by Paul Chafe
Meerz-Rrit waved a paw, palm down. “The treaty was forged at the insistence of the UN, and its provisions were written by humans to meet the requirements of humans. Now humans have come to quibble over the words that they wrote.” The Patriarch's tail twitched in annoyance. “Of what use are words written on paper? If you have faith in my honor you do not require written words. If you have no faith in my honor then no words will change that.”
“The issue is not your honor, Patriarch.” Again Brasseur chose his words carefully. “The issue is the prevention of another war. The words are simply a tool. Written or spoken, their purpose is to convey meaning and build understanding. If the words fail at their task they must be exchanged for words that succeed. That is the purpose of this conference.”
“Hrrr. I will overlook the insults implied by your presentation here today. I will not hear any further accusations.” The Patriarch's lips twitched over his fangs, and his claws extended of their own accord. He was deeply angered, Brasseur could tell. Best not to push him further.
“I abase myself, Patriarch.” Brasseur made the gesture. “No insult was intended.”
“We may now turn to the issue of human honor.” Meerz-Rrit's fanged smile relaxed, but his eyes remained fixed on Brasseur, making him feel like a prey animal. “The UN has taken the colony world Ch'Aakin, in flagrant violation of the treaty. There is no room for misinterpretation here. Military action against W'kkai and its subject worlds must cease immediately.”
Cherenkova answered before Brasseur could. “This action was taken because the Patriarchy has not acted to prevent Heroes from screaming and leaping in its name.” Her repressed anger came out as sarcasm. “Ch'Aakin was identified as the base for many of these attacks.”
“The treaty does not require the Patriarchy to do any such thing.” The Patriarch's tail lashed as he spoke. “However it does require the UN to respect kzinti worlds. The actions of the UN, Cherenkova-Captain, are contrary to both the letter and the spirit of the treaty. If humans value words so highly then humans should let their actions follow their voices.” The Patriarch's lips twitched over his fangs again. Brasseur felt a thrill of real fear go through him as he saw the negotiations foundering on the Patriarch's hair-trigger honor and Cherenkova's ill-repressed hostility.
“If I may interject.” Rrit-Conserver had raised a paw. “The issue is simple. War is imminent, it has in fact already begun in the destruction of Ch'Aakin and the siege of W'kkai, though we characterize these as skirmishes to avoid the larger implications. If we in this room cannot find a solution, the toll in death and destruction to both our species will be immeasurable. We cannot alter the past; we might yet alter the future.”
For long moment there was silence. Cherenkova looked down again, studying her beltcomp intently. Meerz-Rrit's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his prrstet. He looked over the humans dispassionately. Finally he spoke. “My adviser speaks wisely. This is a negotiation. What is it precisely the UN wishes to negotiate for?”
Brasseur took a deep breath. “Our position is simple, Patriarch. Kzinti raids against humanity must stop. It does not matter who is responsible, it only matters that they cease.”
Meerz-Rrit nodded slowly. “And what does the UN offer in return for this forbearance?”
Brasseur carefully kept himself from smiling. When a kzin asked for an offer there was room for bargaining. “What does the Patriarchy demand?” Let the Patriarch put something on the table.
“Hrrr. The return of all of our colony worlds from Ch'Aakin all the way back to Hssin, the cessation of the siege of W'kkai, an agreement limiting the sphere of expansion of human space, an agreement limiting the number of warships deployed by the UN, a program of reparations to redress the atrocities committed by human forces; these are the primary requirements. Yiao-Rrit will provide you with a detailed list.”
Tskombe's eyes widened. “I can tell you now, Patriarch, the UN will not the able to meet that list.”
Meerz-Rrit switched his gaze to Tskombe from Brasseur. “Why is that?”
Tskombe shrugged. “It will not be politically possible.”
The Patriarch growled, a deep rumbling sound. “It is necessary. What you are asking requires that I restrict the freedom of the Great Pride of Stkaa, and by extension of all the Great Prides. This they will not accept easily. Tomorrow the Great Pride Circle meets, and there are pressures building within the Patriarchy. If I cannot show them quarry wrested from the enemy they may not follow where I lead.”
