The Houses of the Kzinti

by Larry Niven

  He started to protest and his finger throbbed unbearably. "All right, but I'll wait as long as I can."

  "You'll do nothing of the sort."

  He hesitated for a second more, then walked to the tubeway entrance. A capsule hissed within.

  Ingrid turned to face the two men. "You males do grow up more slowly than we," she said with a dancing smile in her eyes. "But given enough time . . . there are some decisions that should have been made fifty years ago. Not many get another chance. Where are we going?"

  Montferrat and Yarthkin glanced at each other, back at the woman, with an identical look of helpless bewilderment that did not prevent the policeman from setting the tube's guidance-plate.

  "All three of us have a lot of catching up to do," she said, and swung the hatch down over herself.

  "Well," Montferrat said dazedly. "Well." A shake of his head. "You next."

  "Where did you send her?"

  Montferrat grinned slightly. "You'll just have to trust me to send you there too, won't you?" Much of the old tube system was still functioning.

  "Claude—"

  "You've been there. A landing stage, and then aircar to my family's old lodge. I've kept it hidden from—from everyone." He laughed slightly. "You've already had a head start with her. A few more days won't matter. But when I get there, I'll expect equal time. Now get moving, I have to set the stage."

  "Better come now."

  "No. First I see that the Sol-Belter gets offworld. Then I fix it so we can follow. Both will take time."

  "Can you bring that off, Claude?"

  "Yes." He straightened, and the look of the true Herrenmann was unmistakable. "It's good to be alive again."

  Chapter 7

  In the great courtyard of the Viceregal castle, the kzinti nobility of the Alpha Centauri system gathered to pay their last respects to Chuut-Riit. Stone and spiked iron walls surrounded the court; edged metal and orange fur crowded the wooden bier.

  What was left of the body was wrapped in battle-banners atop a huge pile of logs, precious and aromatic woods stacked in open lattices. The pyre was hung with banners, honors awarded for past campaigns, the house emblems of nobles Chuut-Riit had killed in duels. Raaiitiro and buffalo had been slaughtered and heaped around the base, to add the blood-scent of victory. Other things lay tumbled amid logs and flesh: fine weapons, ornaments, heirlooms, the bodies of six household troopers who had volunteered to death-duel that they might accompany their lord into the mind of God. Around and around the great heap of treasure danced the warriors of Kzin, shuffling, leaping, twisting in midair to snap fangs at the sky and land on all fours. Clangor filled the air as they hammered the blades of four-foot swords on steel shields and screeched their defiance and their grief. Many had shaved portions of their pelts and thrown the braided hair upon the wood as well.

  Traat-Admiral broke from the dance, stood, took the blade of his sword in both hands and gashed his face above the muzzle, then snapped it across one column-thick thigh. He cast the pieces onto the pyre; one edge lodged quivering in a log of sandalwood, and the hilt rang off an antique space helmet. The ginger smell of anger and the dark musk of pain were everywhere in the air.

  "Arreeeeeawreeeeeee!" he wailed, throwing his head back and letting his mouth widen into the ninety-degree killing gape. "Arreeeeawreeeeee!"

  Conservor and an acolyte thrust burning torches into his hands. He thrust them toward the sky and began to run around the pyre; the warriors and nobles parted to make a path for him, smashing steel on steel and screaming.

  Once, twice, thrice he made the circuit of the courtyard. Then he halted once more by his starting point. Silence fell, broken only by the massed panting of the crowd.

  "Warriors of the Patriarchy," he shouted. "A Hero of Heroes is fallen. God the Hunter has taken the greatest of us. God has drunk of the blood of the Riit. Howl for God!"

  A huge wailing screech lifted and slammed back from the distant walls of the courtyard.

  "Chuut-Riit is fallen, sword in hand, fangs in his slayer's throat. So should all Heroes fall. Howl for God!"

  Another echoing screech.

  "Chuut-Riit is fallen by kzinti claw, but the real slayers, the cowards who set son against sire and dared not face him in honest war, are the monkeys of Sol system. As his chosen successor, I pledge my blood for vengeance. Who is with me? Howl for God!"

