by Larry Niven
“It is irrelevant. Even if he has found safety with these…these czrav, what of it? Soon his very existence will be forgotten. It is the Patriarchy that is important. The attacks on our Heroes have dropped drastically, the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome accept our rule, and so do the kzintzag. Even the Great Prides bow to my commands now.”
“Do they?” Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s ears fanned up and forward. “This is a new development.”
“They obey without question.” Kchula’s tail stood straight up in aggressive satisfaction. “Cvail Pride is supporting Stkaa against the kz’zeerkti. Stkaa’s raiders are already probing the monkey defenses. Vdar Pride’s fleet is in hyperspace by now, the rest are not far behind. Throughout the Patriarchy the shipyards are in full production.” He slashed at the air with his talons. “A final resolution of the monkey problem is a popular cause. Once more around the seasons and I will leap at their throats with the greatest fleet ever assembled in this galaxy.”
“This is an old galaxy, brother, and a big one. The odds do not favor our fleet being the largest in its history.”
“Bah. You remind me of that prattling Rrit-Conserver.”
“Hrrr.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. “Rrit-Conserver should have died the day we took the Citadel. I don’t like that he sits at our councils.”
“And you claim to be worried about rebellion! Kzin-Conserver has ordered it! What do you think would happen with the kzintzag if I denied his order?” Kchula snorted in derision. “That old fool won’t last long, and then we can be rid of Rrit-Conserver as well. In the meantime he serves his purpose in legitimizing our rule.”
“Scrral-Rrit is sufficient for that purpose, and far easier to control. And had Rrit-Conserver died on the day we struck we could have called it a tragic accident made in the heat of battle. Now we have no such option, and who do you think will take Kzin-Conserver’s place if not Rrit-Conserver?”
“And what will he do then? First-Son is gone, Scrral-Rrit is ours, and his sister is carrying my kits. Our control is absolute, Ftzaal.”
“Except for the czrav.”
“Do you not tire of that topic?” Kchula snarled the words, getting close to the edge of his temper.
“We are both newcomers to Kzinhome, brother. It does not concern me that I have no knowledge of the czrav; it concerns me that even the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag know nothing about them. Even among those who live next to them there are few who have ever met a czrav. They are called primitives, but primitives do not use hunt cloaks and broad spectrum goggles. A factor we do not control or even understand cannot help but be dangerous, brother.”
“We have no evidence they use either.”
“I know what I saw.”
“In the dark, while dodging a herd charge.”
“Ktronaz-Commander’s patrols were wiped out to the last one. My own Ftz’yeer were hunted down by those tuskvor.”
“You were herd charged, it was bad luck. Only a fool hunts tuskvor, even nursing kittens on Jotok know this.”
“Only a fool believes herding herbivores will hunt on their own. I saw the czrav riding the beasts.” Ftzaal stood and paced.
“You saw something. Even you admit you didn’t see clearly.”
“You explain it then. This was not a herd charge. Herd animals don’t split. We were watched from the moment we set down in that valley, and when we were in too deep to escape we were ambushed. It was a carefully laid trap.”
“This is not Jotok. What do you know of Kzinhome’s beasts? Your vaunted Ftz’yeer were wiped out, and so it must have been a trap, is that it?” Kchula-Tzaatz snorted. “You saw a blur on the beast’s back, and it must be a czrav with a hunt cloak. They followed you at night, so the riders must have had night goggles. These are speculations, not proof-before-the-pride-circle. What is a fact is I lose more strakh with the kzintzag every day, and this does not help.”
“They vanished without trace. We went back in daylight and they were gone. Does that not arouse your curiosity?”
“Perhaps you killed them all.”
“We found no bodies.”
“Destroyed by the fire, or perhaps they didn’t exist at all.”
Ftzaal stopped pacing and rounded on Kchula. “Brother, do not mock me. We found their den, emptied in a single night. There were cables left behind, scraps of equipment. They are not so primitive as we might like to think.”
“Maybe not, but they are irrelevant. We have larger game to stalk, Ftzaal.” The door chimed and Kchula waved a paw to command the AI to unlock it. “Enter.”
