Destiny's Forge-A Man-Kzin War Novel

Hero's Square had changed since last time Tskombe saw it. He hadn't had time then to note details, but he remembered it had been bustling with life and commerce. Now even the kzinti seemed subdued, and the slaves scurried from place to place, narrowly focused on their errands to avoid the wrath of their masters. The mood was due to the rapsar-mounted Tzaatz patrols, but the patrols themselves weren't acting like triumphant conquerors. Their manner was tense, even nervous, and their tempers short. Their tension translated to the general populace. It made the environment dangerous, and Tskombe wasn't happy about that.

Not that he could do anything about it. He was on a slave's leash, pushing a float cart laden with boxes, and Night Pilot was leading him through stalls and markets. It might have been better if he'd bought a Kdatlyno to do the leading for him, but Night Pilot lacked strakh enough on Kzinhome, and he wasn't about to put in the time and effort to earn it. The disguise was effective enough, and though a few inquisitive noses sniffed at the distinctive scent of human, none questioned his presence.

All they had to do was find Provider's grashi stall but, unlike the disguise, their search strategy wasn't working. They were systematically quartering Hero's Square, trying to find a landmark that would orient him to the path he'd taken as he'd fled behind Pouncer in what now seemed like another lifetime. It was slow going in the crowd, especially since all of the kzinti and most of the slaves were taller than he was, making it difficult to orient himself. The slaves, at least, gave way without question, but other kzinti had to be given respect and space. For a kzin, Night Pilot was surprisingly calm about the inevitable frustrations the process engendered. Which is to say, Tskombe was reasonably sure he wouldn't simply decide to eat him when they got back to the ship. The upside was that he'd expanded his kzinti vocabulary considerably. He remained unsure of the exact meaning of most of the words, but he was confident they were all obscenities.

And it wasn't as if he'd been paying a lot of attention to the details of their route while they'd been fleeing. Pouncer had been leading the way, he'd just been following, unsure of the situation, concerned only with keeping up and staying concealed. And now they were on perhaps the tenth attempt to find Provider's stall since they'd come through the ancient walls of Hero's Square. There were a limited number of such startpoints. In theory it shouldn't have been hard to find the right one, but the details were blurred in his memory, and he'd already convinced himself that several possibilities were in fact the place, only to later rescind that judgment.

A sudden commotion spiked adrenaline through his system. Across the square a Tzaatz patrol on rapsari raiders had netgunned a spotted adolescent. He spat curses and clawed at the net as they hauled him away. Tskombe breathed out, trying not to smell afraid. He had missed whatever had triggered the incident. It didn't matter, it hadn't been anything to do with him. Night Pilot tugged his leash, as any kzinti master would do to a recalcitrant slave, and Tskombe gritted his teeth and went back to his search.

There. A stone tunnel, vendors' wooden stalls; were those barrels there before? They could have been moved there later. He looked around, saw a set of stairs running up the side of a crafter's shed.

He turned to Night Pilot. “This is it, we go right here.”

Night Pilot's lips twitched over his fangs. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be.”

“You have said so before.”

“And I've been sure before, and wrong before. I'm doing my best.”

Night Pilot just snarled and kept walking. Tskombe led him along a row of stalls, trying hard to verify each decision he made with memory's uncertain record. The sun was going down, and once it did they'd have to go back to the spaceport to spend another night on the ship. He wasn't looking forward to another day of searching, and while they searched for Provider, Contradictory was seeking out a cargo, spending his days talking to the Jotoki slaves of the major shippers for an inside track on a transshipment bid. When Black Saber got a cargo, Tskombe would be on his own.

And there it was, a busy stall on a lane branching from the main square. “This is it. Possibly…”

“Stay here.” It was bad manners to take a slave to a transaction. Night Pilot went up to the stall and Tskombe clicked on the vocom on his beltcomp to listen.

“I am Night Pilot. I search for a grashi vendor, Provider-who-was-Tank-Leader.”

“He is gone.” Tskombe didn't recognize the other's voice over the crowd noise.

“When will he return?”

“He is dead. I am his son, Far Hunter. What service may I give you?” Tskombe breathed out in relief and despair at once. He had found what he was looking for, but Provider was dead. There was the chance that Far Hunter might be able to help him. It was all he could hope for.

“I have a delivery for you.” Night Pilot went on.

“What is it?”

“This kz'eerkti.” Night Pilot pointed at Tskombe.

Far Hunter's eyes followed the gesture. “Bring it to the back.” His snarl showed sudden concern. Night Pilot motioned for Tskombe to come, but he was already moving, relief flooding his system. At last.

A minute later Tskombe came into the back of the stall.

“Tskombe-kz'eerkti!” Far Hunter's ears swiveled up. “I never dreamed you would return.”

“Far Hunter.” Tskombe claw-raked. “I have come back for my companion.”

“Of course. You are true to your honor. You fought well at the spaceport.”

“As you did.” Tskombe took a deep breath. Far Hunter would help him, he was sure of that now.

“Hrrr.” Far Hunter's snarl became deeper. “My father was killed by the Tzaatz. I managed to escape with my life. These misbred mongrels squeeze the kzintzag while the Lesser Prides do nothing.”

“And Pouncer?”

“First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is gone. His brother still holds the Patriarchy, in name at least, though he dances for Kchula-Tzaatz.”

“Gone where?”

“I don't know. We were separated in the fight, and I couldn't get to them. They stole a gravlifter.”

“You were wounded.” Tskombe gestured to the thin white lines on Far Hunter's chest that marked fur growing from scar tissue.

“A raider rapsar, that day at the spaceport. Since then I have had vengeance, for father and myself.” His paw went to the sheaf of ears at his belt and his fangs showed. “I will have more.”

“He lost his life helping us. I am sorry…” Tskombe found himself at a loss for words.

“He lost his life living up to his name, and the fault is not yours but that of the Tzaatz.”

Tskombe nodded. “And my companions, what happened to them?” Unconsciously he held his breath. This is the key question.

“I saw them, with Pouncer. The larger one, Kefan-Brasseur, was dead, or very badly injured. I couldn't join them, there were Tzaatz between us. Cherenkova-Captain was alive when I saw her last.”

Relief. “Where did they escape to?”

“I don't know. There are rumors that the Tzaatz found the loader abandoned high in the Long Range mountains. There are rumors First-Son fights the Tzaatz. Whether they are true…” Far Hunter turned both paws over. “I don't know. None of us who do fight the Tzaatz have seen him.”

“Far Hunter…” Tskombe paused. How to ask for this favor, to an alien enemy who had already paid too high a price to help him? “I need to find Cherenkova-Captain. She is my mate.”

“Hrrr. I hunt the Mooncatchers, I know the mountains. I know others who have sources of information. We can find the loader, perhaps, if it is there at all.”

“I have to try.”

“Of course you do. I need to trap more grashi. We will see what we can learn.”

“Who will mind your stall?”

“My half-uncle's son trains as my assistant. He is diligent and intelligent, if not yet wise.” Far Hunter raised his voice. “Apprentice!”

“Sire!” A young kzintosh appeared from the front section of the stall, his coat still dappled with the spots of youth.

“I will be going hunting, for the Hunter's Moon at least. The stall is yours until I return. Be thrifty, industrious, and courteous. You have the opportunity here to earn much strakh, both for our pride and yourself.”

The youngster claw-raked. “I will strive to be worthy of your trust, Senior Cousin.”

Tskombe turned to Night Pilot. “Black Saber's sensors may be helpful here.”

“They can be.” Night Pilot turned a paw over. “It will cost fuel. Your retainer is too thin, Tskombe-kz'eerkti.”

“Retainer? What is that?” Far Hunter was puzzled.

“It is…” Tskombe paused. The word for money in the Hero's Tongue was k'rna, a phonetic translation of kroner, stolen from Wunderland's North European argot, with its use confined to the kzinti who had to trade with humans. There was another word that meant exchange token, but it didn't encompass the nuances of invisible credit that were attached to modern funds. How to explain that to Far Hunter? When it came down to it, money was just a recognized store of value. It was alien on Kzinhome, where value was stored in your status and the universal recognition of it by the entire society. The system of strakh worked, so far as he could see, only because kzinti lived and died by their honor. As an economic working fluid it was only a small step up from barter. Electronic funds transfers, digital money, stocks, futures, the miracle of compound interest and all the rest of the working machinery of an advanced economy were impossible to them. A human trader could take over the markets of Hero's Square in a month by streamlining trade, except a human would be eaten first, for insulting a Hero with the suggestion that next month he would have to pay back more than he had borrowed today.

None of which would give any enlightenment to Far Hunter. “It is a form of strakh, formalized for exchange purposes,” he finished. It was not really an explanation at all, though Far Hunter accepted it at face value.

Far Hunter nodded. “I have strakh with my half-uncle, Cargo Pilot. In turn he will have strakh enough at the spaceport for fuel.”

Night Pilot's ears fanned up. “A stall vendor has strakh to fuel a starship?”

Far Hunter rippled his ears. “My strakh does not come from trading grashi. I fight the Tzaatz for what they did to my father, but I am not alone. The Rrit governed fairly; the Tzaatz demand too much from us. The Lesser Prides are afraid to act but we of the kzintzag have little to lose. We leap in the name of First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. A search for Cherenkova-Captain is a search for First-Son. For this purpose I command all the strakh on Kzinhome.” He smiled to show his fangs. “Tell me how much fuel you need, you will have it.”

“This is good. We will need maps too.” Night Pilot tapped at his beltcomp. “Coordinates. I can track you on the ground in real-time as you move, and search terrain ahead of you. Our sensors are better than you might think for a ship our size, and I know how to avoid notice from the orbital tracking net.”

Tskombe looked at him. “Have you smuggled on Kzinhome before?”

Night Pilot rippled his ears. “Smuggling is unknown to kzinti, in the human sense.”

“Because it's against the honor code?”

Night Pilot rippled his ears. “Because there are no import or export restrictions in the Patriarchy. What Great Pride would accept such an arbitrary imposition by the Patriarch?”

“So what is your role here then?”

“There are still those who make shipments in secret, to avoid the oversight of rivals, just for example. In honor, this is not smuggling.”

Tskombe shrugged. The difference between the rules of human honor and kzinti honor was as wide as the gulf between barter and a market economy. “So we need maps, survival gear, food and water, transportation to the area, what else?”

“A place to start.” Night Pilot turned to Far Hunter. “You said a vehicle was found?”