Brasseur's eyebrows went up. The Patriarch was as good as admitting he did not have complete control over his Great Prides. The pressures must be great indeed. That meant danger. “If they do not follow you to peace, they will lead us all to destruction.”
“Then you must give me the tools to ensure they follow.”
“The UN will not do that. The populace will see it as paying ransom. If the General Assembly agrees, even against their own feelings, they will be voted out of office. The Secretary General will not countenance it, regardless of his personal views on the matter.”
“You must understand. My great-grandsire negotiated the MacDonald-Rishshi treaty with care to ensure he could keep the promises he made.” Meerz-Rrit leaned forward. “You are now asking me to overstep the traditional limits of Patriarchal power. I can in principle decree what I like. In practice” — the Patriarch twitched his tail—“space is vast. My Great Prides control worlds of their own, and they have their own imperatives to follow. To deny them hunt-conquest against your species I must offer them rich game elsewhere.”
“You say the Great Pride Circle convenes tomorrow?”
“It does. You were invited here so we could resolve these issues prior to its meeting.”
“Patriarch! It will take hours to get a message to our ship at the edge of the singularity. The meeting will be over before it can be relayed to Earth, let alone answered. And that answer will not come so quickly. It will take weeks, months of discussion before the General Assembly comes to any conclusion, let alone an agreement.”
“You're not empowered to speak on behalf of your race?” Meerz-Rrit's ears swiveled up and forward, his voice mingling anger and incredulity in equal measure. He turned to face Yiao-Rrit. “Brother, why is my time so wasted? If the monkey lords wish to insult me to war they are succeeding.”
“Sire!” Yiao-Rrit raked his own claws across his nose. “I abase myself, the fault is mine. Simply arranging with the UN for these representatives to accompany me took far longer than I anticipated. I specifically stated that those chosen be empowered to speak on behalf of their government. I should have verified this was true. It did not occur to me that the monkeys would not deign to comply.”
The Patriarch turned his gaze on Brasseur, tail lashing angrily. “Why then have my emissary's stated requirements not been met? Does Earth not consider the Patriarchy worthy of this respect?”
“There has been a miscommunication, Patriarch.” Brasseur felt himself sweating. The situation was spinning rapidly out of control. “We are empowered to speak, and to negotiate. We are not empowered to make binding decisions on behalf of our government. Not even the Secretary General can make that decision; he can only put forward his recommendation. The General Assembly reserves the prerogative of decision for itself.”
“Your masters expect me to negotiate with emasculated lackeys.” Meerz-Rrit slashed the air with his claws, and Brasseur prayed he would not choose to scream and leap.
“Patriarch, I assure there is no insult intended here. The General Assembly does not possess the power to delegate its decision-making in the kzinti style. I might add that Secretary General Desjardins is undertaking considerable political risk in undertaking negotiations at all. There are those in the General Assembly who see war as the only solution, and call negotiation appeasement. We must give them a better option.”
“A negotiator who cannot bind his government has no goods to trade.” Rrit-Conserver's tones were even, but even he sh
owed annoyance.
Meerz-Rrit laid his ears flat and returned his attention to Brasseur. “Advise me then, human. What will you have me present to my Pride-Patriarchs tomorrow morning?”
“We must negotiate the terms under which our species can live in peace. Give them those terms and tell them the UN intends to ratify them. They need only accept them provisionally. The agreement can be formally accepted at the next Great Pride Circle.”
Brasseur was not prepared for what happened next. All three kzin rippled their ears, the kzinti equivalent of laughter. “And when do you think that will be, human?” Meerz-Rrit's anger seemed to have evaporated. “My son will be Patriarch before the Great Pride Circle convenes again.”
Brasseur felt himself flushing red. The kzinti were laughing at him, and both Cherenkova and Tskombe were looking at him intently. He was supposed to be the expert on kzin affairs, and this critical negotiation was about to fail because of his lack of understanding. At least the tension had dissolved.
“Does the Patriarchy desire peace with humanity?”