“Telepath saw First-Son alive, and with the czrav.” Ftzaal turned a paw over. This is a subject more likely to engage my brother’s interest. Four Pierin slaves came in, the first two carrying a trussed and struggling zianya. The third carried a long sk’ceri knife for the sacrifice, and the fourth carried two bowls, one full of pungent tunuska sauce, the other empty to catch the blood.
“First-Son is gone; that is all that matters. He is no longer any threat to my rule.” Kchula inhaled deeply to enjoy the strong fear scent of the helpless zianya. “As for Telepath, do not remind me of what you have cost me. We require another one.”
“We do, but even that carries risk. I feel our control over the telepaths is slipping too.”
“On what evidence?” The sk’ceri blade rose and fell. There was a single, anguished squeal and then the zianya’s blood was spilling into the sacrificial bowl.
“Telepath was keeping something from me. He didn’t want us to find First-Son. He didn’t want us in the jungle at all.”
“And now he is dead. Where has your liver gone, Ftzaal? What was not wise was giving you the lead in hunting down First-Son. You have been gone half a season and gained nothing, and I have needed your expertise here. The kzintzag ask why we search the jungles if First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is not alive.”
“Your puppet is not popular.”
“My puppet will soon become as irrelevant as his brother. We will waste no more time pursuing him. We are in midleap on the kz’zeerkti and the war will require our full attention.” Kchula turned his own attention to the zianya. “Let us eat, and look to the future. What’s past is past.”
There was a blur of motion and suddenly the Pierin with the knife was on the floor, blue circulatory fluid gushing from its split braincase. Ftzaal stood over it in a combat stance, wtsai poised to strike again. Kchula blinked, not comprehending for a moment, then saw the blade in the creature’s manipulator, oily toxin gleaming on its edge where the zianya’s blood had been. The other slaves had shrunk back to the edges of the room, feverishly making gestures of submission to distance themselves from the treachery and its punishment. Betrayal! The kill rage flooded through Kchula and he screamed and leapt on the nearest Pierin, ripping open its abdominal segment with his hind claws. The others fled while he tore at the corpse.
By the time his anger was spent a sword of Ftz’yeer, summoned by Ftzaal, were on guard outside the Patriarch’s quarters, beamrifles held ready. The room was a mess. The slaughtered zianya’s blood bowl had been overturned by Kchula’s leap and its blood seeped into the floor, mingling with the pungent blue Pierin circulatory fluid that was spattered everywhere along with gobbets of Pierin flesh. By the sauce bowl, Ftzaal sniffed carefully at a thin plastic pouch.
He looked up, undisturbed by Kchula’s violent rage, and held the pouch up, pincered carefully between two claws. It was still dripping with the red tunuska sauce it had been concealed in. “P’chert toxin, kept sealed until the last minute to prevent the sniffers from picking it up. The slave had only to slice it open with the knife to coat the blade, and then strike.”
“I could have died.” Kchula was trembling, residual anger mixing with sudden fear at how close the assassination had come to succeeding.
Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. “Evidently you have someone’s full attention, brother.”
“I want every Pierin in the Citadel executed. Now!”
“Shouldn’t we wait until we can trace the roots o
f this plot?”
Kchula looked at his brother for a long moment. “Yes…yes we should.” His voice was calmer. “Who do you suspect?”
“It is a primary error to speculate in advance of the facts. Pierin is the homeworld of Cvail Pride. I imagine Chmee-Cvail is less than pleased about being ordered to support Tzor-Stkaa in a war he would rather lead himself.”
“I will spike his head at Patriarch’s Gate!” Kchula’s tail lashed angrily.
Ftzaal-Tzaatz held up a paw. “Slower, brother! Let us look before we leap. It may be Chmee-Cvail, it may not. We need evidence first, and I suspect it will point much closer to home. These are not our Pierin, or Cvail Pride’s; they belonged to the Rrit, and their loyalty may remain there.”
“Scrral-Rrit! He wouldn’t dare!” Kchula’s hand went to the transponder medallion around his neck. “He wears my zzrou. His own life is forfeit if I die.”
“Patience. We’ll see how tame your tame Patriarch really is.” Ftzaal keyed his com. “Ftz’yeer Leader!”
