portcullis in the Middle Rampart to form the centerpiece of several of the parks and gardens within. Around River Gate smallholdings were scattered, visible here and there between the huge, gray sheetleaf trunks, largely the homes of those who served at the Citadel. Pouncer threaded his way down the wide paths, enjoying the stretch of his muscles after the hard training session.

  “One day you will be challenged here.” Guardmaster reemphasized his disapproval. The safety of the Patriarch’s heir was his responsibility.

  Pouncer rippled his ears. “I imagine myself equal to it with you by my side.” Guardmaster’s deadly precision with a variable sword was legendary across all of Kzinhome.

  “A wise warrior chooses his opponents, sire. He doesn’t let his opponents choose him. You are the Patriarchy.”

  Pouncer waved a dismissive paw. “My father is the Patriarchy. I am only his son, and he has many sons.”

  “You are the oldest, and by far the most worthy to succeed him.”

  Pouncer rippled his ears, understanding the implied comparison with his next-oldest brother. “Black-Stripe is young yet. I remember when you took another unruly and disobedient kitten into training.”

  Guardmaster’s irritation faded at Pouncer’s humor. “That one has improved with the seasons.”

  “And has some improving yet to do.”

  “You are too hard on yourself, sire. You have mastered a great deal for your age.”

  “My father cannot walk in the market.” Pouncer changed the subject, uncomfortable with praise for a performance he felt was substandard. “His leadership is too important to risk. But the kzintzag will see his son and know the Patriarchy doesn’t hide behind the Citadel walls. It is important.”

  Guardmaster was silent. He is right, he thought to himself. Which does not mean I have to like it.

  It was some distance to the market, but the breeze was heavy with its scent, the urine marks of the stall holders, hot metal from a coppersmith’s booth, leather
from a cloak vendor’s, frightened prey animals in display cages, ozone and oil from gravcars, fresh plasteel from component shops. Pouncer inhaled the scent, sampling each of its notes with pleasure. There were times, more and more frequently of late, when he thought it would be easier to live as a crafter did, his days bound by nothing more than the cycle of trade and tradition. It was a thought without honor, he knew, but he could not deny its attraction.

  The Quickwater bent around into their path once more and the trail took them over an ancient bridge of mossy stone. Over the rise beyond it was a vast clearing in the canopy, Hero’s Square, the ancient intersection of four great trackways. Once it had been a walled fortress itself, though unlike the Citadel’s continually updated defenses the walls were now more tradition than protection, breached with walkways over and tunnels through. Workshops crowded tight along the concentric rings of stone, suntiles gleaming on the rooftops to power the machines inside. There was an audible buzz, machines and slaves and kzinti, working and bartering and gossiping among the bustling stalls. Gravcars hummed overhead, bringing goods from all over the plain, from all over the planet, from the edges of the Patriarchy and beyond. If you couldn’t find what you wanted in Hero’s Square you could always find someone who could get it for you.

  Pouncer sniffed the air, licked his chops, delighted at the sight. “Come, I’m hungry. Let’s go here.” He pointed to a grashi vendor’s stall on the less fashionable side of the square.

  Guardmaster rippled his lips in distaste. “We can find better than that farther along.”

  “Hunger has no time or place.” Pouncer headed for his chosen booth.

  “I serve the Rrit, sire.” Guardmaster’s tone was smooth, but his annoyed tail flip made his feelings clear.

  It was not the poorest stall in the market, but far from the most lavish. Heavy jars of thick, pungent sauces lined a polished stonewood countertop attended by an old kzin, his ears tattered and scarred and his fur faded. Behind the counter were stacked cages of grashi, sniffing and scrabbling behind the bars. Below them larger cages held eights of close-huddled vatach and a handful of some exotic off-world prey that Pouncer didn’t recognize, dappled gray fur and long ears, whiffling noses. Pouncer leaned on the counter, inhaling the rich scents of the booth. It might not have been the most refined venue, but if his nose was any measure it served fine food.

  The vendor moved to serve them, then made a startled claw-rake salute when he recognized the Sigil of the Patriarchy tattooed on Pouncer’s ears.

  Pouncer acknowledged the salute, waved a paw as the old kzin started to abase himself. “What have you today, Provider?”

  “Sire, my humble offerings are surely not worthy of your palate.” The vendor continued to abase himself.

  “Hunger exalts the simplest food.” Pouncer ran his eye over the sauces on display on the counter and the ranks of caged burrowers behind the vendor. “Are your grashi wild?”

  “They are, sire. My son hunts beyond the Mooncatchers for them.” The vendor stood, somewhat hesitantly, and came to the counter.

  “What sauce do you think best?”

  Provider ladled a dish full of dark red sauce from one of the containers and slid it across the counter. “This is made with tunuska, very tangy but smooth. Please try it.” Expertly he fished a wriggling burrower from one of the cages, beheaded it, and drained its blood into the bowl. Pouncer took the offered bowl and dipped the still warm body into the sauce, then popped the burrower into this mouth, enjoying the fresh crunch.

  “Your sauce is excellent!”

  “I have new vatach as well, Patriarch, also wild-caught, if you care to sample them.” He was already pulling another jar of sauce forward. “This one is made with nyalzeri eggs.” Serving First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would bring him more strakh than a whole season of his usual custom. Now that his surprise was gone he was anxious to impress.

  “They could not be better than your grashi. Two bowls of this tunuska, and twice-eight of grashi each.”

  “Of course. You’ll have my finest.” The aged kzin ran a practiced eye over his stock, choosing carefully. Finally satisfied, he expertly fished his quarry from their cages into two wriggling bags and slid them across the counter. He ladled another bowlful for Guardmaster. “I am honored by your patronage, sire.”

