by Paul Chafe
She checked the skies for gravcars, spotted one, hanging five hundred meters away, spotted another. They knew generally where she was, and they were waiting for her to break cover. She slid backward carefully, keeping the bushes between them and herself as a screen. They would have sensors that could pick her up, if she exposed herself, but most sensors had limited fields of view. She lay down carefully and waited. There was a small knoll another ten meters back, and she crept around behind it, then slid forward to the crest, put the weapon on her shoulder, clicking it off multifire to conserve what charge she had left. Unbidden, her mind's eye conjured a view of the scene at Midling base. They ate the survivors. She couldn't let that happen to her. So concentrate, watch for targets, keep thinking ahead.
She didn't have long to wait. A Tzaatz moved into her field of view, stopped, and crouched. He was carrying a netgun, and as he scanned the area in front of him he flashed tail signals to those following him. Why aren't they using energy weapons? They might have thought she was kzinti, but even so she'd broken the rules first. And they have my scent trail by now. They know who they're looking for. The gravcars could rake the whole ravine without exposing anyone to her fire. So she would find the answer to that question later; for now she would just be thankful. A second Tzaatz moved up some five meters to the left of the first and knelt, and the first got up to advance again. Ayla shot him right there, firing twice to make sure his mag armor was defeated, then swung the sights to the second and shot him as well. There were snarls and crashes behind them, but she was already sliding back down the knoll, turning to run back another tactical bound. The terrain favored her in a hit and run defense. At least here I'm buying time for the others to escape.
Fifty meters back she spotted a small pile of rocks and a larger slab, just enough room for her to nestle down between them and ambush again. Two each time, there can't be that many. They were coming too quickly, typical ratcats. If they slowed down enough to set an ambush behind me I'd be done for.
Noises to her front. She scanned left, scanned right, saw nothing. They were slowing down, she'd proven herself too deadly with the beamrifle. Even Heroes didn't want to die if they didn't have to. More noises, and it seemed she should have spotted the trackers by now…
A blood curdling scream came from behind her. She rolled, tried to bring the rifle around, but it was too late and a black blur hit her. She saw a taloned claw as big as a pie plate coming down, and then pain exploded, and her world went dark.
Sheathe pride and bare honor.
— Conserver wisdom
Scrral-Rrit, Black-Stripe, Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, none of the names seemed right, and the kzin who bore them sat contemplating a puzzle sculpture in the Citadel's Puzzle Garden. In the distance he could hear the burbling of the chaotic water clock at the center of the garden's hedge maze. As the clock's flows shifted in volume and turbulence its sound changed. Sometimes it rushed and splashed and gurgled so you could hear it anywhere along the hedge maze border, sometimes it simply trickled and dripped, and even if you found your way to its base you couldn't hear it at all.
I have no name. It would have been better if it were true. Even if none of the names he was called by applied, there was the name he had given himself, though he never spoke it aloud and would have preferred never to think it either. Slave-of-the-Zzrou. The teeth of the poison carrier no longer pained the way they once had, and he would have preferred that reality were different too. They had grown into his flesh, become a part of him, though he could never forget they were there. Pain and death were always just an instant away, to be delivered at the whim of Kchula-Tzaatz. He tried to avoid the conqueror and his savage temper as much as possible. That had become easier lately. His importance to the Tzaatz rule had dwindled, but that was not a good thing either. When his usefulness ended he would become a liability, and death lay down that road too.
Across the Puzzle Garden a robed figure was contemplating another puzzle sculpture. As he watched, the figure moved a segment and then rotated the sculpture on its base until it stopped with a sharp click, clearly audible even at that distance. Rrit-Conserver. No, Kzin-Conserver now. There were differences in the roles, it was important to remember them. There were few in the Citadel who had the patience to even attempt the Higher Sculptures, crafted by the legendary Conundrum Priest Kassriss, eight-squared or more generations ago. Fully half of his sculptures were still unsolved, and those remaining were the hardest. It was quite possible that Kzin-Conserver might solve one, something that hadn't happened in living memory.