“Command me, sire.” The voice was not that of his old friend and companion on eight-squared adventures. That Ftz’yeer Leader had been trampled by tuskvor deep in the jungle, this new one promoted in his place. My brother doesn’t realize the price I have paid for my loyalty. We flow through these roles in our life, and flow through our life until we die. It was a good rule to remember, but a hard one.
Ftzaal pushed the thought away. “Bring our ever noble Patriarch here. If he resists, compel him.”
“At once, sire.”
It wasn’t long before Ftz’yeer Leader brought a half sword of Ftz’yeer into the room, pushing Meerz-Rrit’s Second-Son in front of them. Scrral-Rrit was bleeding slightly from a talon wound on the side of his face, but otherwise uninjured. He had resisted, but not much.
Ftzaal picked up the sk’ceri knife and held it in front of the supposed Patriarch. “What do you know about this?”
“Nothing. Should I?” Scrral-Rrit was nervous and his fear stank in the room.
“We’ll see.” Ftzaal went to where Kchula was standing, pushed the button on the zzrou transponder medallion and held it down. That should have sent p’chert toxin flooding from the zzrou teeth imbedded in Scrral-Rrit’s back. In a heartbeat he would be writhing in agony, in a few breaths he’d be dead.
Scrral-Rrit stayed standing, his head now bowed. He knew he’d been caught. “Please…”
“Quiet, sthondat!” Ftzaal cuffed him to the floor and turned to Ftz’yeer Leader. “Take him and strip him. He has an electronic mimic to replicate the zzrou signal. Find it, destroy it, and then learn all he knows.”
Ftz’yeer Leader claw-raked. “The Hot Needle of Inquiry, sire?”
“Yes.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz spat the word.
Scrral-Rrit looked up from his prostrated position, deep terror suddenly in his eyes. “No! Not the Needle! Please! It wasn’t me! It was Rrit-Conserver! It was his plan, his idea, I just…”
Ftzaal waved a paw and the Ftz’yeer dragged the piteous Patriarch out, still begging. He turned to Kchula. “A faster resolution than I’d hoped, and more simply solved than an invasion of Pierin.”
Kchula snarled deep in his throat. “Rrit-Conserver. I should have known.”
“He should have died, brother.”
“He may yet.” Kchula stormed out of the room, leaving Ftzaal to himself. Ftzaal watched him go, then went to the panoramic windows and looked to the northwest, where the jungle lay, horizons away. What secrets do you hold? I need to learn them. Kchula would not cooperate, but that was typical of his brother and also of small concern. Eventually events would prove him right, as they had with Rrit-Conserver; he was sure of that. The key was to be prepared when they did, as he had been with Rrit-Conserver. I might have let my brother die. Had he done that he would become Pride-Patriarch of Tzaatz Pride, and de facto Patriarch of all. An unworthy thought for a zar’ameer. Did Rrit-Conserver consider that in his planning? He must have, he was too deep a thinker to have done otherwise. Despite Kchula’s threat, Ftzaal knew he would not kill Conserver; that window of opportunity was long shut. So what then is Rrit-Conserver’s goal? He could not want Scrral-Rrit to rule in fact as well as name; the damage that would cause the Patriarchy…A pawful of Jotok arrived to start cleaning up the mess. Evidently the Pierin thought it wiser to keep a safe distance. They worked as quietly as they could, while Ftzaal ignored them and thought. Where could the czrav have vanished to so quickly? They ride tuskvor, could that be the key? He turned a paw over to contemplate his talons. I have some tracking to do.
He who thinks hardest fights easiest.
—Si-Rrit
“Rrit-Conserver!” Kchula-Tzaatz’s enraged voice echoed up the narrow staircase. An instant later the door of Rrit-Conserver’s austere room burst open.
Rrit-Conserver looked up from his trance-meditation posture. “Kchula-Tzaatz. I am disappointed to see you here. I’d hoped you’d be dead by now.”
Kchula snarled, fangs bared. “So you admit your complicity in Scrral-Rrit’s plot.”
“Complicity is too strong a word.” Rrit-Conserver stood and turned slightly, subtly ready to receive an attack. “Second-Son himself saw the advantage of your death; he planned it eagerly. I merely told him how to deal with the threat of the zzrou.”
“You betrayed me.”