  “I am honored by your hospitality, Provider.” Pouncer took the grashi bags and handed one to Guardmaster. They walked in silence for awhile. Toward the center of the square the market plaza opened into a park with low stone tables under widespread tangletrees. Pouncer disdained them, choosing instead to relax on a shaded hillock. He set his bowl down carefully, opened his bag and let a grashi run, pouncing on it like a kitten before dipping it in the bowl. The grashi had the deep, musky flavor that farmed grashi lacked, and the sauce accented it perfectly. His companion ate slowly, his eyes far away.

  “Something is troubling you, Guardmaster.”

  Guardmaster looked at Pouncer and concealed his surprise. He had not meant to express his concerns, even nonverbally. The heir is perceptive, more perceptive than I give him credit for. He weighed his answer carefully before speaking. “It is not fitting, sire, for the Patriarch’s son to share honor with a streetvendor.”

  Pouncer made a dismissive gesture. “Are the grashi not fresh enough for you?”

  “The grashi are excellent, as are the sauces, but for the First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit to eat from a market stall…” Guardmaster swept a paw to take in the vast expanse of the square. “There are many fine places here eager for the patronage of the Patriarch’s line, vendors who have spent years building their reputations, even vendors with half-names. To squander the strakh of Rrit Pride on a stall merchant, this is not done.”

  Pouncer rippled his ears. “You would rather spend the day reclining on a padded prrstet being hand fed by trained kzinretti, is that it?”

  He knows better than this, thought Guardmaster. He is testing. Why? “The order of things is not lightly defied, sire. The Lesser Prides are very traditional and they compete keenly for the honor of the Patriarch. If Rrit strakh is casually dispensed to street rabble there will be talk, and Rrit strakh will be worth less. Your father needs their solid support now more than ever.”

  “And the support of the kzintzag is not equally important? Provider’s grashi are excellent, his sauces rich and finely spiced. Does he not also deserve a measure of the strakh so greedily hoarded by those fortunate enough to be born to a half-name? Today First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was his customer. By this evening the whole market will know. By tomorrow he will have not a stall but a house, and if his quality remains this high, his strakh will be no more than he deserves.”

  “In three days your father sits with the Great Pride Circle, and he will be asked why his son gives honor to a stall vendor when he would be a welcome guest at any pride on the Plain of Stgrat. Degrade the honor of Rrit Pride and you degrade the honor of every pride that swears fealty to us.”

  “And no doubt my father will say that the Patriarchy gives honor to any who deserve it, regardless of station. Perhaps the Lesser Prides will put more effort into earning their positions and less into parading what they already have.”

  Guardmaster was silent, but he looked at Pouncer with new respect. He is impetuous perhaps but he is growing out of that, and his political sense is already keen. He did not do this casually. He calculated the effect this would have quite finely, and on every level. He is sending a message to his father and the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag as to the sort of leader he will be. And to me. Tomorrow he faces Rrit-Conserver’s test. I wonder if he is ready?

  Steel is no stronger than the sinew that wields it.

  —Si-Rrit

  It was twilight, and Third-Guard stood at his post by the River Gate, mag armor gleaming in the fading light, variable sword held at the ready. His post was mostly ceremonial; the Citadel’s weapons systems reached into high orbit and its sensors extended across half-eight-squared octaves of the electromagnetic spec
trum. He was the last line of defense before the walls of the Citadel itself, and the chance that he would stop an enemy who had somehow evaded the sophisticated layers of protection above him was vanishingly slight. Nevertheless he took his post seriously. He served the Rrit, one of the elite zitalyi of the Patriarch’s personal guard. It was an honor, and he would prove himself worthy of it. His equipment was well maintained, his stance alert and ready.

  “Sire! Myowr-Guardmaster!” Third-Guard leapt to attention and claw-raked. The Patriarch’s Son and the leader of the zitalyi! It was well that he presented himself as a warrior should. The Rrit rewarded fealty and competence above all.

  “Good watch, Third-Guard?” Guardmaster’s critical eye took in his warrior’s equipment and deportment at a glance, and finding nothing lacking, carried on without comment. Approving silence was high praise from the taciturn commander. Third-Guard was pleased with himself. He practiced his combat drills daily. He was lethal with anything from heavy beam weapons to his bare teeth and claws. It was his place to be that way, now more than ever that the Great Pride Circle was meeting. The leaders of the Great Prides could not see the gamma ray lasers and mag launchers that protected the Citadel. They could see Third-Guard, and it was important that what they saw impressed them. More than one had commented on the discipline and bearing of the Patriarch’s Guard, wishing their own Heroes were at such a standard. That was heady talk, coming from the double-named rulers of worlds and star sectors.

  And they impressed him! Kzinti whose ancestors had left Kzinhome eight-cubed generations ago! The white-pelted ice-warriors of Churrt Pride, their fur thicker than a tuskvor’s, the tall and lean Vdar of Meerowsk, Dcrz Pride of ancient Kdat with their rarefied rituals. Some of the newcomers’ dialects were barely understandable, their customs uniformly bizarre. The other day Chmee-Cvail himself had swept through, with a retinue of odd-faced Pierin slaves of a noticeably different breed than those who belonged to the Rrit, and just before watch he had traded stories with a retainer of Kchula-Tzaatz, heard tales of jungle hunts on steamy Jotok and the Puppeteer first contact. It was stuff to fire the imagination, and he had decided then and there to get on the next available ship headed anywhere. There was a universe out there to conquer, if he only had the liver for it. In the service of the Rrit he could not fail to win honor.