  This time the sound was a massed roar, an endless deep-toned belling snarl. He threw both torches into the resin-soaked wood, and it caught with a throaty pulsing bellow that matched the sound from a thousand carnivore throats. The kzinti began to dance once more, swaying and dipping their muzzles in unison to the ground, whirling, stamping forward. Others dragged out huge drums made from the bones and skins of monsters and leaped up to dance on them, and the rhythmic booming mixed with the chanting snarl of the crowd and the toning of the fire. A pillar of flame shot up into the darkening sky; Alpha Centauri was down, and Beta on the horizon cast steel-silver shadows across the wavering black-and-crimson of the pyre.

  Farewell, my brother. Hunt ever well, he thought. Then he put loss from his mind; Chuut-Riit had indeed died as a Hero should, and there was his work to continue.

  With a monumental effort, Traat-Admiral pulled himself free of the hypnotic cadence of the mourning dance. Long ago when chieftains had been mourned so, their followers had danced themselves into madness and then rushed out upon their enemies in an unstoppable berserker rage. Now they would simply continue until they dropped from exhaustion; already a few were clawing their faces or chests in frenzy, the blood-scent adding to the pull of the ritual. Come morning they would creep away, or drop into exhausted slumber, save for a few who would lie dead of overstrain. . . .

  The new governor stalked through the throng; they ignored him, glaze-eyed. He passed between two of the huge drums, folding in his ears as the enormous sound hammered at him, echoing against his lungs and making the shearing teeth at the back of his mouth quiver painfully together. It was a relief when the great doors of the castle's hall closed behind him, muffling the noise. A relief despite what awaited him around the dais.

  Ktrodni-Stkaa. The noble had left the ceremony as soon as was decent, and had not so much as shaved a patch of fur in respect. Few of the other cushions gathered about the stone block table of the banqueting hall were occupied yet, but Ktrodni-Stkaa was there . . .

  Disrespect, Traat-Admiral thought, hissing mentally. Disrespect for Chuut-Riit, whose waste litter he is not fit to shovel. Disrespect for the Patriarch, whose blood Chuut-Riit bore.

  Stiff with anger, he stalked by the other kzin and threw himself down on the slightly higher block at the head of the table. Lying there, he beckoned Conservor to his side when the sage entered. Ktrodni-Stkaa had half-lifted lips from fangs when Traat-Admiral took the cushion of dominance; he rose to a crouch when the position of most honor was given to another. Traat-Admiral fixed his eyes on the other kzin's, in a gesture of naked aggression, and maintained it until he reclined once more. On one elbow, the posture of dining rather than a prostration, but still not open resistance. That would be very foolish, here in the governor's mansion. Traat-Admiral had already given out that he would keep the entire household on, with no loss in status; Ktrodni-Stkaa was a traditionalist of such proportions that he allowed no uncastrated male past the outer wall of his household. Chuut-Riit's guard corps were anxious to keep their testicles, and his cadre of administrators and commanders their positions and privileges.

  He sipped at hot tosho brandy mixed with dried zheeretki; the mixture was mildly intoxicating and relaxing, although not so much so as rolling in fresh zheeretki, of course. Others straggled in, many still panting. Wunderland was warmer than homeworld, and kzin did not sweat except through their tongues. The room filled with the low rumbles of confidential conversation and the lapping of thirsty warriors. Traat-Admiral waited until all twenty or so of the most important were seated: high officers, nobles of great estates—lands, factories, mines—
and the chief continental administrators.

  Warriors of the Viceregal guard brought in the first course of food for the funeral banquet: live zianya, closely bound and with tape over their muzzles, the delicious scent of their fear filling the feasting hall. One was placed in the blood gutter of the table before each pair of kzin. Even among the mightiest of the Alpha Centauri system, such a delicacy was not common, and wet black nostrils flared along the granite table. Zianya did not flourish in this ecology, and had to be delicately coaxed to reproduce. Demand always exceeded supply, although those from the central worlds said the local breed was not so savory as the range-reared product of Kzin itself.

  "Greetings, warriors of the Patriarchy, hunters of the Great Pack," Traat-Admiral said, raising himself on both hands and staring down at the assembled worthies. "We are met to feast in honor of Chuut-Riit, who hunts the savannahs of Paradise"—most of those present touched nose, although literal belief was a rarity these days—"and to consult on measures needful for the Hunt against the humans of Sol."

