Fear froze Kchula-Tzaatz’s liver as Kzin-Conserver stared him down. It cannot come to the Ceremonial Death. I can flee and hide, find another name. I can bribe him…“Honored Kzin-Conserver, do not do this…”
“Stop!” Kzin-Conserver slashed his talons through the air, surprisingly fast for one so old. “Do not beg and lower your esteem with me even further than you already have. You are a coward and a bully and unworthy of this house. Your great victory is built on the bodies of warriors whose urine you are unworthy of licking. You fill my nose with the stench of your fear, mighty conqueror. I have told you what might happen. Now I will tell you what will happen.”
“Please…” Kchula felt his heart pounding. Anything but the Ceremonial Death. I could have him killed…But he could not have Kzin-Conserver killed without bringing down the very fate he was so desperate to avoid, and so he forced himself to stay still, to listen, to gain any advantage he might.
“What will happen. The future is open, there are many possibilities.” Some of the contempt had faded from the old kzin’s voice, but his eyes bored into Kchula’s, demanding attention. “Consider first if I act as my own traditions would have me do. Yes, the Great Prides will leap at your throat if I judge against you, and I myself would find the finest traditions to guide the Hunt Priests in the preparation of your Ceremonial Death. There are exquisite variations long lost to all but those of us who study the ancient ballads. What will happen then? Will the weak and vacillating Scrral-Rrit then seize the Patriarchy by the scruff?” Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail contemptuously. “He is less worthy than you for the position he holds. No. What will happen is that the other Great Prides will become restive. Meerz-Rrit was wise when he spoke of an end to the conquest hunts. The Patriarchy can expand only at great risk now, and the Pride-Patriarchs know it. You have shown them that it is possible to triumph in skalazaal even over the Rrit. There will be more Honor-Wars, and they will come soon. Scrral-Rrit will die because no one will follow him, and with the Rrit line ended the Great Prides will war over the spoils of Kzinhome. The Patriarchy will fall, Kchula-Tzaatz.”
“There must be another way, esteemed sire.” A way that will see me retain my spoils.
“Esteemed sire, now?” Kzin-Conserver rippled his ears without humor. “I stand amazed to see humility in the great Kchula-Tzaatz. Yes, there is another way. I can choose to overlook the precedent of Rawr Pride. I can stand before the Great Pride Circle and declare that your conquest was within the boundary of tradition, though barely. I can legitimize your illegitimate, your cowardly, your carrion-sniffing attack.” He lashed his tail angrily. “You were clever in putting your zzrou-tamed Rrit puppet above you, clever in preserving Rrit-Conserver to legitimize his rule, clever in making virtue of your ambition by claiming only loyalty to the honor of our race. You have given me that much to work with. And I will work with it, because while it is my function to maintain the traditions, it is my duty to preserve my species, and it is my judgment that to give you the end that you deserve would cause the total collapse of the Patriarchy. Where tradition collides with duty, it is tradition that must change, as it did with Myceer-Rawr. Skalazaal may now be conducted with rapsari, but Jotok is the source for genetic constructs in the Patriarchy, and I doubt you will be eager to supply your rivals with the means of your overthrow. It will take time for the other Great Prides to develop their own capabilities. The damage is contained for now. May the High Priests beseech the Fanged God that it gets no worse.”
“Kzin-Conserver…!”
“Enough!” Again Kzin-Conserver lashed his tail and bared his fangs. “I will hear no more from you. You say you take Rrit-Conserver’s advice? He will sit on your councils, and so will Scrral-Rrit. I may yet have your pelt, Kchula. Do not test me.”
“I shall see it done, honored sire.”
Kzin-Conserver waved a paw dismissively. “Now leave my sight before I change my mind for the pleasure of watching the Hunt Priests take you. I would be alone with the view.”