“It was. There are snippets of information. Kchula-Tzaatz's brother leads raids to distant places, first the jungle, then the desert and the high forests. It is said they search for First-Son.”

Tskombe shook his head. “We need something better than that.”

“I have friends among the cvari savannah hunters. Little escapes them. I will see if I can learn where the grav loader crashed, and we can start there. In the morning I will arrange to have your ship refueled.”

Night Pilot twitched his tail. “Where should I aim my sensors?”

Tskombe shrugged. “Can we find out where the Tzaatz have launched these raids?”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot turned a paw over. “I have contacts who will know. In the morning I will ask.”

Tskombe nodded. “I'm grateful for your help, Far Hunter.”

Far Hunter waved a paw. “It is nothing. My father swore fealty to the Rrit, and I have sworn to serve his memory. You wore the Patriarch's sigil. I am at your service.”

“I still have it.” Tskombe held up the medallion he had carried a hundred light-years.

“You are true to your own honor, Tskombe-kz'eerkti. We need a toast.” Far Hunter raised his voice. “Apprentice! Blood mead for our guests!”

Apprentice appeared with a set of huge flagons and a ceramic decanter and poured a thick, dark red liquid. Tskombe looked at it dubiously, but there was no way to refuse it.

Far Hunter stood up. “To vengeance,” he snarled, and Tskombe was about to echo him and drink when Night Pilot stood up.

“To success!”

They looked at him expectantly. Kzinti toasts are individual. No matter; it was amazing enough that a custom like toasting existed in any form in another species's culture. He stood up. “To the Rrit!” It seemed the thing to say.

The kzinti snarled in approval and drained their flagons at a gulp. Tskombe drank his as quickly as he could. The mead was heavy, thick, and bitter, and he nearly gagged getting it down. And to Ayla.

He sat down, stomach churning and head already swimming. The flagons were two liters at least, and the drink's alcohol content was high. He had never been much of a drinker, and the rest of the night was a blur.

61 Ursae Majoris was high in the sky when he woke up, and painfully bright. He was back in Provider's house, now Far Hunter's, though he couldn't remember getting there. His head was pounding, and he wished for a fistful of detox pills and the rest of the day to stay in bed. Not the smartest way to start the mission. But he couldn't have avoided it. Far Hunter and Night Pilot were his only allies, and he was lucky to have them. Perhaps they wouldn't have been insulted if he'd turned down the toast, but he couldn't have taken the risk.

He dragged himself up to find Trina waiting for him. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” The same two silent Kdatlyno were performing their morning cleaning rituals. It's as if I never left.

Trina smiled far too cheerily, she was enjoying her adventure. “Night Pilot brought me here. Contradictory is refueling the ship. They're taking off tomorrow.”

Tskombe nodded and suppressed the urge to scold her. It wasn't her fault, and though he'd be more comfortable with her safe on the ship, Night Pilot couldn't take responsibility for her forever. Instead he sat, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“There's some meat here. The kzin in the front gave it to me. The sauces are good. Night Pilot went out with the other one; they said they'd be back this evening.”

Tskombe looked at the serving. She was eating with a serrated skeceri knife, slicing off chunks of still warm raw meat, dunking them in sauce, and swallowing them almost whole. She'd developed a taste for kzinti cooking, or lack of it, on Black Saber. He looked away. His stomach wasn't ready to consider food yet.

Trina saw his look. “There's these eggs, too. Nay-something, they use them raw in the sauce, but I boiled mine.” She held one up, a mottled round sphere, fuzzy like a peach. “I can make some for you too.” She seemed eager for him to say yes.

“It's pronounced nyalzeri.” He avoided her question to avoid disappointing her. “You don't speak the Hero's Tongue, do you?”

She laughed. “No. When would I have learned that?”

He sighed. She shouldn't be here, and here she is. “You're going to have to know the basics.” He touched his nose. “Nose, naughl. Nostril, raughl.”

She repeated what he'd said, stumbling over the accent, and they began to run through the language. He taught her only the slave's form, to prevent her from getting herself into trouble. It filled the time. By hvlazch'pira — afternoon — she was getting good at the vocabulary, and his appetite had returned enough to eat. Trina boiled him a pair of the eggs while they worked, and then later cooked some of the meat for him. By evening she was stringing together sentences and her accent had improved considerably. She was good at languages. Or just lucky. The hypothesis he'd developed with Curvy seemed almost silly now. But she wins at chess. So how to test the hypothesis?

He picked up one of the uncooked nyalzeri eggs. It was firm rather than hard, like an oversized chicken's egg with a layer of leather over it, resilient up to its breaking point. He looked it over. Trina was looking at the wall, her eyes distant as she memorized verb conjugations. He hefted the egg, calculating, and without warning threw it at her. She turned to face him, her mouth starting to ask a question. The egg grazed her ear and hit the wall with a splat, leaving a small mess behind.

“What did you do that for?” Trina looked at him, wide eyed and aggrieved.

“It was an experiment to see how lucky you are. I'm sorry.”

“I guess I am lucky.” She smiled, pleased that he'd confirmed her rationale for sneaking aboard Black Saber. “No harm done. I'll clean it up.”

She hopped up to get a rag, also pleased to demonstrate her usefulness, and Tskombe watched her carefully. She turned at the exact instant necessary to make the egg miss her. So what did that prove? What would it have proven if he'd hit her square on the side of the head? The consequences were too trivial either way. If random luck was actually a non-random psi talent then it couldn't be expected to intervene when survival wasn't at stake. He pursed his lips, thinking about it. The heavy kreera sword he had practiced with last time he had hidden in Provider's house was hanging on the wall. One good swing would cut Trina in half. Unless she has preternatural luck. He looked away. He wasn't convinced enough of the hypothesis to do the experiment.

Far Hunter was back at dusk, looking like the cat that got the canary. “I have the regions the Tzaatz have been operating in. Night Pilot has them too, and his ship will be boosted by midnight. We can leave at once. He will guide us from orbit as we enter the area.”

Tskombe nodded, pleased and relieved. Coming to Kzinhome had been the ultimate gamble. So far it was paying off. They began packing Far Hunter's gravcar with pup tents, rappel gear, flash-dried meat rations in foil pouches, emergency supplies. It was the same gravcar that he had taken with Provider to the spaceport, and he wondered how Far Hunter had managed to get it out without being caught.

Trina helped them load as they put the weapons on board. There were variable swords for each of them, a compound bow as tall as he was, a set of edge-weighted throwing nets of almost invisible filaments in graduated sizes. He watched as she heaved a well-worn magrifle into the back of the vehicle, then struggled to lift a case of its rounds. He remembered the competent way Ayla Cherenkova had handled her oversized beamer and looked away. Trina was untrained, unqualified, inexperienced and, so far as combat and survival went, woefully naïve. There was not a weapon there she could be expected to use effectively. He bent over to pick up a box of grashi traps. I hope she really is lucky. Winning chess games was one thing; taking on an alien planet was another.

The next day Far Hunter's contacts had gotten the locations of all the Tzaatz movements that might conceivably be involved in a hunt for Pouncer, along with the relevant dates. There were a lot of areas. Night Pilot and Contradictory boosted for low orbit and they were soon downlinking a steady stream of high resolution imagery of the areas where they might, potentially, find a clue. The operational areas Far Hunter had identified were hardly pinpoint precise, but they told the story of a steadily expanding search starting from a canyon at the base of the Long Range. That's where the loader ran out of fuel, if the rumors are true. Black Saber's sensors gave them multispectrum images of the valley, and when the first orbital pass was complete, Tskombe put on a set of data goggles that had belonged to Far Hunter when he was a kitten. They gave him a bird's eye view of the rugged, stony valley floor good enough to resolve individual pebbles. That was a problem. The area was six kilometers long and two wide, and Kzinhome's seasons had changed and changed again since the crash. He'd started with optimism, scanning over the projected terrain images at high speed in the hopes of finding the abandoned loader, the logical search start point for both the Tzaatz and them. He hadn't found it, which might have been because the Tzaatz had hauled it out and might have meant it was never there in the first place because they were searching the wrong valley. He'd gone back at maximum resolution and started again, in the hopes of finding some wreckage, landing skid marks, anything. It was a much slower process. Black Saber had the whole valley mapped in high detail under five minutes, but to examine the images closely enough required picking up some long-degraded trace that Ayla might have left. That meant a slow, thorough search for some tiny ambiguous detail, scanning through the imagery at a speed that would have been a walking pace on the ground. He concentrated first on the watercourses. Anyone traveling the wilderness for any distance wouldn't want to get too far from water.

Some hours later he took the goggles off. He had sore eyes and no way of knowing if he'd missed the vital clue, or if it wasn't even in this valley. The enormity of the task he'd undertaken began to sink in. When Stanley set out to find Livingstone he at least knew to follow the Nile. I have no such guidance. Still, it was what he had come to do, and he would do it. The UNF doesn't abandon its own, and I will not abandon Ayla.

Trina came in with a tray of fire-roasted grashi and sauce. He took the dish eagerly, only then aware of how hungry he was. She took the datagoggles in exchange and sat down with them. He'd agreed to let her help with the search when he was done, privately resolving to go over everything she covered himself, just to make sure. She wasn't trained to track and trail, as he was. She could easily miss something subtle, and he wasn't prepared to take that risk.

“Where should I start?” She was experimentally waving her hands in the air, learning the gesture commands that would pan and zoom the image, her head turning left and right as she searched what for her had become a wide valley in the distant mountains. Tskombe looked up at Far Hunter's wall screen, where the image she was seeing was remoted, along with a moving map display that showed the topographic features of the area, with the viewpoint displayed on the main screen highlighted.

“Try here.” He pointed to the blue line of the watercourse he'd been searching, and made a sweeping motion with his other hand to command the AI to move the datagoggle viewpoint there.

“Sure.” She turned her head left and right, searching, twitching her wrist to advance her viewpoint slowly as she looked. Tskombe turned to his grashi. Trina was becoming a good cook.

“What's this?” He looked up from his meal to see what she meant. On the wallscreen she'd outlined a small pile of rocks in the rough shape of a person.

Adrenaline surged and it took him a second to find his voice. “It's an inukshuk.”

“What's that?”

“It means 'in the form of a man' in Inuktitut. The original cultures in the high Arctic on Earth used them to mark trails, because there were no easy landmarks there.”

“What does it mean?”

