by Larry Niven
Sword-Sergeant looked back to Rapsar-Trainer, still waiting at the end of the hall, tapped his nose, and gestured to the archway. Sniffer forward.
Rapsar-Trainer came up the hall, a squat reptilian sniffer waddling hard to keep up with him, eyestalks straining forward in eagerness. Sword-Sergeant wrinkled his nose in distaste. The sniffer looked like easy prey, but its scent told him the meat would be foul. He had little more affection for Rapsar-Trainer, who was clearly no warrior. Still, the rapsari were useful. They had started the day with four sniffers; three had died at the hands of Rrit defenders. Those deaths would have been his own Heroes if the sniffers hadn’t been there to lead the way.
The sniffer waddled to the arch, proboscis wiggling for scent, eyestalks wrapping around the corner to check for danger. Color flowed across the chromatophores on its hindquarters, coding what it detected for Rapsar-Trainer.
Rapsar-Trainer gave a signal. Low threat left.
Sword-Sergeant acknowledged the signal with a tail flip. More meat for the glory of Tzaatz Pride. He leapt for the doorway, tail streaming behind him for balance, hind claws reaching forward to carry him into a roll as he landed, clearing the way for the rest of Fore-Blade, half a leap behind him. He caught a blur in the corner of his eye, pivoted and swung. His variable sword amputated the head of a statue before he realized his error. Embarrassing. He kicked the statue over to avenge that dishonor, and the intricate mechanism inside fell apart into randomly shaped components. Strange, but irrelevant. He turned his attention to the minor danger the sniffer had warned of.
He was in a courtyard garden, full of complicated sculptures and manicured hedges. A crippled kzin on a gravlifted prrstet lay by a bed of flowers, with a pair of silent Kdatlyno attendants. He twitched his tail in disgust. The ears of this pathetic specimen were barely worth putting on his belt. He turned to signal Hind-Blade through the arch, then paused to cuff Second-Sword, who was trying to detach a small statue from its base.
“Booty later,” he snarled. For a second it looked as though Second-Sword would challenge-leap, but then he looked down and performed the gesture of submission. “I obey, Sword-Sergeant.”
“See that you do.” He returned his attention to the motionless trio in front of him. “Hind-Blade-Leader, secure the perimeter. I will kill this sthondat myself.”
He advanced on his victim. Neither he nor the slaves made any move either to fight or to flee, which was somewhat disappointing. As he drew closer the wasted kzin seemed oblivious to his presence. All at once recognition dawned, and a thrill of exultation ran through Sword-Sergeant. “Hind-Blade-Leader! Stop!” This would win him a name! “Defensive formation! Here now!” He keyed his vocom. “Chruul-Commander, we have the telepath!” He couldn’t keep the gloating from his voice. He gestured at the Kdatlyno with his weapon. “You slaves, stand aside. We will take him.”
The Kdatlyno didn’t move, but the crippled figure on the prrstet shifted, turning his blank staring eyes to meet Sword-Sergeant’s. In any other context Sword-Sergeant would already have screamed and leapt for such impertinence. Gutting one slave would ensure the other obeyed him in future, but something about the crippled telepath made him hesitate: those eyes, huge and infinitely empty, staring through him, paralyzing in their intensity…
He would have backed away, but that would never do in front of his warriors. Instead he repeated his threat. “Stand aside slaves, or I’ll…” He didn’t finish his sentence. The world vanished and he was falling in infinite blackness, his ears filled with his own screaming. Distantly he was aware of his body falling to the ground, but he could only think to end the darkness. Vainly he beat against his skull with his fists for relief, each flash of pain bringing some scrap of grounded reality to his sense-starved mind. It wasn’t enough. In desperation he slammed his head against the ground, willing his awareness back to the here and now. The exploding pain of every impact gave just an instant’s respite from the despairing emptiness. Not soon enough the quiet fell.
Third-Sword watched in fascinated horror as his screaming leader beat his own brains out on the flagstones of the Puzzle Garden path, unsure of what to do. The answer came an instant later as Telepath’s huge, blank eyes focused on him, but by then it was too late to run. He was smarter than Sword-Sergeant, but it still took him several attempts before he managed to drive his wtsai through his own braincase.