Kchula’s lips twitched over his fangs, but he turned and left in silence. Kzin-Conserver had thrown him out of his own quarters. He insults me deliberately, because he has no other option to sate his desire to see me fall. It had been a humiliating interview, and a frightening one by turns, but the fact was, Kzin-Conserver was reacting exactly as Ftzaal had said he would. I will live, and my place in the sagas is now secure. As he realized it, Kzin-Conserver’s contempt suddenly meant nothing, and exultation swelled in his liver. Neither the Conservers nor the Priests nor the Great Prides could dare challenge Kchula’s victory. He had won, and if he must suffer the gratuitous insults of the old fool as the price of victory, it was cheap enough at that.
He went to the Command Lair. No need to let anyone else know of the indignity he had suffered. Kzin-Conserver would leave on his own time, and in the meantime the pacification of Kzinhome required all his attention. The zitalyi were a diminishing problem, and the Lesser Prides could be cowed, but the kzintzag weren’t granting his Heroes the strakh they deserved, and that lack of respect could be fatal if left unchecked. Public duels would fix that problem, public duels carefully arranged for Tzaatz victory, with the heads displayed in the center of Hero’s Square. His brother and his cadre of killers would be useful for that. Few would challenge the Protector of Jotok deliberately, but with provocation and deception such duels could be arranged. He needed to find Ftzaal to craft a strategy to ensure their victory did not slip through their grasp at the lowest level now that it was secure at the highest.
As he crossed the courtyard beneath the Patriarch’s Tower, Ktronaz-Commander intercepted him.
“Sire! We have a problem.”
Kchula snarled. Problems are becoming too common. “Your warriors’ efforts are inadequate, Commander. What have the zitalyi curs done this time?”
“It is not the zitalyi, it is the kzintzag.”
“And…?”
“There has been an incident. A patrol commander in Hero’s Square demanded his due strakh from a trader. The trader leapt in challenge and was slain, cut in half by the commander’s variable sword.”
“Good.” Kchula let his fangs show, grimly satisfied. “The commoners need to learn their place.”
“Sire! The trader was popular. The whole market leapt as one upon our patrol! They inflicted heavy losses but they were outnumbered eight-cubed to one. They were torn to pieces, rapsari and all.”
“Torn to pieces…” Kchula’s tail lashed. Mass violence was the first step on the road to rebellion. Public duels would not suffice to solve this problem. “I want those involved hunted down and put in the Arena.”
“It was the whole market, sire, and none of our Heroes survived! We have no way of identifying the guilty.”
“Hrrr…The Lesser Prides are responsible for their fealty-bound. Make examples of their Patriarchs.”
“Sire! The Great Prides will not allow us. The traditions…”
“There is a new tradition.” Kchula cut him off. “Most of the Great-Pride-Patriarchs have left already; the rest will not remain long. Our freedom of action can only increase. In the meantime, if you cannot take the Lesser Patriarchs take their sons. The Lesser Prides will serve as an example to both kzintzag and the Great Prides. We cannot allow defiance.” Kchula’s eyes narrowed. “The conquest of Kzinhome is only the first stage, Ktronaz-Commander. It remains to secure the victory.”
“At once, sire.”
Ktronaz-Commander knew better than to argue. He left at the bound, and Kchula went down to the Command Lair. The corridors had been cleaned of blood and bodies, but the scars of the battle still remained: walls carved with slicewires and embedded with crystal iron ballista bolts. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was already there, and Kchula beckoned him into the privacy field at the back of the room and updated him on the situation.
When he had finished, Ftzaal-Tzaatz furled his ears thoughtfully. “There is more.”
“What now?”
“The reason there is defiance
among the kzintzag. There are rumors that First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit still lives.”
“Tell me.”
“We have largely pacified the populace. The Great Prides find it expedient to accept your rule; the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome are afraid to object, openly. The kzintzag have less to lose. Resistance is scattered, but it is there. The assaults on our Heroes grow bolder and more frequent. Did Ktronaz-Commander mention that the attackers screamed the name of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit as they leapt?