Tskombe went up to the image, examining the inukshuk in mingled joy and disbelief. “It means Ayla was there. It means she made it out of the spaceport alive.” He noticed something and gestured the image to the right. “There's the remains of a campfire too, just about the right age from the look of it.”

Trina took off the datagoggles. “I guess we should go here then. The gravcar is packed.”

Tskombe nodded and looked at his beltcomp so she wouldn't catch him staring at her. He'd spent eight hours tediously scanning through the image data for some trace of Ayla, and she'd found exactly what they were looking for almost as soon as she'd put on the goggles. Luck? Evolved luck might or might not trouble itself to save her from a face full of egg, but life was about time, and Trina's luck seemed to see no reason to have her waste her life on tedious searching when what she wanted was right there to be found in the dataset.

He nodded. “Yes, we should go here.”

Trina was smiling proudly. “I'm good at finding things.”

He nodded again and rubbed his sore eyes, wishing his own luck were as good as hers. But she's here, and I might have spent a month searching that valley and missed the inukshuk. He smiled to himself. Luck is a relative term. The important thing was, Ayla was out there somewhere. Now all he had to do was go and find her.

The Hrungn Valley fell jagged out of the Mooncatcher Mountains to spread into a broad and fertile river basin that opened onto the northern extreme of the vast plain of Stgrat as the Mooncatchers fell away to foothills. From his vantage point Pouncer could see the house of Chiuu Pride, its polished obsidian roof glinting over its rambling vastness in the setting sun, with pennants fluttering from jutting spires. The house was a tangible testament to the pride's wealth and power. Chiuu Pride's fealty to the Rrit was so old it was told of in the legends, and the Hrungn Valley had been theirs for all that time. The cold mountain streams that fed the meandering Hrungn River in its center brought nutrients that fed the soil. In the vast meeflri fields surrounding the great house the Kdatlyno slaves were ending their day. At the change of the seasons the meeflri would be tall and golden, but now the fields were shorn flat, and the Kdatlyno had spread husk mulch to nourish the tiny seedlings while protecting them from the harsh sun of the dry time. Here and there long feeder trays held last year's crop, the heavy seeds ground fine to make tempting fodder for the wild melyar herds that moved through the valley. Hrungn Valley melyar raised on meeflri was prized throughout the Patriarchy for its rich, delicate meat.

It was an idyllic scene, or should have been. Pouncer's lips twitched over his fangs as he raised his binoptics to his eyes and scanned the valley. Beside the great house was a series of pop-domes, sprouting like excrescences to mar the view from its broad upper windows. A patrol mounted on raider rapsari watched by the gate as the Kdatlyno filed past. Farther north another patrol was heading back from their daily vigil over the tungsten mine dug into the rich veins that had formed when tectonic forces thrust the ancient Mooncatchers up from the plain. The Tzaatz were there in force, extracting strakh which was not theirs, and Vsar-Chiuu's Eldest and Second-Sons had already died in the arena for insisting on their birth-given rights. Vsar-Chiuu himself, too old now to leap in defense of his own honor, bore the enemy presence in humiliated silence to buy the lives of his surviving kits, while the Tzaatz made free with his lands and holdings. It was wrong. Chiuu Pride gave fealty to the Rrit, and the Rrit in turn were sworn to their protection. Pouncer's tail lashed in anger. His father was dead, and his brother, his honorless, nameless brother, was allowing Kchula-Tzaatz to do this in the Rrit name.

He snarled deep in his throat. No more.

His tail twitched commands to the warriors behind him, twice-eight-squared of Ztrak Pride, ready now to follow him to death or victory in the Longest War. Dusk and dawn were the best times for hunt cloaks, when eyes were transitioning to night vision, and the rapid change in ground temperature threw up many targets for thermal scanners. He assessed the ground ahead, judging the route forward. I must make this raid a success, inflict damage and withdraw with no casualties. The goal now is not to defeat the enemy but to let the Patriarchy know that I am not defeated. Every one of his party had variable swords, built by the Pride, and most had mag armor, although some disdained it as too bulky and restrictive. I have changed their customs by my very presence. He didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

To his left Czor-Dziit of Dziit Pride was watching, and how Pouncer handled himself today would determine if Czor threw Dziit Pride's weight in with Ztrak Pride or led his own campaign. The Tzaatz raids on czrav prides in their high forest strongholds had ensured the czrav would fight. Whether they would fight with him was another question. To his left Kdtronai-zar'ameer moved to cover, watching him from a stone's throw away. It was not only Dziit Pride's faith and fealty that hung on his leadership today.

He moved forward to a gully that led down into the valley. It would be dark in the valley by the time they were there, down in the river bed where the Hrungn's flow had dropped to a trickle in the heat and the burstflower bushes clustered close enough to hide their approach. The most dangerous time was now, when they were exposed on the slopes. Somewhere out there the Tzaatz would have watchers, and they'd already picked up the spoor of rapsar patrols that reached up to the valley rim, but the Tzaatz were sloppy, and he had chosen his route with care, over hard, dry rock that wouldn't hold scent. Only bad luck would get them caught before they reached their objective, and if they were they had the strength to fight and flee before the Tzaatz could bring up reinforcements.

He looked back. His warriors were flowing like liquid over the forward slope, their hunt cloaks shimmering into the background whenever they stopped moving. He had trained them well. Czor-Dziit would be impressed. The czrav were hard fighters, made tough by their self-imposed exile to the wild lands while the rest of the Patriarchy had grown soft, but they knew little of formations or the tactics of large scale combat, knowledge that Guardmaster had drilled into Pouncer's brain since he'd left his mother's teats. Guardmaster be with me now. This was no training scenario, to be stopped and played back afterward for his mentor to show him the mistake that had cost him the battle. This was real, and his first command in front of experienced warriors inclined to be skeptical of his abilities. V'rli-Ztrak had agreed to let him lead the attack on the main enemy camp, even as her own forces closed on the tungsten mine. It was an opportunity he had won with his own claws. The Tzaatz were about to pay for his father's death, and his sister's, for the slaughter of Mrrsel Pride, for the sons of Vsar-Chiuu and their insults to the Lesser Prides. Pouncer snarled. Kchula's debt was heavy. If he could turn today's opportunity into victory the Tzaatz would be paying it for a long time.

A distant whine rose in the distance, and he flashed the tail signal for freeze. At once the whole formation went to ground, motionless under their hunt cloaks. The whine grew and a Tzaatz gravcar slid over the ridgeline and then down into the valley. It wasn't patrolling, and it didn't alter course. Pouncer waited until it had settled next to the pop-domes that quartered the Tzaatz, and then started moving again. He was about to signal his forces to move with him when something caught his eye. He dropped to one knee and raised his binoptics, boosting up the zoom to focus on the gravcar. The occupants were dismounting, two Tzaatz guards in full armor and a third with the red-gold sash that carried the Tzaatz sigil. The third had black fur. It could only be Ftzaal-Tzaatz. Pouncer smiled a fanged smile. He had never seen the feared Black Priest before, but his name came up frequently in spy reports. To kill or capture Kchula's brother would transform the raid into a tremendous victory. He waited until the Tzaatz had gone into one of the pop-domes, carefully noting which one it was, then signaled for the advance to continue. In silence his warriors started moving again.

The bottom of the gully was a tangle of rain-tumbled rocks and the going was hard, but its depth and the vegetation that lined it would give them cover right down to the riverbed. It was deep twilight by the time they made it to the Hrungn, and their progress slowed further. The riverbed was rocky, with treacherous footing in the poor light. The ground was easier close to the bank, but the heavy branches of the dusky burstflower bushes made the going no faster. That was a problem. Their attack was supposed to start at midnight, to coordinate with V'rli's at the tungsten mine. He had planned their move to bring them into position just before that time. Cherenkova-Captain had suggested he leave a larger margin in case of delays, and now he saw the wisdom of her suggestion. Guardmaster would have said the same thing, and I would have listened to him. He resolved not to make the same mistake again, if he ever got a second chance.

He glanced over to Mind-Seer, who would scan the minds of the Tzaatz leaders before the attack went in to ensure their surprise was complete, and to give warning of the Tzaatz response before the Tzaatz themselves could coordinate it. Ferlitz-Telepath was with V'rli to do the same job for her attack, and to scan Pouncer's mind to be sure his assault was ready before V'rli committed herself.

Silent communications, completely secure. The entire Patriarchy doesn't have half as many adepts as the czrav, nor half as powerful. Overhead the battle stations would listen in vain for electromagnetic transmission. The czrav have more power than they ever dreamed. Ferlitz would warn V'rli if he wasn't in position, but being late on the start line would jeopardize the entire operation. The only answer was to push forward harder. That risked weakening his force through injury before he even got to the objective. A twisted joint was all it took to render a warrior useless in battle, and the treacherous footing offered plenty of opportunity for that.

But I have no option. He pushed the pace, using every last glimmer of vanishing daylight to cover as much ground as possible before darkness slowed them down. He was hot and panting by the time he reached the prominent oxbow bend that marked the closest approach of the river course to the Tzaatz positions. His warriors were spread out in the night behind him. This was where rigorous formation drills paid off. They filed into the assembly point in silence, each taking up a preassigned position. There was no wasted time. As soon as the last one was in, he went to the center to meet his element commanders. C'mell led the blocking party, her honor as his mate. He would have rather seen her safe at the high forest den, but three-quarters of the force were kzinretti. Czrav tradition demanded that she lead beside him, and even if it hadn't, C'mell herself would have brooked no such restriction; the kzinretti of the czrav were not the pampered pets of his father's forbidden garden. Kdtronai-zar'ameer led the security teams, who would ensure they had no unpleasant surprises from the flanks as they went in to the attack. Muted snarls, and then Kdtronai led his warriors out. The plan called for them to wait to give the security elements time to secure the area, but they didn't have that much time. As soon as Kdtronai's units were away Pouncer nodded to C'mell. Her force, armed with the lethal czrav short bows, would set up on the road to the main house, the natural escape route for any Tzaatz who made it out of the pop-domes alive. She would make sure there were no survivors. He looked at Mind-Seer, whose eyes were unfocused as he reached out to the thoughts of their enemies. Had we brought sthondat extract we might even know the Black Priest's mind. They hadn't, nor would he ask Mind-Seer to use it if they had. Perhaps Mind-Seer would have volunteered to. Do not dwell on it, it is not an option. Time stretched out, and then the telepath shook himself and flashed a tail signal to Pouncer. Clear!

