by Larry Niven
What he found on the second layer down was a slithering snake as long as his leg. He made a fool of himself catching it. Kzinti enjoyed hunting anywhere, but they were not built for hunting in the forest, and tree climbing snakes were not their natural prey. Nonetheless it made a good morsel and the blood had an interesting tang. The bones were unpleasantly crunchy.
He had to think about getting out of the reserve even though he didn’t want to leave. If he stayed, some adult would find and thrash him; if he left, his peers would kill him. Finding refuge in his father’s compound was, perhaps, not the best idea. His brothers were allies, even though they taunted and humiliated him, but his father would just throw him back into the jaws of his peers—to make a good warrior out of him. He could hear his father lecturing him in the sonorous formal tense of the Hero’s Tongue, “Make every use of the games to hone your skills.”
He found a large fungus the size of his head, growing between two rotting trees, with microscopic flowers flourishing on the black patches. He sniffed in wonder. He found the trail of some small animal and he saw a wild Jotok sitting high above on a lamp, its elbows in the air, watching him with an armored eye that poked up out of a shoulder blade. The eyes of the other arms were retracted, probably asleep.
And he wandered down to the pond and waded among the reeds, looking for fish. All he found were pre-Jotok arms swimming about, the size of his finger, the gill-slit red. Each arm was an individual creature, only joining in a colony of five when they were ready to crawl upon the land. The polliwogs had an armored eye already, but only graceful fins where the fingers would develop.
What a distraction, wading in a pond. He should be thinking about the mock battle of the game. He shouldn’t be alone here. He should have a whole squad working with him, or at least be on the team of some other squad. But he didn’t mind the distractions. It was probably his last day alive. His father had forgotten that the games weren’t fair. The kits tested each other—and there were rules of honor and honesty to keep the exchanges from being lethal. And then something happened that had no rules.
A consensus developed about who was the weakling. And from that day he was hunted and marked for death. The unweaned were “after ear.” There was no escape. No act of bravery was good enough. The consensus was a death sentence. Short-Son knew. He had himself helped hound a “designated” weakling into a trap to be torn apart by eight of his peers. So much for being swift to do the bidding of Puller-of-Noses.
Death. Standing to his ankles in the water he found three of the Jotok arms locked together in a union that would last a lifetime, their thin-filament head-feelers waving, sending out a chemical call for two more mates. At this stage they were particularly helpless, unable to dart away, unable to escape onto the land. He pulled them apart, curiously, to see how the head was formed. It bled because the circulation system was already joined. The intestines of the head spilled out. When his wonder was satiated, he popped the arms, one at a time, into his mouth.
CHAPTER 3
(2391 A.D.)
“You devour my charges!” came a rough voice from the shore.
Before he turned, Short-Son of Chiirr-Nig heard in his head an inane lullaby tune that his father sometimes sang to his sons when they had scampered and tussled too much and were very tired.
“Brave little orange kzin
Brave little striped kzin,
Turn to the din
And if it makes you smile,
Leap
But if it is nothing at all
Really nothing at all
You may turn-in;
And droop your eyes while
You sleep.”
The fear was there again. Short-Son faced his challenger obediently. “Honored Jotok-Tender!” And he clouted his own nose to indicate that he knew that he had offended, and stood willing to take the consequences. Inwardly he cringed, waiting for a clawed fist to smack him. Standing among the reeds, he couldn’t roll onto his back and expose his throat. His stance was too defiant, but that couldn’t be helped in water. The huge scarred kzin wasn’t smiling, so at least there was a temporary truce.
“I was enjoying the smells of this delightful Run,” he said absurdly.
“And killing Jotok, which is forbidden!” The voice was smiling, and that was bad.
“Tiny Jotok,” the kit blurted out, knowing this was the wrong thing to say before he was finished speaking.
“Little ones, hr-r? The size of your opponent is a measure of your warrior skills?”