“He did not.”
“He has not developed the information sources that I have. None of his warriors survived to report, but it is true nonetheless. There are those among the kzintzag who believe him to be alive.”
“Is there truth to them?”
“Who can know? We have not found his body. A courier was stolen from the spaceport. Was he on it?”
Kchula lashed his tail. “It was those cursed kz’zeerkti fleeing for their homeworld.” Or so Ktronaz-Commander informs me, but is he correct? Ktronaz-Commander’s rigid worldview made him reliable and predictable, both important traits in a subordinate. It did not make him particularly insightful.
“Yes, but there is a connection. We know the kz’zeerkti escaped through a long-abandoned defense tunnel. The scent trail included a kzinrette and a kzintosh, and the eldest Rrit daughter is missing. First-Son is the only member of the Rrit inner circle we haven’t accounted for. Perhaps he was with them.”
“Perhaps he was not. It could have been any of the zitalyi; the Fanged God knows there are enough of them. This fortress has more tunnels than a grashi burrow. First-Son might still be in these walls, and the Forbidden Gate wasn’t sealed when we found it. Anyone might have been at the palace kzinretti.”
“Seals are unnecessary where honor rules.” Ftzaal twitched his whiskers. Not that you understand honor, brother.
“And a full sword of our Heroes was slain in front of it, and two rapsari raiders. Perhaps they got it open before they died.”
“And who killed them?”
“Zitalyi, who else?”
Ftzaal turned a paw over. “No zitalyi would take a kzinrette from the Citadel. Only the Patriarch’s brother would do that, or his son. No, the monkeys escaped with First-Son, of this we can be sure. We know also that the kz’zeerkti fled to orbit in that stolen ship. Fighters of the Rrit still in orbit pursued them, but the courier escaped. The human battleship has left the singularity’s edge. Did the courier make it there, or did it escape to hyperspace itself? We cannot know, but Meerz-Rrit swore peace with them. They owe him counterfealty. How better to demonstrate it than by saving his son? We must consider the possibility that the monkeys now give him sanctuary on one of their worlds.”
“What do animals know of honor? And why would First-Son allow a monkey to fly a ship he was better qualified to fly himself?”
“I merely offer possibilities. There are more rumors: that he is in the mountains, that he leads the zitalyi holdouts in raids against us, that he is even now raising support for a counterinvasion with V’ax Pride, or with Churrt Pride, or any number of others. Obviously at most one of these can be true, but it is not the veracity of these rumors that is important but that they exist at all. The kzintzag here on Kzinhome will not accept our rule while they believe he lives.”
“These rumors will fade, only fools can entertain them. By the Fanged God, we showed them his head!” Kchula snarled.
“We showed them a head, and we know it was not his. This too is rumored among the kzintzag.”
“Someone has broken fealty.” Kchula’s lips twitched over his fangs. “I want every warrior and every slave involved in that deception killed.”
Ftzaal made a dismissive gesture. “There are no such slaves, nor kzinti. I took care of the deception personally, brother, and alone. To do otherwise on such a matter would be to invite obvious and tremendous risk. It is not impossible that I was observed by a slave, but unlikely.”
“Then where has this rumor sprung from?”
Ftzaal turned a paw over. “Sheer necessity. Meerz-Rrit was a popular Patriarch, and First-Son well favored to succeed him. This was the expected path of history, the path of tradition and stability. We have upset that, and even those who may yet gain from our conquest fear instead what they might lose. The hope that the status quo might return drives the rumors that First-Son fights us to regain his birthright. Yet for any of these to be true, he must be alive. We showed his head at Second-Son’s ascension, and so the first question anyone hearing that he is alive must ask is, ‘Did not the Tzaatz spike his head at the Patriarch’s Gate?’ The rumor that we showed another head must exist, for it supports every other rumor, and that in turn supports the hope that is all that stands between the kzintzag and their well justified fear that Tzaatz Pride now controls the Patriarchy. It would have existed no matter what the truth. The critical point is, true or not, we do not want these rumors to reach the ears of Kzin-Conserver. He would be motivated to investigate further.”