Don’t speak to me of honor. Victory is everything.
—Vsar-Vsar, the Seven World Scourge
Kchula-Tzaatz looked down from his chamber in the House of Victory at the carnage in the Citadel’s Old Courtyard, where the broken bodies of Tzaatz, Rrit and rapsari lay where they had fallen in twice-eights. It was truly a great day. The battle had never reached the House of Victory, though it had come close. Some of the Great Pride-Patriarchs had thrown their retinues into the defense of the Citadel, hoping no doubt to curry favor with Meerz-Rrit, but they had been swept aside with the zitalyi defenders. A far smaller number had offered their support to Kchula-Tzaatz, but he had refused them all; no need to take on obligations of honor when victory was sure. Stkaa-Emissary’s guards stood as an outer cordon to Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s elite killers, an obligation Kchula had accepted when he feared the entire plan would come apart. He now would rather not have given such strakh to Stkaa-Emissary, but what was done was done. All Stkaa Pride would want from the new ruler of the Patriarchy was support in their monkey war and against Cvail Pride. That was already part of Kchula’s plan to unite the Great Prides under him, and since Chmee-Cvail had thrown his warriors in with the Rrit, the deal would simply allow him to use Stkaa Pride for his own vengeance. It was a triviality.
“Victory is ours, brother.” Kchula jumped and whirled. He had not heard Ftzaal-Tzaatz come in.
He fought down the urge to snarl in anger at being startled. My brother’s stealth is my tool. “The Command Lair is taken then?”
“Ktronaz-Commander just vocommed me.”
“I must go there at once.”
Ftzaal led a formation of his guard to escort Kchula through secured areas. There was still fighting going on in isolated pockets of the Citadel, but the key points had been taken and the outcome was no longer in doubt. Still-warm bodies were strewn through the fortress, and once a pair of Rrit leapt from ambush, variable swords humming, only to be quickly dispatched by Ftzaal’s elite warriors. Kchula took care to show no fear. Now was the time that he would cement his rule as the greatest conqueror in the history of the Patriarchy, but he was still relieved when they reached the base of the Patriarch’s Tower and the tunnels leading down to the Command Lair. Aboveground the Tower was a well preserved piece of history, its stones eight-cubed generations old or more; belowground it was a very up-to-date fortress. The mag-armored blast doors at the tunnel entrance were proof against even conversion weapons, but the corrosive juices of the breaching rapsari had eaten large holes through the thick plates. Kchula wrinkled his nose at the harsh, acidic scent as they passed. The fighting had been hard, and carbonized beam scars marred the walls near a pile of dead warriors in Tzaatz livery. At the far end of the corridor a pair of AI-directed defense turrets had been hacked from the wall with slicewires. Someone had neglected to turn them off at the declaration of skalazaal, and the cost to the attackers had been heavy.
Kchula gestured to a retainer, Aide-de-Camp. “Document that.” The evidence will be useful later, if it becomes necessary to erode Rrit honor.
Aide-de-Camp claw-raked and obeyed, and the remainder of the party continued. Tzaatz warriors had chalked battle codes on the walls as they advanced, indicating enemy positions, cleared rooms, and directions for follow-up forces. Following them they rode a drop tube down seven levels to the Command Lair. The carnage there was incredible, the halls literally slick with blood. The zitalyi had made a last stand and the Tzaatz had broken their resistance with swarms of harrier rapsari, small, fast and vicious. Twice-eights of the scaly bodies were strewn around the Command Lair, intermingled with the tangl
ed dead of Rrit and Tzaatz. It had been a costly fight, but that was no matter. Victory is what counts, not the price.
He waved Aide-de-Camp forward. “See that the dead receive full honors, and that their conquest share goes to their sons and brothers.”
“Of course, sire.”
It was no more than honor demanded, and Ktronaz-Commander would have seen it done regardless. Issuing the order himself simply asserted his command and reaffirmed his loyalty to his warriors. The word would spread, Kchula-Tzaatz himself insisted the protocols be followed, and his strakh would rise with those who pledged their fealty to him. Few would stop to consider the price he would pay if he issued the opposite order. Greet necessity with enthusiasm. He would have preferred to accrue their shares to himself. The dead are no one’s ally. He scowled slightly at the requirements of honor.