Pouncer flipped his tail to signal his assault force to follow him and moved off. Every sense was heightened, his eyes picking up details from dark blurs, his ears up and straining forward for any sign that their attack had been detected. His nose twitched in the air, picking up the rank scent of the rapsari as well as the sharp odor of Tzaatz urine marks, arrogantly sprayed around Vsar-Chiuu's stronghold as though the invaders owned it. His mouth gaped into a fanged smile, ready to rip the throat out of any who came into his path.

No more!

The metallic odor of blood filled his nose with offensive suddenness, and he stopped, sniffing to identify the source, ears swiveling back and forth. There was only the gentle wind, and the distant scurrying of night creatures. Time was running out, and he moved on sooner than he might have, to find a Tzaatz body lying decapitated beside its gutted rapsar. Kdtronai's security team had cleared the way for him. The pop-domes loomed ahead; loud snarls and snatches of bad poetry spoke of a raucous celebration inside. The enemy enjoy their unearned gains. Fast tail signals sent his sub-detachments to their start lines. No time to waste. He checked his beltcomp. Already V'rli's force would be leaping on the Tzaatz at the tungsten mine. He waved his tail in a circle and pointed it forward. Now! In the same motion he drew his variable sword and extended the slicewire. One clean swing cut through the tough skin of the pop-dome. He leapt through the opening, the interior lights painful in his eyes, colliding with a Tzaatz guzzling from a flagon. He swung instinctively, though his opponent was just a blur, and suddenly the Tzaatz was two blurs, falling to the ground in a welter of blood. Clear the entryway! He found another target, stepped forward and swung again. The Tzaatz had their armor off, and they were easy meat for his slicewire. Behind him he could hear attack screams, as the rest of his force cut their way into the structure.

A blur of motion caught his eye, and he ducked back instinctively as a thrown w'tsai whipped past his head to embed itself in one of the dome's support members. He turned to the attack and leapt in one fluid motion. The Tzaatz who'd thrown the weapon rolled back and sideways to evade him, but Pouncer twisted in midair and cut him in half. He pivoted then, scanned for threats. Ftzaal-Tzaatz is here. His leap had carried him across the ground floor of the pop-dome. A metal staircase wound up the inside of the dome and he jumped to it, running up behind the rigid slicewire of his variable sword. That action saved his life. Something slammed into the monomolecular filament, nearly tearing the handle out of his hand. The force of the impact made the wire sing, and the vibrations stung his hand. Reflexively he spun the blade around, just in time to deflect a second blow. The enemy weapon was another variable sword, and the enemy was Ftzaal-Tzaatz, it could be no other, white fangs gaping in a black furred face. There had been no kill scream, just the whistle of the slicewire as the Black Priest sprung his ambush. Already he was bringing in another cut, and Pouncer tilted his blade to block it. He spun the wire again, bringing it around to beat Ftzaal's out of line, and then followed up with a killing stroke with enough force to cleave his opponent in half. Ftzaal wore no armor; he was brave to be in the fight at all.

Ftzaal swung again and Pouncer blocked again and countered, then leapt back as the Black Priest turned the move into a feint that drew Pouncer's response into an overextension. Ftzaal's slicewire hissed past his head. He is not brave but confident. He has no fear because he does not expect to lose. Pouncer attacked to buy time, and the black-furred killer spun away from the blow, and as he came around launched into a feint, thrust, feint pattern so fast that by the time Pouncer realized what had happened he was dangerously overexposed again, his own blade far out of line as Ftzaal swung over and down to cut through his belly articulation. Pouncer jumped backward, the only defense he had, but even as his slicewire hissed through empty air Ftzaal was leaping forward, pressing his advantage. Out of position and off balance, Pouncer threw his slicewire up in a desperate last ditch block. It was a hair too slow, and Ftzaal's wire slid along his. Sudden pain burned in his right ear; a fraction farther and he would have lost it, and perhaps his head with it. Desperately, he rolled out of the way, throwing his slicewire up to block another attack, but Ftzaal was already in midleap and battered his guard out of the way, simultaneously lashing out with a kick that connected painfully with Pouncer's wrist, knocking his variable sword out of his grasp. Pouncer rolled backward in desperation and Ftzaal's blade slammed into the space he had occupied an instant before, gouging a chunk from the flexible flooring. Pouncer rolled again, this time coming to his feet. He grabbed up a small bowl-table and threw it at his adversary. Ftzaal blocked it easily, the bowl separated from the table stand by his slicewire. Pouncer backed up and found himself against the curved side of the pop-dome. There was nowhere else to go. Ftzaal's snarl gaped wide, showing razor fangs, and he screamed and leapt, his slicewire blurring. Pouncer ducked and tried to leap sideways, but he didn't have enough room and he wasn't going to get clear in time. Ftzaal's slicewire was a blur heading for his vulnerable neck articulation, and then Ftzaal himself was coming at him, the blade somehow coming out of line as the Black Priest was stumbling, falling into the resilient side of the dome to bounce off and tumble, his leap ruined. Pouncer leapt for his variable sword and grabbed it up, pivoting to face his adversary even as Ftzaal recovered his feet in a creditable half roll and came up with his weapon in guard position.

Stalemate again. They watched each other warily, and Pouncer gulped air in hungry gulps. What made the master swordsman stumble? Pouncer flicked his eyes from his opponent's shoulder for half a heartbeat, saw nothing, did it again and found the bowl of the bowl-table, rolled to one side now. Ftzaal had landed on it in his leap and lost his footing. Krwisatz, the pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. Except today Pouncer is the prey. Learn the lesson there. Pouncer stepped sideways to clear his touchdown area for his own leap, and Ftzaal's lips twitched over his fangs. He was going to attack again.

Feet pounded on the stairs, and the Black Priest's eyes flicked sideways. The stairway was behind Pouncer, but he could sense his pride-mates stopping at the top, taking stock of the situation. The odds had shifted now.

“I'll take the rest of that ear later, Rrit.” Ftzaal snarled the words.

So he has recognized me. Pouncer didn't answer. Let him eat my silence. He motioned his comrades forward, but Ftzaal back flipped, slicing open the side of the pop dome while he was still upside down and bursting out through the gap. Without thought Pouncer leapt after him, exultation in his liver. He is good, but not good enough. C'mell's ambushes will take him. Then he too was through the slashed dome wall, dropping to an easy crouch, searching for his enemy, his vision still half dark-adapted.

Polarizers whined and a gravcar boosted past, so close the wind blast nearly knocked him over. He looked up to see it vanishing into the night. Ftzaal-Tzaatz. He screamed into the night, a hunter cheated of his prey. For an instant he wished for a gravcar. But sky mobility is the enemy's strength, not mine. Gravcars required fuel and maintenance and infrastructure beyond the resources of the czrav. His strength was stealth, not speed, the ability to vanish into the countryside in an instant, to travel undetected, to appear suddenly and in force, anywhere and everywhere. I must not fight the Tzaatz on their ground but on my own.

The sounds of fighting had faded from the shredded pop-domes, replaced by the snarls of his warriors as they scoured the ruins for information. A strange, keening roar split the night, suddenly cut off. C'mell's forces had found the rapsar quarters and were slaying the beasts. He ran back to the other pop-domes, got status reports from each of his sub-commanders there. The news was good; no serious injuries, and all the Tzaatz dead in the first attack. He went back to the main pop-dome, confirmed that all was under control there on both floors. On the second level he saw again the severed bowl of the bowl-table. It was ornately carved of flamewood in an alien style, perhaps Jotoki. On impulse he dropped it into a pouch on his combat harness and went back to the ground floor.

The assault team there was still sifting through bodies for intelligence. He had one more task to do, and then he would melt back into the night. He turned and ran to the main house, snarling the code word to Kdtronai's cut-off teams who held the approaches secure so they would know who he was. He loped up to the door, then rang the great gong that announced visitors. The doors were of heavy stonewood beams bound in iron, once enough to withstand considerable assault. He could have sliced them open in a heartbeat with his variable sword, but he refrained, waiting impatiently while he heard the wards drawn back from the inside. Two impassive Kdatlyno hauled the heavy doors open, and behind them, as Pouncer had hoped, was Vsar-Chiuu.

The old kzin stood ready, his eyes clear, his hand steady as he held v'scree stance, variable sword in hand, ready to defend his home and his honor with his life if he had to.

“You kill the Tzaatz. Who are you?” The voice was suspicious, but if Vsar truly distrusted this stranger who had come so abruptly in the night he would never have opened his door voluntarily.

“I am Zree-Rrit-First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. I am sworn to your protection.” Pouncer claw-raked, one hand on the pommel of his variable sword in case the old kzin attacked while his guard was down.

“First-Son, Zree-Rrit now! Can it be true?” Vsar-Chiuu stepped forward and peered at Pouncer, then relaxed, retracting the blade of his variable sword. “Yes, you have your father's markings. I knew him when he was just a kitten.”

“I am his son.” Pouncer retracted his own slicewire and made the gesture of obedience-to-the-Patriarch-in-his-absence, as though bearing his father's coat pattern were a matter of duty and not genetics.

“What you have done here today, there will be repercussions…”

“No Tzaatz will take anything of yours again, not while I live.”

“And one repercussion may be that you do not live. The Patriarchy has come to dark days.” The old kzin wrinkled his nose. “Your father called you Pouncer, as I recall.”

“He did, sire.”

“I saw you when you were presented to the Circle of Lesser Prides, before you were weaned. You struggled hard, and jumped on his tail when you got free. He had to hold you up with both hands.” Vsar-Chiuu rippled his ears. “You seemed worthy of that name then. You seem worthy of his name now.”

“I will strive to be.” Pouncer checked his beltcomp. “I come to give you a message, to pass on to the Tzaatz when they come. Skalazaal is alive, between Rrit and Tzaatz. I will not rest until I have Kchula's head spiked at Hero's Gate.”

“Hrrr. It is good to hear that. I will enjoy passing this message.”

“I must go now, but we will be watching.”

“We.” Vsar-Chiuu growled in approval. “You have allies, Zree-Rrit. This is good. You have another ally in Chiuu Pride now. I will do whatever I can do to help you.”

“It is safer if you do not. There will be repercussions.”

Vsar lashed his tail. “What will the Tzaatz do to me? Take my land and kzinretti? Abuse my slaves? Kill my eldest sons?” He hissed. “They are sthondats, and I have little enough to lose. Already my youngest are hidden well, and I am too old to fear death any longer. Fealty runs both ways, Zree-Rrit. I will not have it said Chiuu Pride has forgotten its honor.”