Scrral-Rrit approached and waited. If nothing else, the absolute humiliation of his situation had taught him patience. He waited while the shadows grew long and the light faded, while Kzin-Conserver considered the puzzle, occasionally walking around it, peering into it as though he could somehow divine its inner mechanisms through sufficient staring. Eventually he turned a protruding element and was rewarded with another click. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to face his visitor.
“Scrral-Rrit. You are attentive today.”
“I would seek your counsel, Conserver.”
Kzin-Conserver's ears swiveled up. “On what?”
“On my future.”
“Your future is beyond my scope.”
“Then advise me on my present.”
“And what is wrong with your present?”
So here it is. He didn't want to say it, and he found he could not meet Conserver's gaze. Sheath pride and bare honor. He took a deep breath. “I am ashamed, Kzin-Conserver.”
“As you should be, Black-Stripe.” Conserver's voice was not harsh, but his words stung sharper than the zzrou's p'chert toxin.
“I did not… I did not wish this.”
“And yet you chose it.”
“Aaaiii!” Scrral-Rrit looked skyward, as if beseeching the Fanged God to end his misery. “I didn't know what I was choosing!”
“And what would you change? Would you again be your father's son, your brother's zar'ameer? Do you dream of what might have been if you had not chosen to listen the promises of Kchula-Tzaatz?”
“My own humiliation is nothing. The Patriarchy is destroying itself. I am Patriarch, if only in name. I must do something.”
Kzin-Conserver turned a paw over, considering. Such selflessness in Black-Stripe. Is it genuine? There was no deception in the miserable kzin's eyes. Perhaps it is. He looked to the tiny spots that dotted Scrral-Rrit's pelt, white fur growing from pinpoints of scar tissue, the marks of the Hot Needle of Inquiry. It was rare to escape the refined agonies of the Hunt Priest's ritual untransformed. Perhaps he has learned from his ordeal. He chose his words carefully. “The Patriarchy is old, it has survived many trials. It will survive this too.” In some form. He didn't add the reservation.
Scrral-Rrit furled his ears tight. “It may not survive this. The kz'eerkti are savage. The Great Prides will not defeat them unless they unite.”
“This is true.”
“What should I do then?”
“If I give you advice, will you take it?.”
“I will take it, Conserver. I was ambitious, and proud. I envied my brother. Now look at me. I will never outlive the shame of the zzrou. The Hot Needle…” He shuddered. “I can never undo what I have done to my father and my brother. I can never undo what I have done to myself. Perhaps I can undo what I have done to the Patriarchy.”
“Time's arrow flies only forward.”
“You told me once, a wise Patriarch seeks wise counsel. Counsel me and I will listen.”
“My advice is this. Wait patiently. You are not without power. Use it carefully, when the opportunity comes.”
“Power?” Scrral-Rrit wrinkled his nose. “What power do I have? I do not even command myself. Kchula punishes me on a whim. He could kill me just as easily.” Reflexively he touched his shoulder blade where the zzrou waited. He controlled another shudder. “I do not dare face the Needle again.” He sat down heavily on a bench by the sculpture.
“No
!” Kzin-Conserver barked the words. “Stand up, Son-of-the-Rrit.” Reflexively Second-Son stood. Kzin-Conserver spoke, fast and firmly. “You are always in command of yourself. If you want to take pride in yourself, act with honor. Make your decisions based on what is right. Carry them out without regard to the consequence.”
“What of—”
“No! That is the beginning and the end. You asked my advice, now you have it.”
“This is not advice! How can I reclaim the Patriarchy? How can I stop the war?”
“That is not up to you anymore, nor is it up to me.”
“You are telling me to do nothing!”
“No, I am telling you to act with honor. Honor is not judged by the size of the action but by its rightness.”
“But…”
“No!” Rrit-Conserver slashed the air with his paws. “You overreached yourself when you aspired to be Patriarch. If you wanted to influence the course of the Patriarchy you should have studied hard, worked as your brother did and become his zar'ameer. It is too late for you to play that role. You have made your choices. Now play the role you have chosen with honor. Do not overreach yourself again.”