A moment later he was striding through the doors of the Command Lair, and elation washed away every other emotion. The legendary nexus of Rrit control! He looked around with triumphant glee, ran his hands over the control panels that would issue orders to swing the might of the entire Patriarchy wherever he desired it. This was power! How long had he dreamed of possessing it? The day was his. It remained only to consolidate his triumph.
Across the room Ktronaz-Commander’s command group had a temporary command post set up until the more sophisticated Rrit system could be brought under control. Snarls in battle code rose from comsets as Ktronaz-Commander directed the mop-up. Pockets of Rrit zitalyi were still fighting fierce rearguard actions around the Citadel. Still, the House of Victory was secure, the nobles of the various Great Prides assured of their safety. More important, the crèches had been taken, the Rrit kittens already executed. There would be no upstart contestants to his rule.
He caught a snatch of transmission, “…Sea-of-Stars secure…” Ktronaz-Commander looked up, jumped to attention, and saluted.
“Sire, the spaceport is taken.” There was blood on Ktronaz-Commander’s face. The fighting had been hard. “And we found a gift for you, cowering in a hole in the infirmary.” He made a contemptuous gesture to a corner. Kchula followed the motion, saw Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, being watched by two Tzaatz guards.
“Kchula-Tzaatz.” Second-Son pushed forward. His escort moved to stop him, but fell back at a gesture from Ktronaz-Commander. “I have kept my end of the bargain, now it is time for you keep yours.”
Kchula looked Second-Son over, his lips curling. The scion of the Rrit did not impress in person. “Your father is dead then?”
“He is.” The image of his father’s death rose unbidden in Second-Son, and he fought it down. I have killed before. Why does this haunt me so?
Kchula looked sharply to Ftzaal-Tzaatz. “Has this been confirmed?”
“His body lies there.” Second-Son spoke before Ftzaal could answer, pointed to one of the corpses Kchula had been ignoring. Kchula nudged it over with his toe, saw the Rrit ear tattoos, the distinctive black stripes. Even in death Meerz-Rrit looked regal, and Kchula kicked the body.
“And your brother?”
“Your assassin struck. He did not die at once, but he is surely dead now.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to the infirmary to confirm it myself. His body is gone.”
“Gone?” Anger flooded Kchula. “I need the ztrarr, the proof-before-the-pride-circle. An empty bed is no evidence.”
“My pledge was only to kill my father; your assassin was supposed to take care of First-Son. I claim my due.” There was arrogance in Second-Son’s voice, though he avoided looking at his dead father.
“You would still be Patriarch, is that it?” There was amazement in Kchula’s voice, replacing the rage. There is nothing to be gained by killing this wretch. Let us game with him instead.
“You pledged it on your honor.” Second-Son’s hackles rose. He had taken humiliation enough for this day. The price he had paid was high, and he was not going to be denied. His father…He could not help looking at the body, could not stand to look. What have I done?
“And so I did.” Kchula-Tzaatz let his fangs show, just a little, enjoying his game. “But if you were to die in challenge duel, perhaps the Patriarchy would fall to me.”
Fear shot through Second-Son, though he did his best not to show it. “You cannot rule. The Patriarchy belongs to the Rrit.”
Kchula looked at his captive, controlling the urge to have him executed on the spot. He is my tool, nothing more. His use is not yet ended. Still his voice was full of contempt when he spoke. This tool will be more useful wielded in a strong grip. “Power belongs to the powerful. Tzaatz troops control the Citadel.”
“No Great Pride would stand for it!” Second-Son spoke with a conviction he didn’t feel, seeing the situation spinning out of control.
“But if the Rrit line is ended…Someone must rule, mustn’t they? Who will gainsay me if I tell them I am Patriarch?” Kchula let his mouth gape into a fanged smile, enjoying the fear that blossomed in Second-Son’s eyes.
He means to kill me. Second-Son twisted away from his guards and leapt for the door, but found himself tripped up, flat on his back with Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s variable sword at his throat.
“In a hurry to leave, traitor?” Ftzaal’s hard eyes locked on Second-Son’s, his lips twitching over his fangs, inviting Second-Son to give him the pleasure of executing him.