“Chiuu Pride's honor is above question. I must go now, but I will come again, sire, and we will talk more.” Pouncer claw-raked and went out, collecting Kdtronai's guards as he went. Quicktail had the rest of the assault detachment assembled at the withdrawal point, and Pouncer quickly took the lead and headed back for the assembly area. They met C'mell's warriors there, and though he longed to nuzzle her, to reassure himself that she was really there, really safe, he did not. This is combat, and I am the leader. He checked quickly to see that the rest of her party had returned and then led them back into the riverbed. This time they moved in the center of the stream so the water would cover their spoor and scent trail. It was difficult and uncomfortable going and again Pouncer found himself wishing he'd allowed more time. Estimates that had seemed generous looking at a map were proving woefully inadequate now. He pushed the pace as hard as he could, sloshing through the darkness, tripping over underwater stones, falling farther behind with each step. They had to meet up with V'rli's group and be out of the Hrungn before daybreak. The raid wasn't a success until they were all safely away. We have no margin for error here. Decision time. If they stayed in the river, the sniffers wouldn't be able to track them, but they would be caught still in the valley when the sun came up. Worse, V'rli's group could not leave without them, and he would endanger the entire pride. If he left the river, they would save time, but the sniffers would pick up their trail. Either way the Tzaatz would find them, and without the element of surprise his light force wouldn't be able to stand up to a rapsar attack.

So what to do? He kept moving as he thought. At least the forced pace kept him warm. Despite the heat of the day the night air was chill, and the Hrungn ran cold from its high mountain springs. The valley was rich with the smell of turned earth, and something else, vaguely familiar, jogging his memory. He sniffed, then inhaled deeply to catch the faint scent. Myewl! It was more common in the jungle downlands, but it liked dry ground by jungle standards, enough that even here next to the mountains the aromatic plants could find habitat close to the river. The myewl leaves would break their scent trail. There would still be ground spoor — a moving force the size of his couldn't help but leave signs for a good tracker to follow — but the Tzaatz relied too much on their sniffers. It was a risk worth taking. He moved out of the river bed, clambering over dry rocks in the darkness, then scrambling over the bank that marked the full river margins in the flood season. Burstflower bushes lined the rivers edge, and he headed upslope, toward the dryer, sandier area that must be ahead. The myewl scent grew stronger, and on a low sandy hill he came into a clump of it. He gave the tail sign for gather, and watched again as his well disciplined force filed into their preassigned places in the night-defensive formation. The czrav were all seasoned hunters, and didn't need to be told the significance of the myewl. With w'tsai and claws they stripped the leaves from the branches, crushing them to spread the juice over themselves. It took time, but when they moved out they were moving faster. Pouncer breathed a little easier, but still pushed the pace. Soon their path would turn up, and the steepness of the valley wall would slow them down again. They had to make time while they could. In the distance riding lights winked in the sky, gravcars falling into the stronghold of Chiuu Pride. The Tzaatz are arrogant, and they give themselves away. Ftzaal-Tzaatz would have summoned trackers, and the gravcars would sweep the valley with their sensors. It was too late for that. The background clutter of large animals and wind-rocked branches would be enough to confuse them. The Tzaatz would have to track them on the ground, over a trail made difficult by the river and the myewl, and they could track on the ground no faster than Pouncer could move ahead of them. They were safe. He kept moving quickly, though his warriors were visibly tiring, and his own muscles complained loudly at the unaccustomed strain. They were safe, but there were still deadlines to meet. He did not want to keep V'rli waiting at the rendezvous.

The eastern sky was growing brighter when they arrived in the grove of broadleaf trees where the tuskvor were tethered. V'rli's group was already there in defensive positions. She met him as they came in.

“Any injuries?” Her tone asked the unspoken question. Any killed?

“None.” Pride won through the exhaustion and he held himself as a warrior should. He had made it, in and back, and brought all of his first command with him. “The rapsari are dead, and all the Tzaatz save one.”

“Just one?”

“It was the Black Priest, Ftzaal-Tzaatz. I fought him myself.”

V'rli's ears swiveled up. “He is dangerous.” Her eyes went to Pouncer's ear, now bound in myewl to hide the bloodscent. “He wounded you.”

“It is minor, Honored Mother. We should go.”

“We should.” Czor-Dziit had joined them. “You have won a great victory here, Zree-Rrit.”

“Ztrak Pride's victory, I think. I made mistakes, sire.”

“Mistakes are inevitable. What matters is how you handle yourself when they occur. You handled yourself well. On your next raid Dziit Pride will share your victory too.”

“I am honored, sire.”

“No, I am honored, Zree-Rrit.” Czor-Dziit claw-raked, and V'rli gave the tail signal for mount. Around the grove the mazourk leapt up to their travel platforms to take the tiller bars, and the raiders of Ztrak leapt behind them. It would be three more days through mountain, desert and grasslands to the high forest den, but they had ears now, and the battle behind them. Tuskvor grunted and stirred. Morale was high. V'rli rode the first tuskvor out of the grove and Pouncer rode the last. Already his raiders were snarling back and forth, weaving the story of the raid into a whole that the entire Pride would share. It would become part of the Pride Ballad soon enough. Pouncer stood to the back of the platform, not joining in the levity, looking back over the tuskvor's heavily swaying tail. I have started something today which I can no longer turn back. There will be war between czrav and Tzaatz. He took out the severed bowl-table. On closer examination he could see the indentations made for serving ladles. It was meant to hold blood sauce for feasting. He turned it over to examine the almost polished surface where Ftzaal-Tzaatz's slicewire had cut through it with little more resistance than if it had been air. Krwisatz. Will you trip pouncer or prey? They had won this engagement, but the war was far from over. What unseen factor might yet turn victory into defeat?

Curvy whistled to herself as she tapped on her console, the manipulator tentacles of her dolphin hands snaking expertly over the keys in response to brain impulses picked up by tiny coils of superconductor in the control cap she wore. Zwweee(click)wurrrtrrrtrrr answered her from across the dolphin tank, and Curvy chirped happily at the reminder that she was no longer alone. Dolphins prefer to be gregarious, and she had spent too much time with only human company.

Few dolphins chose to work with the UNF for just that reason. It was one thing to be on a dive team for some human mining corporation in Earth's oceans, to work and play with friends and family, and listen to the ancient rhythms of the ocean. It was something else to leave the oceans for the uncomfortable environment of space, to be reliant on another species even for food. It was unnatural, but it was necessary. If the cetacean world was to have any influence over their own oceans, some dolphins had to work with the humans, even to the extent of helping them fight their wars.

And so she was on the UNSN battleship Crusader, at the core of a fleet five hundred strong, plotting strategy as they boosted for the world the kzinti called W'kkai. She punched execute to run her strategic matrix, a complex condensation of a hundred thousand factors that might affect the battle to come. She had carefully designed it to winnow out the courses of action required to optimize the chances of getting the desired results. Not her desired results, which would have seen peace between Man and Kzin; that option had been foreclosed. Secretary Ravalla had come to power faster than she had thought possible, or to be more technically accurate, at a date ahead of 97.3% of the range of possible dates computed by her previous calculations, although he had only achieved a minority government (33.4% probable and thus not much of a surprise). Given that combination of outcomes it was highly probable (85%) that Ravalla would move immediately to war, but the total probability of all three events was less than one percent. Events had landed on an outlier, and the results were disastrous. War was in progress, and the best course of action now was to ensure that the UN won it, quickly. If the Patriarchy reacted as her models predicted, a long war would lead to an inevitable escalation that would see planets razed, Earth most certainly included. That was an outcome to be avoided at any cost.

Of course a short war also had a high probability of that outcome. Curvy dove to snap up a trout while her simulation ran. The prognostics weren't positive, but life continued. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr dove with her and for a moment they swam in synchrony, bathed in the flickering light from one tank wall where the entire fleet's com channels were displayed, so the dolphins could follow battles in real time. She ducked under him and rubbed her beak and melon along his belly, an affectionate tease. He rolled and chirped and then they leapt, as well as they could in the not-quite-big enough tank. Later they would mate; for now there was the simulation run.

The computer beeped and flashed, and together they went to look at the results. Battle tactics in three dimensions. The humans had an overwhelming fleet compared to what intelligence said they would find at W'kkai. It would be a straightforward battle; their losses would be light. The real battle would come later, when the kzinti set out to take back what was theirs. The Patriarchy was big, exactly how big nobody knew for sure. She had models, with upper and lower bounds, and the alarming thing was that the upper bounds were so much larger than the humans were willing to believe. The elements of kzinti social structure were an important factor, incompletely known. Perhaps it had been a mistake to influence events to allow Dr. Brasseur to be sent to Kzinhome. The a priori probability of his death had been low, and the social data he might have come home with would have greatly enhanced the models. Instead, they had lost not only the additional data he would have brought back, but his insight into the data they already had.

Curvy trilled, concerned at what she saw on her screen. Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr clicked in concurrence, and dumped his own data to her screen. Victory at W'kkai was not an issue. The consequences of that victory were less encouraging. The best possible solution was to target Kzinhome itself as soon as possible. If that could be done successfully there was a high probability the remainder of the Patriarchy would fall apart without offering serious threat to Earth. Kzinhome was heavily defended though. Her first campaign concept had involved attacking it almost immediately, but that plan revolved around the unprecedented combat power of the Wunderlanders' Treatymaker, and that was now out of action for the foreseeable future.

And of course it was beyond the capacity of the Ravalla faction to delay their attack until the human forces were fully ready. They would forfeit their political position if they reneged on their aggressive rhetoric now that they were in power. The negative outcome spaces downstream of that position seemed to have no impact on the faction's decision making. The best they could do now was attack the Patriarchy's weaker worlds, gain experience for the human fleet, and hopefully draw some of the protection away from Kzinhome itself. It was not the most optimal plan she could imagine, it was simply the best one under the circumstances.

Her consort slid beneath and rubbed her belly with amorous insistence, and concern dissolved in the mating flash. They dove together with bodies intertwined, losing the cares of known space in love play for a few blissful minutes. She wriggled as he entered her, delighted at his touch, his company, his essential dolphin-ness. She had forgotten how much she missed her own kind. Dolphins had their priorities straight. If humans would only spend more time mating and less time scheming, the galaxy would be a better place.