  "Hrraaahh, you are hasty," Ktrodni-Stkaa said. Strict courtesy would have finished that with Dominant One, although technically this was a feast, where males were males and all were hunt-brothers. "There is the matter of who shall be governor after Chuut-Riit, honor to the Riit. The war against the humans has not gone well."

  A rumble of agreement at that; everyone here was anxious to forward the conquest of Earth. If nothing else, it would drain off a great many name-hungry younger kzintosh. And there was glory unending in such a thing, as well. Few were alive who had been among the Conquest Fleet that took Wunderland. Ktrodni-Stkaa's grandfather had come with it.

  So. It was a good time to strike, but also typical of Ktrodni-Stkaa, right after the burning.

  "Chuut-Riit named me successor and brother, for all to hear and scent," Traat-Admiral said. "Do you lift claws, bare fangs, against the Patriarchs?"

  Ktrodni-Stkaa arched his back, hissed. His tail lashed. "Never! And so I accepted Chuut-Riit, though all know I felt his policies foolish and unmartial." That was a little unwise; many of the late governor's partisans were seated here. "Yet I never challenged him, as others did."

  Traat-Admiral twitched his ears. That brought fur-ripples of amusement; Chuut-Riit had had an unequaled collection of kzin-ear dueling trophies. He saw his rival's pupils go wide with anger at the imputation—quite false—of excessive caution. Good, he thought. His anger will throw off his leap.

  "You—" Ktrodni-Stkaa began, then forced out words that sounded as if a millstone was being cut in half. "Traat-Admiral, you are not Chuut-Riit. Nor was Chuut-Riit, honor to him, Patriarch of Kzin. Chuut-Riit came among us with the patent of the Patriarch. You have no patent from Kzin itself. The mighty ones among us should consult as to who of full Name is worthy to dominate. Those whose ancestors have proven worth." He preened slightly; for fifty-three decades the Stkaa clan had produced one of full Name in every generation.

  Traat-Admiral yawned elaborately and licked his nose. "Show me where this is encoded in Law-disks," he said. Ears and tail made a slight gesture toward Conservor, who was lapping blandly at his drink. The Conservors of the Patriarchal Past were technically supreme in such matters. . . .

  Ktrodni-Stkaa came erect at that, fur bottled out and tail rigid. "You hide behind priests, you offspring of a Third-Gunner!" he screamed, tensing for a leap.

  "No!" Traat-Admiral roared, crouching ready to receive him. "I accept any challenge. To the oath and the generations, I accept it!"

  For a moment even as wild a spirit as Ktrodni-Stkaa was daunted. That was more than a duel; it was the ancient formula for blood-feud between chieftains. To the oath: the extermination of every sworn retainer on the losing side. To the generations: the slaughter of every descendant of every male on the losing side.

  "Wait." Conservor rose, and spoke in the eerie trill of the Lawgiver Voice. "Upon him who raises strife in the pack, when pack contends with pack, upon him is the curse of the God. No luck is his. His seed will fail."

  Traat-Admiral froze, hackles rising at the rare invocation of formal law, still more at the thought. Bad luck was something even a warrior was allowed to fear, although he must face it unflinching. . . .

  Ktrodni-Stkaa recoiled as if from a blow across the nose. That pronouncement gave every one of his oath-sworn retainers effective leave to desert him without total disgrace . . . and in a challenge of oaths and generations, they would have every reason to do so.

  Your testicles are on the chopping block, Ktrodni-Stkaa, Traat-Admiral thought happily. A warning chirrrr from Conservor brought him back to what must be done.

  "Honor to you, and your Name, Ktrodni-Stkaa," he said soothingly. Everyone present knew he spoke from a position of strength; he could afford concession. "Your eagerness to leap at the throat of the common enemy does you great credit. Perhaps there is merit in what you say concerning the governorship. We will memorialize the Patriarchy; I pledge to prostrate myself before any edict from Homeworld."

  Ktrodni-Stkaa's head came up sharply, suspecting mockery. That was a thirty-year roundtrip consultation, even by message-maser. The Patriarch was probably wondering how the Second Fleet had done against Earth; even the regional headquarters was a decade away.

  "And of course, there must be rearrangement of commands and assignment of estates," he went on smoothly.