“He’s little threat now that he recognizes the necessity of our dominance.”
“If kzintzag rebellion continues, our dominance will fall into question. Soon the entire planet will know that the head we claimed as First-Son’s is not his. We will be accused of our deception, and Kzin-Conserver has latitude enough to pronounce ruling against us even then. You say he supports us because he sees Second-Son as too weak to rule. I doubt he feels the same about First-Son. A genetic scan of the head we posted is evidence enough, and our deception may yet be revealed.”
Kchula growled in frustration. The situation was getting too complex. “We will destroy the heads and let the evidence fade. If we’re caught we’ll assign it to a mistake made in the confusion of battle. We will lose no strakh, and if Kzin-Conserver suspects the truth is otherwise, his suspicions are no more than that.” He looked at Ftzaal-Tzaatz. “Your estimation of Kzin-Conserver’s power of restraint was accurate, if not your estimate of Rrit-Conserver’s danger.”
Ftzaal made the gesture of obeisance-to-a-compliment. My brother will yet learn of Rrit-Conserver’s danger, but now is not the time to remind him. “The approach we take to the question of deception is irrelevant, as is the reality that the accusations will in fact be true. The critical point is, there are those will stand to gain by seeing our honor called into question. This accusation will have power, and combined with the rumors already in existence it will give strength to those who oppose us. Kzin-Conserver does not support us, he supports our puppet, Second-Son. Second-Son is the ascended Patriarch now; First-Son has no claim to the Patriarchy but challenge-claim, and we will not allow that to happen. This isn’t clear to the kzintzag, and as long as they believe otherwise, as long as they choose to believe otherwise, our opposition will again gain strength. Did you know that Zraa-Churrt has delayed his departure? Perhaps this is why they say First-Son treats with him for respite. Kdori-Dcrz has also stayed longer than he planned, and there are others. The Great Circle are watching and waiting, and if they sense weakness they will leap. If they sense strength they will rally to our side. These are powerful prides, and we need their support. If we cannot hold Kzinhome we cannot hold the Patriarchy.”
“These rumors must be stopped at any cost. The Great Pride Circle must not end with our grip on power in question.”
Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The only answer is time. I will see what I can do.”
“Unless First-Son reappears. That must not happen.”
“The only way to be sure of that is to find his body. If he has fled to the kz’zeerkti worlds he is far beyond our reach.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz paused, enjoying his brother’s growing anxiety. “There is another possibility. A grav transporter was taken during the incident at the spaceport. Its wreckage was found yesterday where the Long Range meets the Mooncatchers. I suggest we send tracker teams.”
“Show me.”
Ftzaal made a gesture to command the AI, and a spinning globe map of Kzinhome appeared in midair. He stabbed it with a forec
law and it ballooned around his finger, zooming in to show the North Continent, the Great Desert, and the Plain of Stgrat, and the thick chain of mountains separating them. The zoom continued in stages until Ftzaal had a narrow canyon centered in the view. Another gesture and the map graphics were overlaid with satellite imagery. Ftzaal spun the view, zoomed again, and there, skidded onto a scree slope and half crumpled, was a grav transporter, as yet unworn by the elements.
Kchula-Tzaatz keyed his comlink for Ktronaz-Commander, and made the command gesture that would dump the display data to his subordinate’s beltcomp.
“Command me, sire!” Not imaginative, but reliable. Ktronaz was a good choice for his role.
“Search from these coordinates. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has been there.” Kchula spat the words angrily. “Find him, kill him, bring me his head.” He broke the link without waiting for an answer and looked at his brother, tail lashing. “We shall correct this mistake before I have to explain it to Kzin-Conserver.” He turned on his heel and left.