I’m dead, thought Short-Son. “My inferior warrior skills badly need the attention of a great scarred warrior such as yourself!” Maybe flattery would help.
The right ear and what was left of the left ear of this giant fanged kzin flapped in amusement. “I am no veteran of any war. My scars were earned as a kit in the games, at which I did very badly or I would bear no scars. Out of my reeds—now!”
So he knows what is happening to me! thought Short-Son wonderingly, quick to obey the command to come out of the water.
“I will have to report this transgression to your father.”
“Yes!” agreed Short-Son quickly, glad that the thrashing was to be postponed—though perhaps it might be better to be “disciplined” by this orange giant than to be “disciplined” by his father. He followed the Jotok-Tender closely, trying to match his long stride.
After working their way through the swamp and then making a gradual climb through many turns within the arboretum, and finally passing beneath a chattering of Jotoki from the trees, they came to a rock face. The blast and cutting tool marks were still in the stone. Some stunted trees were trying to make it in a bed of flowering vines high on a ledge. A door in the rock face led into a more conventional kzin interior, stone-walled like a fortress keep with skins on the walls.
They were met by a silent Jotok slave, in yellow-laced livery, who walked leisurely upon the pads of his primary elbows, thus freeing his hands. When a Jotok ran, and they could run very fast, they ran on their wrist pads, with their five-thumbed hands locked out of the way around the wrist. The centerpiece of the room beyond the hallway was a replica of ancient kzin battle armor of the kind that had been supplied to the kzinti by their then Jotok employees. The battlewear had, tied to it, ceramic tokens of kzin manufacture.
Something to humble the Jotok slaves who dusted it, thought Short-Son—except slaves were never taught their history. This yellow frocked dandy who preceded them would not even know that his kind had once had a home sun or that they had been stupid enough to hire mercenaries to fight their battles for them.
Jotok-Tender relaxed himself on his big lounge. He did not invite Short-Son to sit, and the youth, taking the hint, stood at attention, alert, his ears respectfully raised to catch any wisdom or approbation that might be sent his way.
“Your father will not be pleased with you, youngling!” he growled.
“No, Tender.”
“I will have to offer him an explanation.”
“Yes, Tender.”
“Younglings have been known to tell the truth by remaining silent. I wish the true story without the silent parts. It will save me beating it out of you.”
“My tongue is at your command!”
The giant’s ragged ears rippled in amusement. “In the meantime you may sit and relax.”
He turned his great head to the waiting slave. “Server-One, refreshments. Grashi-burrowers in the iridium bowls!” Above the arms, full of intestines, the slave’s warty head could show no expression. His invisible undermouth clicked acknowledgment. One eye was fixed on the Tender, a second eye fixed on Short-Son, while three other eyes wandered.
Short-Son did not dare to sit down and put himself at ease, but he had been ordered to do just that! He sat and tried to stay at attention. This Jotok-Tender seemed to like him despite gruff ways. Why? It was suspicious. He scanned all the hypotheses he could think of.
The slave reappeared on three elbows, two arms carrying a black la
cquered tray with legs, upon which sat two small but tall ceramic sacrificial bowls, inlaid with iridium, and set in carved wood. Short-Son could smell the spices in the sauce—imported, expensive, inappropriate for a thrashing.
A second slave in blue livery brought the squirming Grashi-burrowers, who were mewing softly, handing one of the animals to Server-One, keeping the other. Expertly the animals were beheaded and their blood drained into the cups to enrich the sauce, the Jotoki squeezing/releasing to help the failed hearts move the blood. Then each slave sliced open his delicacy, swiftly removing the intestines, feet, and other inedible parts. The small beasts went back into the bowls, neck down; the slaves curtsied, and left the room.
For all this while Jotok-Tender had not spoken. He pushed one of the cocktails slightly forward toward Short-Son, taking one himself, to pick up the burrower and munch on it delicately, without using his ripping fangs. Then he dunked the beast back in his bowl for more sauce. Short-Son watched carefully. To him the morsel in the cup was but one mouthful, but he had no intention of displeasing his host—he ate his gift one tiny bite at a time, returning it again and again for more sauce. He was too anxious to actually enjoy what he was tasting.