“I…” Scrral-Rrit seemed about to shrink, then pulled himself straight. “I will do as you say, Conserver.”
“Good.”
Scrral-Rrit left and Kzin-Conserver watched him go. He has the desire now, but does he have the strength? The answer would become clear in the fullness of time. Kzin-Conserver returned his attention to the puzzle sculpture. The latest move had revealed an inscription, a quotation from the teachings of Meerli. The bronze cylinder that bore the words was scarcely tarnished, in marked contrast to the rest of the statue. It had been a long time since anyone had found this configuration of the puzzle; perhaps no one ever had. It was a clue, but a subtle one. He recited it to himself, bringing up the larger text it was taken from in his mind. The exercise refreshed his memory on the meaning of Meerli's wisdom, as it was intended to. This lesson has been here for generations waiting to be learned, despite the many eyes that have searched for it. That was a lesson in itself. What other lessons has life hidden around me, waiting for me to find the correct way of viewing them?
Cultivate your allies, lest your enemies do.
— Si-Rrit
Far Hunter took a deep breath, primarily to control his shivering. Zraa-Churrt's Patriarchal Hall was cold, and when he breathed out again his exhalations condensed into fog. He had experienced this level of cold before, hunting high in the Mooncatchers for premium game for his father's stall, but he had not expected to find it inside and his thin robe was not protection enough against the chill air.
“Advance, Rrit-Emissary.” Zraa-Churrt himself was not cold. He was large, made larger by his heavy white pelt, eight-cubed-generations adapted to life on the frigid ice-world that was his Patriarchal seat. Carbon dioxide froze at Vraaal's poles in the winter, and even here at the equator the ice never melted. Only in the salty oceans was water a liquid, and life on the land, such as it was, depended entirely on the ocean food web for subsistence.
For a moment Far Hunter hesitated, still unused to his new title, and then he walked down the long hall to Zraa-Churrt's dais. Night Pilot should be doing this. The freerunner was older and more experienced and would doubtless present himself better than Far-Hunter-Rrit-Emissary could. But Night Pilot was a freerunner, and an Emissary had to be fealty-bound to the lord for whom he spoke. Night Pilot had refused to even enter Zraa-Churrt's hall, because of the requirement that he prostrate himself at the door.
He claw-raked when he reached the dais. Zraa-Churrt unfurled his ears. “So you are Speaker for First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit?”
“I am, sire. Thank you for your time in this audience.” He spoke carefully, watching his tenses. Pouncer had carefully schooled him on the proper forms of address and respect. They were complex, as one might expect. He was a low-ranked emissary speaking to a high-ranked noble, but representing a higher-ranked noble. As if that were not complex enough, Pouncer's status as the deposed-rightful-Patriarch-unrecognized-in-favor-of-his-younger-brother added another layer of formalism that had to be understood and adhered to.
“Sit.” Zraa-Churrt gestured to a prrstet. “What may this humble pride do for you?”
“Zree-Rrit seeks to regain the Patriarchy, rightfully his by birth. He asks you to honor your fealty pledge to his father.”
“We honor the pledge without hesitation.” Zraa-Churrt leaned forward. “How we honor the pledge is the question. What does Zree-Rrit want?”
“Ships in orbit at Kzinhome, to see that the traditions are followed in the skalazaal.”
Zraa-Churrt's ears went up. “Is that all?”
“That is all, sire.”
“Hrrr.” The Patriarch turned a paw over. “Are you aware of the progress of the kz'eerkti war?”
“My pilot was nearly caught in one of their attacks before he came to Kzinhome.”
“They are overwhelming. All the ships I command would not stop them if they chose to destroy my world.” He looked away for long moments, then looked back to his guest. “How many ships would Zree-Rrit require?”
“As many as you can send. More is better. The Tzaatz must understand there will be consequences if they violate the traditions.”
“You are bold in your questioning of Tzaatz honor.”
Far Hunter spat, suddenly angry. “I have seen Tzaatz honor. I watched them beat my father to death while he was trapped in a net. I have seen them throw the First-Sons of the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome into the arena on manufactured pretexts. I have seen them strip smallholders of all they own for less insult than I just offered.” His lips came away from his fangs and he felt his claws extend, even as a part of his brain fought for self-control. This is not the way of the diplomat. “The truth is never insult.”