“Stand down, Ftzaal.” Kchula’s voice was firm. “I play with the coward. We shall stand by the honor of the Tzaatz Pride.” He looked at his warriors. “You see how the scion of the Rrit upholds the honor of his Pride.” Reluctantly the black-furred killer retracted his sword’s slicewire and stepped back. Second-Son stayed where he was, his scent now so rank with fear he didn’t bother to try to hide it, but daring to hope that he might live. Kchula raised a lip in contempt. “Stand up.” Second-Son obeyed and Kchula went on. “Tell me you deserve the position I am about to grant you, groveling coward.”
“You promised me…” The hope in Second-Son kindled.
“And I will not have it said that Tzaatz Pride does less than fulfill its bargains.” Kchula took a small case from his carry-cape, withdrew a metal disk from that. “Did you know my brother served the priesthood? Not a High Priest, but the Stalkers-in-the-Night—a priest of death and darkness. Perhaps it is fitting that he bestow you with the sigil of your new office.” He tossed the disk to Ftzaal. Second-Son turned to see, felt fear surge anew. It wasn’t a sigil of office, it was a…
Ftzaal-Tzaatz moved in a blur too fast to see, the disk coming up to slap hard against Second-Son’s back. Pain burned in his shoulder as its teeth embedded themselves deep in the muscle, and he fell to his knees as it spread to paralyzing numbness.
“The zzrou is filled with p’chert toxin.” Kchula’s purred with satisfaction as he put an ornate medallion around his neck. “It is keyed to this transponder. Do not allow yourself to get too far from me, Patriarch.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “And since the transponder monitors my life signs, make yourself concerned with my well-being.”
“You sthondat!” Rage and humiliation swept over Second-Son as he realized what had been done. The zzrou listened constantly for its transponder’s signal. If the signal grew too weak, it would start to leak poison into his system. Too much of that for too long and he would die, painfully. It was meant for controlling slaves; to have it used on him was too deep an insult to bear.
Kchula pressed a button on the transponder medallion and the burn intensified, sending Second-Son writhing to the ground in agony. “Respect! Please, Patriarch.” His voice was mocking. “We your humble servants deserve that at least!” He let his fangs show again, closed on Second-Son, knelt to whisper in his ear, stabbing the words like daggers. “Listen to me, coward and traitor. I am keeping my bargain in making you Patriarch. Once that is done, Tzaatz honor is satisfied. The Rrit name will be useful in taming the Great Prides. Very soon I will have my power consolidated. If you want to reign long after that, you will find ways
to remain useful. Do you understand?”
Second-Son’s eyes slid to the medallion around Kchula’s neck. He remembered his father convulsing as he died, and he shuddered. His voice was weak as he stammered out a barely audible agreement. Kchula stood and cocked a leg, sending a spray of urine into Second-Son’s fur. In other circumstances the gesture might have been protective; the scent mark meant to keep other warriors from challenging a ward of the Pride-Patriarch. Here it was meant purely to humiliate, to convey the message, You are my property.
Kchula finished and waved a paw. “Ftzaal, take this excrement from my sight. Summon the High Priests, and see that he’s ready for the Naming Ceremony.”
“As you command, brother.” Ftzaal gestured to his warriors, who dragged Second-Son to his feet and hauled him away. Kchula watched with satisfaction. The Rrit line is weak, their strength rotted out. They could not have stood against me. His earlier fears were long vanished. Now to see to the Great Prides. “Aide-de-Camp!”
“Command me, sire!”
“We require a seating of the Great Pride Circle. See that it is arranged immediately. Ftzaal-Tzaatz will direct you.”
“At once, sire.”
“And see that he ensures the Rrit fleet knows a Rrit will hold the Patriarchy.” Aide-de-Camp left on the leap, and Kchula snarled in satisfaction to himself. That rumor will reach the Great Prides. For the next few days confusion will be my ally. He turned to survey the scene. “Ktronaz-Commander, report.”
“We have achieved all of our major objectives. There is still fighting at Long Reach, but the Rrit cannot stand against our rapsari.”
“And the Rrit fleet?”