“You are brave to have Jotoki for personal servants,” he said to make polite conversation. He knew that his father detested the five armed creatures and thought of them as treacherous liars fit only for the mines and factories.
“No. There are rules to training a Jotok. Do it right and one can find no more loyal slave among the stars. A competent kzin wins his battles; a kzin in a hurry loses his life—so goes the saying and few pay attention to it. A kzin troubled by his Jotok is a poor trainer. However, you need not listen to me. You are an impetuous youth and impetuous youths do not have the time to listen to an old kzin.”
“I am indeed impetuous in my ways and lacking in the wisdom that so great a one as you could impart to me—but not so impetuous that I would leap ahead of your stalking. There is pleasure in following the pads of a graceful gait.”
The ears fluttered again. “But I doubt that I would have anything to teach you about flattery. Your tale, youngling!”
Short-Son was already aware of his good luck. He had by now deduced that this old kzin, who had never made a name for himself and had never been allowed a household of females, dwelled upon the pleasures of fatherhood. Living alone, he lacked all knowledge of how much trouble kits and grown sons and pampered females could be. So he longed for a son. It was plain.
Just as plain as it was that Short-Son of Chiirr-Nig longed for a protector.
This was a delicate situation. Jotok-Tender would want a brave warrior for a son, and that was something that Short-Son could dream about but never be. Yet he couldn’t lie about himself to this potential protector—only slaves and monkeys lied—but if he told the truth…
“We young trouble-makers play games,” he began carefully.
“I remember,” said the old kzin gruffly.
“Today I was at a disadvantage. Seven well-trained warriors were arrayed against me.”
“Seven adolescent kits—short-tempered, with the brains of pre-adolescent Jotoki—were arrayed against you, yes,” snorted the kzin. He was insulting Short-Son’s companions; a pre-adolescent Jotok had no more wit than a female—animal cunning at best—and did not acquire male reason until after full growth.
“Brawn without brain can be quite effective in some situations,” the youth sidestepped. “There have been times when an immature Jotok killed his kzin hunter,” he added.
The old kzin was grinning. It frightened Short-Son into a state of heart palpitations, even though he could see the faraway look in Jotok-Tender’s eyes. “I faced such a group as yours once. I also stayed and fought. I didn’t die. They only got half an ear for their belts.” Then the Tender did a strange thing. He stopped grinning, and he rippled only one ear, the ear that was half gone.
What could Short-Son say to that? He quoted military history. “It is recorded that the great Hanash-Grrsh at the battle of the Furry Nebula, when faced by a superior Jotok fleet, disengaged.”
“Ah, you are telling me, with oblique honesty, that you ran from your attackers.”
“Hanash-Grrsh defeated the Jotok fleet some octal-to-three days later!” said Short-Son defensively.
“With a command that included octal-to-six of tested warriors, don’t forget. I suspect that you, on the other paw, are acting alone. If you were indeed surrounded by these seven ferocious youths, how then were you able to escape?”
This discussion wasn’t going at all well. “Through an airlock,” he said meekly. “They weren’t thinking of the outside as a battlefield and neglected to cover that option.”
“Not likely. You surprised them. They didn’t suspect that you’d run. Kzin warriors don’t run from honor. You surprise even me. No need to explain to me why you chose to re-enter through the Jotok Run—they wouldn’t be here or even have spies here.”
“I will train myself and fight them to victory another day!” Short-Son half-growled defiantly.
“Not likely. I know the games. You are marked for death. They have smelled your cowardice just as I smell it now.”
Short-Son was stung. “I could stay here and work for you. I’m good with machines.”
“No. You are cruel with my helpless Jotoki. Cowardice makes a kzin cruel, always, always, always. I cannot shield your cowardice. You are your father’s responsibility.” He drooped his eyes sadly.