“Truth.” Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over and contemplated it. “Have you the proof-before-the-pride-circle?”
“Proof?” Can he not see? Far Hunter touched his nose and the four white scar streaks he'd gouged with his own claws. “These scars are my blood oath, sworn when I saw my father die. I will not rest while Kchula-Tzaatz lives.”
“The blood oath. I have heard of this rite.”
And all at once Far Hunter understood. They do not have the same blood oath ritual, because they cannot see white scar-fur on their pelts.
“I can prove nothing standing before you, Pride-Patriarch. Come to Kzinhome yourself. Have Churrt-Conserver ask Kzin-Conserver, or simply watch. The evidence is everywhere.”
“I cannot come myself and abandon my holdings here. The kz'eerkti are coming. Meerz-Rrit was right about that, at least. We have convinced them of the need to destroy us, and they are doing it.”
“Send ships then, sire!”
“And I would not be surprised to see ships of another Great Pride at my singularity either.” Zraa-Churrt went on as if he hadn't heard. “Skalazaal is becoming more frequent even as we should be uniting before our common enemy.”
“Sire, lend your support to Zree-Rrit! He can unite the Patriarchy as his brother cannot, as Kchula-Tzaatz has not. We need you.”
Zraa-Churrt returned his attention to Far Hunter. “It is distasteful, what Kchula-Tzaatz has done with the Patriarchy, Rrit-Emissary.” Zraa-Churrt wrinkled his nose. “I stayed past the end of the Great Pride Circle to see what would happen. I was not encouraged when I left.” He paused, thinking, while Far Hunter dared not breathe. “Yes. I will send ships to Kzinhome. Not many…” He raised a warning paw. “…but perhaps enough.”
The young Lady K'ab'al Xoc endures the bloodletting ritual, her flesh pierced with stingray spines to summon the Vision Serpent and sanctify the throne ascension of Itmanaaj B'alam, Shield Jaguar II.
— Mayan glyph inscription, lintels 24, 25, and 26, structure 23 at the ruins of Yaxchilan
Ayla Cherenkova woke, bleary eyed, to the thin, gray light of dawn filtering down from the tiny window far above in the tower over her ce
ll. She stretched and looked to the scores she'd scratched on the stone wall, groped around for the pebble she used to make them, and added another. There were forty now, forty days since she was captured, more or less. She hadn't thought to make them at first, before she'd realized that she might be there for a very long time indeed. She was naked and it was cold outside of the pile of straw they gave her to sleep in, but she made herself get up and do her daily exercise routine: pushups, wide, narrow, and hands together; situps and side crunches; isometrics for the major muscle groups; chinups using the door frame; jogging in place for four thousand paces. At least she had enough room to exercise. The cell was built to kzinti scale, and with kzinti regard for claustrophobia, which made it generous by human standards. She'd lived in tighter quarters on ship. She was sweating by the end of her routine and dried herself down with the hay and went through her morning ablutions. It was a ritual designed to save her sanity through discipline. It would buy her some time at least, before her mind snapped from confinement.
The sanitary facilities were primitive: a bucket of water for drinking and washing, an empty bucket for body wastes. She'd read nightmares about prisoners forced to live for months in their own filth in dungeons like this, but her captors were meticulous about keeping her clean. Her straw bedding was changed daily, and both buckets with every meal, by the same two Kdatlyno slaves who brought her food. She couldn't imagine it was through any concern for her well-being. The kzinti probably couldn't stand the smell of less hygenic conditions. She had, in the short time before they put her in her cell, begun to discern a hierarchy of sorts among the slave species. Any slave could hold any role, but the Kdatlyno seemed to draw the bulk of the menial tasks. The insectoid Whrloo seemed to have more supervisory roles, while the Pierin worked as personal servants and the Jotok took care of more technical jobs. Twice she had seen slaves of other species in the distance, one a looming shadow, the other small and quick, but had no idea what they did or where they came from, or even what they were called.