The high noon glare of 61 Ursae Majoris baked rivers of sweat from Quacy Tskombe's brow. He wiped it away and examined the stone circle of a campfire and the inukshuk beside it. There were scattered bones nearby, remnants of one of the graceful zianya herbivores that populated the rolling savannah. In tracking Ayla they had found six campsites with inukshuk scattered across the grasslands between the mountains and the jungle. It was Far Hunter who read the land and divined the direction the fugitives had most likely taken in their flight, but it was Trina who had found all six campsites. Certainly they had missed many more, but they had the trail, and that was what mattered. Trina's formidible luck was no longer something he questioned but something he counted on. When she and Far Hunter agreed on the direction to travel he took their advice without question. His own tracking skills were unnecessary, and, though he didn't like to admit it, far outclassed. Even he could have found this campsite, though. A grass fire had swept through the area a season ago, leaving a large charred circle easily visible from the air, a logical place to look for a campsite. Ayla's cook fire must have gotten out of control.

He looked up to the forbidding green wall where the jungle began, just a few hundred meters away now. The trail they had followed pointed straight to the jungle, and he remembered T'suuz telling Pouncer that they would find shelter in there.

“Far Hunter!” he called. The kzin was examining the ground on the other side of the gravcar. “What is a czrav?”

“A jungle primitive. Even the savannah cvari see them rarely. Why do you ask?”

“Pouncer said he would find shelter there.” It was really T'suuz who had, but Tskombe had learned that Far Hunter would not believe him if he said T'suuz said anything of import. Kzinretti were not supposed to be that smart.

“Poor shelter there. The czrav are dangerous, and they are not even the greatest of the jungle's dangers. I have hunted the jungle verge. Few who go deeper ever come out again.”

“It seems that's where they went.”

Far Hunter furled his ears. “My hope is dwindling, Tskombe-kz'eerkti, for your cause and for mine.”

“Hey, look at this!” Trina called, interrupting.

Human and kzin went to look and found long scars in the center of the burned area where soil had melted into dark glass.

Tskombe pursed his lips. “Laser beams.” Ayla's cooking fire hadn't been the cause of the burned area after all.

“Hrrrr. The Tzaatz found them and attacked with energy weapons. They have no honor.”

Tskombe looked at him. “I've seen kzinti kill each other with more than hand weapons.”

Far Hunter snarled, showing his fangs. “Of course, but not in a pride war, or a duel. There are traditions.”

Tskombe nodded, feeling sick at heart. Three runners on foot, against at least a gravcar with heavy weapons. The chances of survival were not good. They followed the slashes of glassified dirt to the jungle verge, found an area where trees had ruptured when the beams flash boiled the moisture in their boles. Splinters of wood had sprayed like grenade shrapnel to imbed themselves in nearby trunks. The damage continued some little distance into the treeline, enough to suggest that perhaps the runners had gotten away. On the other hand, there was no wreckage in the area, no sign they had fought back successfully. Tskombe resolved to keep looking anyway. He had not come so far to give up, even if Ayla was already dead.

Far Hunter was sniffing the ground farther into the forest. “There is no sign of a trail.”

“There wouldn't be, at this distance in time. We haven't found anything we can track yet.”

“Hrrrr.”

Trina moved deeper into the woods and Far Hunter looked up sharply. “Do not go further.”

She turned around. “Why not?”

Far Hunter bared his fangs. “The jungle is a dangerous place. You can be lost within a few paces, and prey within a few more.”

She stepped back, looking worried. Tskombe turned back to the open savannah. “I think we should search from the gravcar. We can cover more ground that way.”

Far Hunter twitched his whiskers. “Agreed.”

It was harder than he thought it would be. From the air the jungle was a vast, green maze split by the muddy, serpentine coils of the river. It was impenetrable from below, its secrets well hidden from above. After the second day of searching from the gravcar they lost Black Saber when Contradictory landed a contract to take a cargo to a world called Reessliu. It was a round trip contract, by way of Ktzaa'Whrloo, so at least the freerunner would be back, eventually. Black Saber's instruments were no help in a ground search conducted beneath jungle canopy, but once Tskombe found Ayla he wanted to take her back immediately. But that is not what's going to happen. There were no guarantees. Night Pilot gave them an estimated time of return, and that was all. Black Saber went where her cargos took her, and the Patriarchy was a big place. Getting back to human space has now become as large a problem as finding Ayla.

Time to think about that later. And as later became now he continued to push the problem back. The days grew noticeably shorter and the first rains of the wet season began without a single clue emerging from their search. At night they camped on the relative safety of the savannah, by day they flew down the newly swollen tributaries of the river. It was a search strategy dictated as much by necessity as planning. Far Hunter's theory was that, if the fugitives had survived, they would have followed the river downstream. That theory meshed conveniently with the fact that the river banks were the only part of the jungle floor they could actually see. There were cool, clear pools in the smaller tributaries, inviting in the heat of the day, but Far Hunter warned them against entering still water.

They found nothing, and continued to find nothing. One day after another fruitless search it occurred to Tskombe that he'd lost track of time. It had been what, a month? Two months? They returned to their camp on the savannah to eat a zianya that Far Hunter had caught. Trina and Tskombe roasted their portion on the same cook fire that Ayla had set, a season or more ago. It made him feel connected to her, as though she were alive. And she is alive, I have to believe that. The jungle was large, the search could take years. Patience was the key.

And still the next day, in his heart he believed that today might be the day they found her. It was not, nor was the next. The Hunter's Moon made its way through its phases, chased around the sky by the smaller, faster Traveler's Moon. The wet season was well upon them. Every day brought larger storms, and the languid river began to run faster, hastened by its myriad overflowing tributaries. The danger of standing water was replaced by the hazard of its powerful current, but there was less drive to swim. The constant rainfall was cooling the parched jungle, and the desiccated vegetation began to swell and blossom. Tskombe found himself changing too, adapting to the environment. He could recognize hidden threats, in the fangthorn and the trapvine, he knew the tracks of the alyyzya and, though he'd never seen one, the fearsome grlor. His dark complexion was burnt almost black by the relentless sun. Trina had changed too. He had already seen the little girl behind the abused adolescent emerge in her time on Tiamat, and now the little girl was growing, maturing into a confident young woman. Unlike him she wasn't adapting to the jungle, her luck forbade it. If she needed to drink there was a clean stream nearby, if she wandered too close to a trapvine it turned out to have already caught its dinner. Her confidence was the misplaced confidence of youth, that nothing bad could happen to her. Except her case it turned out to be correct.

Her luck was failing though, in the search for Ayla. But good luck for her is not good luck for me. Perhaps her fates have arranged for her to have this interlude, to heal away from the humans who have done her the most harm, kept safe by good fortune alone in this lethal environment. Certainly Far Hunter was good for her. The kzin had taken an almost paternal interest in her, as a human might in a lost raccoon baby. He teased her gently and taught her little hunting tricks. She teased him back and learned to groom his pelt, a fair exchange. It reminded Tskombe of the earlier relationship she had forged with Curvy. And where is Curvy now? Earth, human space, Muro Ravalla and the threat of war, all these things seemed impossibly distant, completely unconnected with the daily round of their life. Even Ayla seemed distant, despite being the focus of his quest. Only in his dreams did she seem real, calling out to him, urging him not to give up on her. By day there was only the jungle, vast and alive, taunting him with its impenetrable secrets.

On their sixtieth or six hundredth flight Trina was flying under Far Hunter's tutelage, another round of the life lessons he insisted on teaching her. Tskombe kept his attention focused down, swept his eyes up and down the wide river, as the triple canopy unrolled beneath them, looking for something, anything.

And there was something. He gestured down, and Trina slid the gravcar down into the burned-over valley he'd spotted and landed on a thin layer of grass growing over still-charred ground. The jungle air was thick and humid, full of the scent of life. The morning had seen marching thunderstorms flood rain from the sky while fist sized hailstones rang off the gravcar's canopy like strakkaker fire, but now 61 Ursae Majoris burned down mercilessly from a clear blue sky, and the soaked ground steamed tendrils of water vapor up to join the next storm cycle. Tskombe climbed out, already drenched in sweat, and looked around at the sparse forest of burnt trunks.

Far Hunter leapt out. “What have you seen?”

“Just that this area is burnt over.”

“You suspect more laser fire?”

“Or a cook fire. What else do we have to go on?”

Far Hunter knelt to examine the soil. “This fire is too old, it happened several years ago at least.” He pointed. “See how the shoots have pushed through the charred layer and grown? The tree trunks have faded to gray.”

Tskombe nodded, sighing heavily. “Another false alarm. Where do we go from here?”

The kzin fanned his ears up as he surveyed the landscape. “Not so fast. It is still likely they would be following the river. Jungle navigation is hard. This tributary branch would have been their easiest choice. This burned area is easy going too. They may have come through here and left sign that has lasted in the char.”

“That way.” Trina pointed downslope from the cockpit. “I think that way.” Tskombe nodded and they got back in. Far Hunter took over the controls, flying slowly a few meters up, looking for clues. Tskombe had them fly through the center of the burned area, hoping to find stones arranged to hold a cook fire, or better yet another inukshuk, but there was nothing. A rushing stream ran through the center of the valley, running brisk with the morning's rain. Tskombe felt a mounting despair, for the first time since they had started the jungle hunt.

“We're searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Haystack translated as grass pile in the Hero's Tongue, and Far Hunter looked puzzled. “Why would you expect to find a needle there?”

“Well, you wouldn't expect to, that's the point.”

“Then why look?”

“Well, because you need to find the needle.”

“Needles are trivial possessions. Why not just get another one?”

“Well, you would normally.” Tskombe laughed, his mood improving slightly. “What I mean is, we're wasting our time here.”

Far Hunter put a paw to his nose, where four parallel lines of white fur marked the scars from the blood oath he had sworn. “Hrrr. I am pledged to take vengeance on the Tzaatz for my father's death, and my fealty belongs to the Rrit. I have no time in my life which is not bent to this task.” He took his paw away and unfurled his ears as he contemplated Tskombe. “Have you some priority higher than your search for your mate?”

And when you put it like that… Tskombe shook his head. “No. No I don't.”

Far Hunter growled in deep satisfaction. “Then it is settled. We will search on.” He spun the gravcar for another pass up the valley from the river.

“Look over there.” Trina pointed. “Something's different.”