There was a long pause. Meerz-Rrit had not expected the question, and the answer circumstances required him to give was not the answer he felt in his liver. He lashed his tail unconsciously. “Of course.”
“Our species are on the way to war precisely because of the misunderstandings we are experiencing today. If you wish peace you must do whatever is necessary to prevent your Pride-Patriarchs from acting against humanity in any way. There may be nothing we can do here to support you in that, save assure you that our species also wants only peace.” Meerz-Rrit's ears moved to relaxed attention, and Brasseur spoke quickly, needing to get his point across before communication broke down again. “There are those on my world who do not believe the kzinti capable of peace and who therefore advocate preemptive conquest.” Brasseur took a deep breath. “I know you also have to contend with forces that drive your species to conflict. Any fool can run at the front of a mob following the road to war and justify every step as simple prudence. It takes a leader to take the risks required to obtain peace.”
Meerz-Rrit snarled. “Do you imply I am a fool, Kefan-Brasseur, or simply that I am not a leader?”
“I imply nothing. I merely state facts. I find no fault in principle with the Patriarchy's requirements. I will pledge my honor to do my utmost to see them adopted by the General Assembly. I cannot promise any result, but the most powerful tool you can give me is a cessation of kzin-initiated hostility. Peace requires the will for peace. If we do not have that here in this room then our races are doomed to war.”
The Patriarch growled deep in his throat. “What you ask is difficult. It will require drastic measures. It may in fact be impossible.” He paused, his eyes far away for a moment as he thought. “I will consider what can be done.”
Brasseur breathed out, only then realizing how tense he had been. “It is our only way back from the brink of oblivion.”
As skatosh tests the strength and skill of warriors, skalazaal tests the strength and skill of Prides. In skalazaal as in skatosh, no slave may carry weapons for its master, though it may otherwise serve the Pride in any way. As in skatosh, no warrior may use a weapon that does not strike with his own strength. As in skatosh, no Patriarch shall leap his pride without the challenge scream. As in skatosh, skalazaal must be declared and open for all to bear witness to the honorable combat of the contending prides. As in skatosh, skalazaal sees no victory without honor. As in skatosh, skalazaal is judged by the Conservers and their edict is final.
— The Dueling Traditions
Back in his chamber Pouncer splashed again through his bathing pool, then lay on his side on his prrstet while a Pierin combed out his fur. Was it the same one who had served him in the morning? He looked closely but couldn't tell. Slave Keeper would know of course, but to Pouncer the individuality of a slave was barely relevant, and yet this creature was a being as intelligent as himself. What did it think? Was it content to serve well, or did it live in fear of the hunting park?
He dismissed the slave with a paw wave, leaving his coat half brushed. The unchanging ritual of morning and evening was somehow wrong after the experience of his test. Everything was in flux, he could sense that now, though the ancient stones of the Citadel were indifferent. He closed his eyes but his mind would not quiet. Perhaps he should summon the slave again.
He rolled over and examined his pelt. It didn't need more grooming. The style among the young nobility was symbols dyed into the coat and emphasized with intricate braidings. The symbols signified prowess, accomplishment, or fealty. Pouncer preferred to keep his fur simply brushed out. It was more practical, and he disliked the naked boasting the symbols amounted to. Rrit-Conserver and Guardmaster administered too many lessons in humility for him to feel otherwise. And it was also true that he had done nothing heroic enough to be worthy of a future Patriarch, and thus preferred to keep his lesser accomplishments to himself.
Research! He must understand the Honor-War, kzin against kzin with nothing more than sinew and steel. Certainly it had happened in the histories, but so long ago. Yet Conserver felt there was a risk of it surfacing again. He needed understanding, more details! It couldn't be a threat to the Patriarchy now, could it? And the kz'eerkti with their Outsider-gifted stardrive, what role would they play? The Great Pride Circle would determine the shape of the power structure he would soon rule, and the details of the intrigue and conflict that would challenge that rule. He had to know more. He called up information on his wall and began to study, the Pride-Patriarchs and their advisors, their capabilities, their strengths and weaknesses, their goals, their traditional alliances and enmities. His eyelids grew heavy but he kept at it. He would be at the Circle in the morning, and much might depend on his awareness of a subtle detail and its import. There would be no second chance to get it right.