Rrit-Conserver waved a paw. “That would only be possible if I had sworn fealty to you. I am sworn to serve the Rrit.”
“You cannot tell me you think that cringing pretender deserves the Patriarchy more than I do.”
“What I think doesn’t matter. I serve the Rrit, and the Patriarchy descends through the line of the Rrit. You forget that Scrral-Rrit is Patriarch, however much he is your puppet. You are the pretender, Kchula-Tzaatz, not he.”
“He’s a disgrace to his line.”
Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over. “For as many generations as the Rrit have held the Patriarchy it has been the role of the Rrit-Conservers to shore up weak leaders. Read your histories. Scrral-Rrit is far from the worst Patriarch our empire has ever seen.”
“He used a slave to attack me. A slave!” Kchula slashed the air with his claws. “He has violated his honor, and mine!”
“I told him this plan was beneath his honor.” Conserver flicked his ears and twitched his tail, wry humor. “He needs stronger counsel in the future, if he has a future.” An ear went up in mock concern. “Perhaps you will leap and kill him now for the insult he’s given you.”
Kchula snarled. He knows I need that sthondat. “And what of your own honor? What will Kzin-Conserver say when he hears of this?”
“As a Conserver I can only use violence in personal self-defense. The advice I give my Patriarch is something else entirely. I will take my sire’s judgment with confidence.”
Even through his rage, Kchula could see how masterfully his adversary had played the game. He probably wasn’t even displeased to see Scrral-Rrit punished. “Your death will take days, Conserver,” he hissed.
“Then it will take longer than your fall, once the Great Prides learn of it.”
And of course Conserver was immune. Kchula screamed in rage and frustration, but he didn’t leap. The consequences in front of the Great Circle would be lethal if they discovered he’d violated the Conserver Traditions, and Rrit-Conserver was a deadly adversary in his own right. Instead he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was right. I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Rrit-Conserver stood for a long moment after he had gone, then got up and began collecting a few belongings. Scrral-Rrit had dishonored himself. It was time to go.
I have seen lands no man has ever seen.
—Gudridur Thorbjarnarsdottir, first Viking colonist in North America, circa tenth century
The jungle swayed past at a stately pace as Ayla Cherenkova watched from the tsvasztet travel platform strapped to the back of a huge tuskvor herd grandmother. She had seen the tuskvor in the wild, and seen
the tuskvor riders on her combat displays in the battle at Ztrak Pride’s den, but to ride one herself was something else again. To be a part of the huge herd migration was an experience she had trouble believing in even as she had it. They were ten meters off the ground on the back of a beast sixty meters from tusk tip to armored tail, one of a herd of a hundred or more. The tuskvor ambled along at maybe ten kilometers per hour, not fast but steady, and they never stopped to eat or sleep. They were covering distance like a wildfire, surging steadily eastward. Occasionally the herd expanded as more tuskvor pods joined them, appearing from between the spire trees to follow the ancient migratory track. The migration was its own self-contained world, the tsvasztet’s cargo bins laden down with water, provisions and the entire wealth of Ztrak Pride. It had taken just hours to strip the den to bare stone. The czrav traveled light, and the Tzaatz would return to find their quarry vanished.
Pride life continued without interruption on the trek, and she recognized that this migration was as ancient to the czrav as it was to the tuskvor themselves. She shared the tsvasztet with Ferlitz-Telepath, V’rli and Pouncer, but they frequently had company. The great beasts could be steered, like ponderous ships on a powerful river. Their mazourk handlers would bring one alongside and the kzinti, cat agile, would leap from the journeypad of one tsvasztet to another to gossip, to trade, or just to change scenery. A missed jump would mean a ten-meter fall to a certain death, pounded into the ground by the relentless march of the tuskvor, but the kzinti leapt with casual indifference to the possibility, and they never missed their landings.
On the second day Kr-Pathfinder and Quicktail had joined them to swap stories of the battle. Quicktail had ears on his belt now, and a new respect from his elders, although he had yet to claim his name. The migration was a place-between, where the normal traditions were suspended, replaced with a whole new set of norms.
“How long is the journey?” Cherenkova asked.
Across the platform Pouncer fanned his ears up. It was a question he’d wondered about himself but hadn’t raised.