They followed her finger. The valley fell into the river bed, cutting through a steep bluff that the river itself had etched eons earlier. Along the river bank the area between the water and the bluff was burnt over as well, the blackened and denuded spire trees reaching for the sky like the twisted pillars of some dark cathedral, but the burn was darker, the edges sharper, unrelieved by the sprigs of green that softened the harshness of the fire ravaged valley.

“Yes.” Far Hunter slid the gravcar down to the ground at the border between the two areas and got out again, crouching to examine the ground cover, standing again to inspect a tree. “This was another fire. It burned between the bluff and the river, and stopped when it reached the old burn.” He moved to examine a spire trunk as Tskombe and Trina got out to follow him. “The trunks are still sooty, the ground crust is intact. This fire happened at the start of this dry season.”

“Lasers?”

“Hrrr. We must search to know. Perhaps…”

They got back in the gravcar and patrolled up the river in silence, Far Hunter zigzagging the car slowly. The fire had burned hot, and even the stones were carbonized funereal black. The area was probably safer than the rest of the jungle, but Tskombe still kept a careful eye out for danger. Days earlier they had seen the footprints of a grlor pack, but big herbivores could find no food here, and so they and the big carnivores that preyed on them would avoid the area. Still the blackened, dead landscape felt dangerous. That's a good thing, it will keep us alert in our search. Tskombe leaned forward in his seat, straining to pick up some shape that didn't belong, but there was nothing but the unending blackness. As the day wore on the ground stopped steaming as the unrelenting sun baked the moisture from it and heat waves began to ripple the stagnant air instead. By midafternoon they were powerful enough to make the more distant of the burned trunks appear to twist and warp. The strip between the bluff and the river was a kilometer wide and seemed to go on forever. Tskombe counted himself lucky. If they had just ten or twenty square kilometers to search a meter at a time, their haystack had gotten a lot smaller. If they were in the right place. If not I no longer have anything of value except time.

They came to a rockslide where the whole face of the bluff had given way, chunks of rock as big as houses torn from the cliff in a slide that stretched two hundred meters. The rocks were fire blackened too, but still sharp edged. The fall had happened before the fire, but it was recent. It might even have occurred during it, perhaps triggered by the heat.

Trina pointed. “Look there.”

He looked. It was a bone, sticking out from beneath a massive boulder, bleached white by rain and sun in stark contrast with the blackened landscape. They set down and got out to examine it.

Up close they could see it was a tibia. The foot was gone, along with the fibula. Far Hunter examined it closely, sniffed at it.

“It is kzinti.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. A male.”

“Is it Pouncer?” Tskombe felt a sudden dread. If it were Pouncer then the odds were high Ayla was under the slide as well. His throat tightened as he pushed the thought away.

“We cannot know.” Far Hunter looked up. “This area is important. We must search it thoroughly.”

They did, on foot, clambering over the semi-stable slide. Tskombe thought they would get filthy with soot, but what remained on the rocks after the heavy rains was baked onto their surfaces and didn't come off that easily. They found nothing else on the slide, but Tskombe did find what looked like a steep trail leading up the face of the bluff. They followed it and found a cave mouth on a ledge. It would have been invisible from below. Inside was a large, sand-floored cavern and signs of a large bonfire. Other signs of inhabitation were plentiful.

“This is a czrav den.” For the first time ever Far Hunter sounded apprehensive. “We must not stay here.”

“Why not?”

“The czrav… Few have ever seen one, fewer still live to tell of it.”

“Pouncer thought he would find sanctuary with them.”

“If he has, he is lucky. They are ferocious warriors, unwelcoming of strangers. We are transgressing on their territory. We must leave and make a proper border gift at the edge of their territory.”

“It looks like they have already left.”

“They are migratory, but they will return.”

“Where do they migrate to?”

“No one knows.”

“When will they be back?”

“I cannot say.”

“So we're supposed to wait at the edge of their territory for some indefinite period of time.”

“This is the tradition. It is important that we follow it.”

Tskombe nodded. “We might as well look around while we're here, to see if we can find any proof that Pouncer did arrive here.”

Far Hunter hesitated, the war between courage and fear plain in his expression. “Yes. We must be fast.”

Trina had been exploring deeper in the cavern. “I found an inukshuk,” she said.

Near the round fire place was a large rock, its surface worn smooth. Beside it, neatly piled, was another manlike stone sculpture. Tskombe breathed out. Ayla had been here, literally in the lion's den. Its presence showed she had stayed some time, which in turn meant Pouncer must have been with her, to extend his protection to her, and T'suuz, to make whatever connection she had to these frightening alien primitives. She made it this far. Now where did she go from here?

Ayla Cherenkova stood in the den mouth, watching the setting sun paint the sky in rich tones of red and orange, its last rays turning the towering cumulus cloud to the west into jagged spires, like predatory fangs set to devour heavens. Below the sandstone dome of the den four tuskvor turned south at their mazourk's urging, another deep patrol heading over the mountains to raid the Tzaatz. It was frustrating to watch them go and have to stay behind. She was, after all, a warrior, and the czrav were her tribe now, her pride. Her instinct was to hunt with them, raid with them, to build the bonds of trust and respect that warriors built together. Pouncer had denied it of her and, though that was frustrating, his word was law. There was no question that Pouncer was leading the pride now, Patriarch in all but name. He was close to becoming Great Patriarch of the czrav. Dziit Pride followed him, and Fvaar Pride, and others were lending support, if not yet fealty. That would come soon, as czrav victories gained momentum. The slaughter of Mrrsel Pride by the Tzaatz had galvanized the czrav prides and turned them against eons of self-imposed isolation. Ztrak Pride had made the decision to send only its nursing mothers and kits back to the jungle on the countermigration, not to their own jungle den, compromised as it was by the Tzaatz, but to that of Mrrsel Pride, along with the few straggling Mrrsel survivors who'd been away when the Tzaatz had come to kill them. For them it was simply logical, but many other czrav prides had made the decision to stay in the high forest over the next migration as well, laying in provisions to last over the barren season, simply because they could better launch raids against the Tzaatz from there. Several hundred balky tuskvor had been held back from the countermigration to carry the raiders from their high forest bases into the mountains, to descend on Tzaatz positions in the foothills at the northern edge of the Plain of Stgrat. They were a force to be reckoned with.

Ayla picked up a rock and idly threw it over the cliff, watching it vanish. The czrav were ferocious warriors. Even though raids were forbidden to her she was still part of the struggle. She was a commander, trained in the organizational skills and tactical finesse the czrav needed to turn their embryonic rebellion into a victory. The plan of attack Pouncer was now leading was Ayla's, a strategy crafted from ten thousand human years of human conflict. The czrav lacked the strength to stand in a face-to-face fight against Tzaatz rapsari, but they didn't need to. Instead they had moved fast and deep into enemy territory, struck hard and vanished again like ghosts. The Tzaatz had responded at first with large-scale sweeps, but they lacked the czrav standard of fieldcraft, and their unwieldy formations were too big to move fast enough to catch the night raiders. With the failure of that strategy they had begun garrisoning themselves, staying in larger groups and sticking to their fortifications, and that had the effect of isolating them from the Lesser Prides they purported to rule. Tzaatz authority in the northern plains was thoroughly undermined. A czrav raiding party pressed hard by Tzaatz gravcars could find shelter with any smallholder now, and the Lesser Prides were beginning to lend food, shelter and weapons, and most importantly information. All of Ztrak Pride carried variable swords now, and Pouncer drilled them relentlessly in the group combat form. It was guerrilla war, nothing less. They fought dirty, and they fought to win, and it was working, at least locally. The future was less certain. To be more than an annoyance to the Tzaatz, Pouncer would have to take the Citadel of the Patriarch. That would require facing the Tzaatz head on, there was no other way.

She had become closer to the young leader through the process, but there was more to their relationship than that. Pouncer still relied heavily on the advice of V'rli, on Kdtronai, on Kr-Pathfinder, but she was different. She still wore the Sigil of the Patriarch around her neck, the magical talisman that let her live in the lion's den in perfect safety. If Pouncer were to die, his protection would die with him, and so her loyalty was absolute in a way that theirs was not, despite the bonds of blood and honor. Ayla herself had total faith in the commitment of the czrav warriors to him. She saw how they reacted to his presence, how even Pride-Patriarchs tried to emulate him in every way. Pouncer never expressed anything less than complete trust in them himself, but he had been betrayed by his own brother, and she knew that faith was a jealously guarded commodity for him.

She watched the tuskvor grow small on the horizon, vanishing as 61 Ursae Majoris slipped beneath the horizon and the velvet night enveloped the forest. They moved according to her plan, but she wanted a position on the raids herself. Pouncer was right to deny that of me. It was an uncomfortable reality to accept. She was small and weak next to the kzinti, her reflexes slow, her senses dull. She would be nothing but a liability in an engagement restricted to muscle-powered weapons. She could, perhaps, claim that she was not bound by the rules of skalazaal, that the weapons she could carry would make her invaluable in combat, but she did not push the point. She was accepted now in the tribe, if not as a kzin, then as a worthy ally and a member of an unconquered species. To suggest anything that might put that status into question, much less something that smacked of questionable honor, was unthinkable. To be recognized as equal to even the smallest and weakest kzin was important. Ayla had no desire to be seen as a member of a slave species. Or as prey. The thought rose unbidden, and her hand went to the sigil around her neck.

Still, I can do more. She turned away from the den mouth as the sun sank below the horizon and the warm wind began to cool. I can bring the future forward. The hunt-cloth cover that camouflaged its opening fell into place behind her and she made her way to the deeper level where Pouncer kept his command post.

He was there by himself, working on a screen, planning the future of the campaign. He drove himself harder than anyone. During the day he trained the warriors, and at night he trained their leaders, and after they had all gone to sleep he planned strategy and organized the next attack. He insisted on leading every raid he could. The strain was not showing on him yet, but privately Ayla wondered if he had the reserves necessary to keep up the pace for what was destined to be a long, hard fight.

He looked up as she came in. She didn't hesitate. “Pouncer. I want to be on the next raid.”

He blinked. “Cherenkova-Captain, you have already heard my reasoning on that issue.”

“I have more reasons you should let me.”

Pouncer fanned his ears up. “I will listen.”

“You are attacking the Tzaatz now, doing damage. Have you a plan to finalize the victory?”

“It is too early yet to consider victory. We must first show the kzintzag that we can fight effectively.”

“No, it is never too early to start planning how you're going to win. I can help you with that.”

“I rely on your strategic skills, Cherenkova-Captain. It is your physical prowess that gives me pause. You are too vulnerable, and too valuable to risk.”