I’ll never have a protector, thought Short-Son. There was no place to hide. “My father will thrash me for trespassing.”
“I suppose he will.”
“I would rather have you thrash me, old one.”
Jotok-Tender cuffed the youngling gently, as if he were a brother. He growled for Server-One, who came scuttling in on five wrists, one armored eye on Jotok-Tender and another eye on the tray and bowls. After a whispered conversation, the eyes focused on Short-Son. The slave returned with a thin, polished switch.
“This will make welts that will impress your father,” the kzin growled, “but it won’t do any damage, and the pain will be gone within days. Three welts should be enough. Are you ready?”
Short-Son could endure anything when he knew he wasn’t going to be killed. “Yes, honored warrior.”
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Strange—when this giant beat him he was not even afraid. “You would make a good father.” He was trying to tempt the old kzin.
“We will never know. I will take you home to your father’s compound so that you will not be waylaid before you get there. I will explain your situation to him, and convince him to give you one last course in bravery. Listen to him. Do not listen to your false emotions. Your life depends upon that.”
“You speak the truth, old kzin.”
“I myself can teach you little about combat, not being as skilled a warrior as your honorable father, but I can teach you one maneuver that saved my life. Do you sometimes find it difficult to leap?”
All the time. “I have found it difficult to leap at seven smiles.”
“Hesitation is the essence of this maneuver. Studied hesitation is best, but hesitation induced by fear can serve just as well. This trick was never taught to me. I learned the whole thing at once, by chance, and killed my attacker. I practiced months to learn what I had done and how to repeat it. It is the only real warrior skill I have. Come.”
The giant took Short-Son through rock tunnels to a domed arena which was used to train many Jotoki at once, seducing them to the discipline of taking orders. An eight-and-four of the Jotok were there, practicing the physical arts in a game of move-ball. Their master shooed them to the sidelines where they clustered in a chaos of arms.
He placed Short-Son in front of him, then backed away, crouching. “Now leap at me!”
The youngling tried but fear paralyzed him and he couldn’t leap.
Jotok-Tender roared. “This is only a demonstration! Leap!”
&
nbsp; He leapt at the giant, feebly hoping to please him.
The huge kzin sidestepped, turned, and reached out an arm. Short-Son felt his leap go awry, felt his arms fling out from the attack posture in an instinctive attempt to regain his balance, felt himself twisted to flop onto his back like a carcass of flung meat. How did that happen? A fanged face was grinning down at him. When he moved his dizzy head in an attempt to get up he saw along the wall an array of armored eyes watching him from the shoulders of a tangled mass of limbs, undermouths tittering.
Jotok-Tender was unconcerned. “If my claws had been extended, you’d be lying there with your throat ripped out, temporarily a very surprised kzin. Standing over my first victim, I was very surprised myself. Get up. Now I will jump you as soon as I have shown you how to swivel the pads of your feet.”
CHAPTER 4
(2391–2392 A.D.)
In the social protocol of the Hssin Fortress, Chiirr-Nig, the elder, would never have entertained Hssin’s nameless Jotok-Tender—but a matter of father and son always took precedence. There was no better way to enter a named-one’s household than to voluntarily take upon oneself the son-duties of an absent father, and, while doing so, protect the father’s reputation. Since the Jotok-Tender had handled the son’s transgression discreetly, without public humiliation for the father, with disciplined kindness for the son, he was welcome, even to a seat, in the great front room of the Chiirr-Nig compound.
Awkward kdatlyno slaves were in attendance and two wives lounged on the rug beside the rippling dance of the infrared warmer. Chiirr-Nig took the opportunity to unburden his disappointment and frustration at Short-Son’s inability to master the basics of self-defense. While he lavishly fed his guest fresh Jotok-arm with fish, passing the fish from his own dish down to his youngest wife, he grumbled, first raging and then growling about the lack of self-discipline in the younger generation.