Something tugged at the edges of his awareness. Something was wrong; he was not alone in the room. He froze, ears up and swiveling slowly, nose twitching for a hint of the other. There was no sound, no scent, but there was a presence, cold, reptilian, and hostile. A nameless dread rose in him and he fought down the urge to turn and flee. Fear is death, he reminded himself. It's waiting, he thought, waiting for me to turn my back, waiting for me to drop my guard. At the same time another part of his brain wondered how he knew that it was there at all. Slowly he rolled from the prrstet and dropped to v'scree stance, moving only his eyes to search the room, his ears tracking his gaze automatically. His chamber had few places to hide and he shifted his attention to each in turn, his well padded prrstet and its cushions, the wall tapestries, the cabinet that held his ceremonial armor, his compsole and books, the few simple furnishings, the grooming stand. Nothing moved but the ripples in his bathing pool. He sniffed the air again, found nothing but the familiar odors of ancient stonewood and fabric.
There was nothing, and it made no sense that there would be anything here in the heart of the Citadel. He willed himself to relax, to push the awareness of the other out of his mind. I am tired, he thought. I am tired and unsettled and that has me jumping at shadows. He breathed deeply. Fear was death, not only in the paralysis it brought to crisis but in its unrelenting erosion of normal life. If he allowed every potential threat to so disturb his equanimity he was not fit to be Patriarch. Fears alone in the night were for kittens, not warriors.
With an effort he straightened himself. There was a flash in the corner of his eye and he pivoted to catch something exploding out of the bathing pool, had time only to register pasty gray flesh and razor fangs before it was on him, talons extended to rake his belly open. Off balance, he dropped to the floor and the thing flew over him, one long hind talon slicing into his arm to leave burning pain behind. He rolled awkwardly away as it landed a body length behind him and turned. He flipped to his feet and back into v'dak stance. His upper arm was numb where the thing had clawed him. He expected a second's respite while the thing recovered from its leap and reassessed its attack but it
gave him none, launching itself from the wall, talons again reaching for him. He pivoted and spun sideways, allowing it to pass and using the energy of his pivot to drive a disemboweling kick. He connected with its side and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch as bones shattered under the impact. His claws dug in and flesh ripped. The thing landed and rolled, half its side torn away. It showed no hesitation as it turned to attack again but its injury slowed it and gave Pouncer an instant to assess his enemy.
It was a horror, built for killing and nothing else. It was half his size but powerfully muscled, moving on its hind legs alone, counterbalanced by a short, heavy tail. Its mouth gaped wide to expose its fangs but it seemed to have no tongue. The eyes were large, black and pupilless, staring from beneath heavy protective brow ridges in a bony domed skull over a short, wrinkled snout that drew long, hissing breaths. Its forelimbs were powerful with dagger-curved claws, and now that it was wounded Pouncer could smell the tangy metallic pungency of its blood.
The searing pain spread up his arm to his shoulder, leaving numbness behind it. He found he could barely move it. Paralytic poison on its talons, he realized. I must finish this now, while I still can. The thing's fangs were narrow and pointed, designed to penetrate rather than tear flesh. Every battle is to the death. Would they inject poison if it bit him? He couldn't allow that to happen.
It leapt for him again and again he pivoted aside, but the thing had anticipated the move this time and its foreclaws caught in his sash, yanking him over sideways, and then it was on top of him, fangs questing for his throat. Its breath in his nostrils stank of enzymatic poisons and he could see the oily droplets of venom dripping from the ends of its teeth. Pouncer grabbed at its throat to hold it away, but it sank both its foreclaws into his shoulders and held on. He roared in pain, willing his talons to close, but the strength was fading from his arms as the paralysis seeped through them. In desperation he kicked his legs up to its belly, claws seeking flesh but unable to strike home. His grip began to slip and the thing's jaws gaped wide, reaching for his throat.