  His teeth clamped slightly on the last as if a choice morsel were being torn from his mouth; Chuut-Riit's bequest of his immense personal wealth—millions of humans and the equipment to employ them—entitled him to keep it all, in theory. In practice he must give without clawing back to solidify his position. That was one reason fresh conquests were so popular with established fief-holders. Traat-Admiral was doubly bitter that he must grant Ktrodni-Stkaa riches instead of deserving younger kzin among his own supporters, especially since it would modify his hatred not one whit. But it would make the new governor's position stronger among the uncommitted, by showing that he did not intend to freeze out those of ancient lineage or traditional beliefs.

  Ktrodni-Stkaa visibly considered alternatives, and sank back on his cushion.

  "Perhaps there is wisdom in your words, Commander," he said, spitting out the last word as if it tasted like burned meat. Commander was a neutral term, not one that acknowledged personal dominance. "Certainly the war must proceed."

  "Let us eat of great Chuut-Riit's bounty, then," Traat-Admiral said formally. "Then let us consider immediate security measures. We know that infiltrator-vermin were landed from the human raider ship. We strongly suspect that at least one slinker-warship was as well."

  He took another lap from his saucer and braced a hand on the zianya's body. Its whining could be heard even through the tape across its nostrils; that and the flooding scent of it brought his attention to the food. Lines of slaver dropped from his lips as he tantalized himself with hesitation; then he sank fangs in the meaty flank and jerked backward, ripping loose a long strip of muscle and skin. Blood sprayed in a fan of droplets onto his face and shoulders, salty and wonderful.

  Delicious, he thought, courteously giving Conservor the next bite. Zianya-flesh was a great dainty fresh-killed but even better while the beast lived and pumped fear-juices. Even Ktrodni-Stkaa ate with relish, plunging his muzzle into the ripped-open belly of his dinner.

  Hours later Traat-Admiral licked the last cooling drop out of the blood-gutter and belched, picking his teeth with an extended claw and yawning with weariness. They had talked all through the night and into the morning, running simulations and computer projections, stopping to drink and feast, in the end roaring out the old songs and dreaming bloodily of the conquest of Sol system. Ktrodni-Stkaa had become half-jovial, particularly when Traat-Admiral had thrown in half a dozen females of Chuut-Riit's line as a sweetener to rich lands, asteroid mines, and a stake in Tiamat's processing and drive-engineering works. Now the hall was empty and cavernous, filled with a tired morning smell.

  "A good hunt," he
said judiciously.

  "Hrrrr, yes," Conservor said. He had taken little direct part—formal politics and war were not for such as he—but his quieting influence had been invaluable. "Yet even Ktrodni-Stkaa will eventually realize that he has been sent to hunt cub's prey."

  Traat-Admiral flicked his ears in agreement. Whatever the Yamamoto had dropped, it could not have been sufficient to cause real damage, not now that the kzinti fleets were alerted.

  "Areoowgh, agreed," he said. "And he will notice before the five-year delay which that verminous-pelted human raider caused us. We must reconstruct lost productive potential, and repair direct damage, and divert capacity on a high-priority basis to defense against further such raids. But let's not chew that meat before we kill it. For the next few months I'll have enough to stalk and drag down just getting the household in order."

  Conservor twitched his tail slyly. "Especially the harem," he said.

  Traat-Admiral coughed amusement. "If only I had gotten it twenty years ago!" He stretched, curling his spine into a C and then rising. "I go."

  Outside the light was enough to make him blink. The courtyard looked larger now, except for . . . he stared. There were humans near the ashes of the pyre. He stalked nearer, only slightly reassured to see that household troopers guarded and oversaw.

  "Who are these monkeys?" he growled. Then: "Arrrr. Henrietta-secretary."

  His eyes skipped and nostrils flared, recognizing others of the household and management cadre Chuut-Riit had assembled over the years. Many were leaking moisture from their eyes; others had piled flowers—the scent was pleasant but absurd—at the base of the heap of stones where the pyre had burned. A line had formed, shuffling past the spot and out the main entrance of the castle.

  Henrietta began to go down in the prostration; Traat-Admiral signed her up with a flick of his tail.

  "Honored Traat-Admiral, great Chuut-Riit was a good master and protector to us," she said. A blocky male who had served as house steward nodded beside her. "All . . . well, many Wunderlanders regret his murd—his passing."