“I have killed kzinti in combat.”

“Strength and reflex are not factors in space combat.”

“I have killed them in person, side by side with your uncle at the Citadel.”

“With energy weapons.”

“The weapons issue is beside the point. I am a trained strategist, but I can apply my strategy better if I lead while I do it.”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. “What would you do with your strategic thinking, if I gave you free rein?”

“I would establish a forward base in the Long Range and from there I would launch raids against Tzaatz positions down the eastern plains.”

“That is a long journey from here, much longer than the direct route to the Plain of Stgrat. What will you accomplish there?”

“They'll be forced to respond to us. The terrain in the mountains is tremendously difficult. They will have to commit more forces to the area in an attempt to flush us out. The Citadel is the center of power on Kzinhome, and we will turn their attention away from it. Also, by moving the center of our attacks to a different area we will prevent them from isolating our exact location, and we'll appear to be increasing our strength to the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag. Weather conditions are difficult in the Long Range, which favors us too. We remain vulnerable to space reconnaissance.”

“We know the orbital parameters of the fortresses. So long as we move with the tuskvor they cannot track us.”

“They'll learn that trick and we will follow the fate of Mrrsel Pride.” Ayla leaned forward. “Give me a small force, let me show what I can do with it.”

“An independent force. It is a clever idea, whoever leads it. What else do you suggest?”

“We need to form an alliance with other Great Prides, somehow.”

Pouncer rippled his ears. “You are losing your reason. If I had access to a ship you would already be on your homeworld.”

“It's vital. Eventually we have to take the Citadel. Kchula-Tzaatz respects the rules of skalazaal now because we are little more than a thorn in his side, but when we launch the final attack he's going to be faced with the loss of everything. Do you trust his honor not to use energy weapons then, even space weapons?”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over. “You are correct.”

“We must have the Great Prides watching, and in a position to intervene if necessary. If they have ships in orbit, Kchula will be constrained.”

“There are Great Prides who will side with me, perhaps.” Pouncer thought back to the time he had put in memorizing the Pride Leaders, their strengths and weaknesses, their alliances and interests. Tzaatz Pride had its rivals, Churrt Pride for one. Now that information is becoming useful. “How will we achieve this, with no ship and no access to a spaceport?”

“It will take time, but it can be done. We need to plan to send an emissary to any Great Pride you think will lend its support.”

“Perhaps only to one, if its Pride-Patriarch has enough influence. He will be able to bring others with him.”

“You have one in mind?”

“Zraa-Churrt, of Churrt Pride. But who to send as emissary?”

“You yourself would be the best choice.”

“I cannot leave, you know that. It cannot be a czrav either, Zraa-Churrt may take that as an insult.”

“Or a kz'eerkti, for the same reason.” Cherenkova smiled sardonically. Now I'm planning to get a kzin off-world before I go myself. I've committed myself to Pouncer's victory. “Vsar-Chiuu perhaps?”

“Perhaps, but he is old. I will think on this awhile.”

“Send a message to Kzin-Conserver too. Declare skalazaal formally through him. We can't give the Tzaatz any room to break the rules.”

Pouncer cocked an ear and regarded her curiously. “You have learned a lot about my world, Cherenkova-Captain.”

“It is my job to know my enemy. I have learned all I can about the Tzaatz from this distance. Let me lead warriors and I will learn more.”

Pouncer considered, then. “No. You are too important to risk.”

She shook her head, frustrated. “I'm no more important than any other warrior here.”

“You forget I am still sworn to your safety.”

“You have saved my life many times now. I discharge you from your obligation.”

“The only thing that will absolve me of my responsibility is your safe departure from my world.”

“And I believe that the best thing I can do to ensure my own safety is to ensure your swift victory against the Tzaatz.”

“Cherenkova-Captain, I respect your skills, I am lucky to have you as an ally, and proud to have you as a friend, but I cannot allow it. You are kz'eerkti, not kzinti. No kzin will follow you as leader, however wise your strategies.”

“Send V'rli with me. They will follow her, and she is smart enough to listen to what I have to say, and to improve on it.”

“V'rli is honored mother, she cannot leave her pride.”

“You are Patriarch now, in all but name. She will go if you tell her to.”

For a second Pouncer's lips curled up to show his teeth. “I will claim no Patriarchy but the one I was born to.” There was a hard edge in his snarl.

“Then let me fight with you for what is yours. Let me be zar'ameer.”

Pouncer's ears flared up. “You are not my brother. You are not even kzinti.”

“Your brother has betrayed you, but you are right, I am not kzinti. I alone on this planet can have not the slightest hope of becoming Patriarch. I alone will never covet your position, not even for an instant. My only goal is to leave your world to go back to my own, and I can only achieve it when you are Patriarch. We have a perfect alignment of interests, and no conflicts at all. Not even C'mell can claim that.”

“C'mell.” Pouncer wrinkled his nose. “Another recalcitrant female. She should be back in the jungle with Mrrsel Pride.”

“She chooses to be by your side.”

“She is heavy with my kits. She takes too much on herself.”

“She is free to choose her own path. Some things even the Patriarch cannot command.”

Pouncer looked up at her sharply. Those are Guardmaster's words, when I desired to overreach myself. Is he speaking through her? Cherenkova met his gaze with her own, giving no sign she knew the deeper significance of what she said. “Hrrrr.” He turned a paw over. “You are persistent, Cherenkova-Captain. I am not surprised your species wins wars.”

“Here's your chance to use that talent for your advantage. You're needed here now, to prepare the forces that will gather, to make sure the tuskvor are armored, that variable swords are produced, to train warriors to the combat forms. You can't go on every raid, and Tzaatz attention needs to be diverted away from our preparations. Let me be your sword.”

“A kz'eerkti zar'ameer.” Pouncer rippled his ears. “If nothing else it will stand out in the Pride Ballad. You win, Cherenkova-Captain. I will give you a force, one large enough to make an impact. I'll expect to see you win with it.”

“I won't disappoint you.” She claw-raked, as tradition demanded, and left. I came to him unconvinced my own idea would work. I'm leaving inspired to ensure its success. He is a natural leader, and he'll make a good Patriarch. Whether that was good for humanity was another question. She found herself surprisingly unconcerned with the answer to that question.

Pouncer meant what he said about a force big enough to make an impact. A Hunter's Moon later she rode out on a tsvasztet atop a huge herd-grandmother at the front of a column of two dozen tuskvor and over two hundred kzinti warriors, well provisioned and equipped to operate independently. As the den receded into the distance and the high forest gave way to the open grasslands, she felt the familiar, half welcome tension that she always felt at the start of an operation. There was the awareness that lives depended on her, as well as military success. There was always the potential for failure. Blood would be shed before she was done, perhaps including her own. It was a sobering thought, but she felt alive. She was no longer a hanger-on, no longer the outsider. She was a war leader at the head of her warriors, taking them into battle, and it didn't matter that those who followed her had once been her sworn enemies.

Her force was hand-picked, almost entirely kzinretti from Ztrak, Dziit and Fvaar Prides, all combat experienced, all volunteers. She had trained them with Pouncer's assistance and within the limits of time available and taken only the best. The very best she had made into her personal guard, a reluctant bow to the reality of her physical vulnerability when faced with kzinti in hand-to-hand combat. Her bodyguard were all from Mrrsel Pride, away on a hunt when the Tzaatz struck. All had lost kits in the attack, and all were sworn to blood vengeance. K'lakri, the kzinrette who led them, became her chief lieutenant. Cherenkova herself carried a beamrifle, her single privilege as an alien.

There were Tzaatz fliers from time to time, and she knew that higher up the cameras on the orbital fortresses searched for them day and night, but the tuskvor skin canopies over their tsvasztet would defeat all but the closest inspections. She had computed the orbital periods of the fortresses on her beltcomp, to ensure that everyone was under cover when they flew over, and the Tzaatz knew too little about the rhythms of Kzinhome's seasons to know the significance of tuskvor moving south at this time of year. The beasts themselves knew better, and they were balky. Their migration urge had passed, but they wanted to be in the jungle fattening up for the next one, and they needed constant urging from their mazourk to stay on course. The mazourk will tire quickly, we need to rotate them. That's something that we haven't yet addressed. There were many things they hadn't addressed, an impromptu war could be fought no other way. Victory would go to the side which was the least disorganized, the least misled about the other's intentions. So far she was on the right side, but the Tzaatz had resources that the czrav didn't. The balance could tip at any moment.

It was a twelve-day ride to her chosen base area, through a pass in the jagged peaks where the Mooncatchers met the Long Range and into the foothills at the edge of the Plain of Stgrat on the other side. It took another three days to find a den that was well hidden from both air and ground, and defendable with the limited force they possessed. The prevailing winds were from behind them, and she realized that the Plain of Stgrat should have been in the rain shadow of the mountains, while the desert should have been rainforest, at least close to the mountains. It was a minor mystery, until K'lakri explained the use of charge suppressors for climate modification. The chain of suppressors prevented water vapor from nucleating into clouds and raindrops as the winds were forced to rise and cool against the mountain chain. Instead the moisture had to rise higher before it could condense, forming the almost permanent cloud deck that trailed from the mountains out over the plain of Stgrat. The extension of the cloud-forming cycle allowed the vital moisture to slip over the mountains to nourish the plain beyond them at the expense of the windward desert. And it protects me from orbiting eyes.

On a reconnaissance with her elite guard on the fourth day she found a suppressor site high on a nameless peak. It was solar powered, its fibercrete mountings so old and worn they looked like natural stone. Cherenkova didn't approach too closely. Presumably the charge suppressor was focused wide, without enough beam power to disintegrate something so solid as herself, but she didn't want to learn the hard way that that presumption was wrong. From their vantage point they could see the wide sweep of the desert to the north, and the fertile green plains to the south. She had a sudden realization, the reason the tuskvor migrated through the desert. The kzinti have been doing this for thousands of years, weather engineering on a vast scale. They have turned the climatic patterns of this whole region upside down. The tuskvor once migrated through jungle and plain all the way from one side of the continent to the other. Now the plains are desert and the jungle reduced to high forest. This project has been going on so long the tuskvor have evolved to cycle through desert for half their lives. She looked at K'lakri with new respect. They have been civilized since before humanity tamed fire.

It was not the first time she had come to that understanding since she arrived on Kzinhome, it would probably not be the last. After a time they moved off to continue learning the ground around their new location. Academic interest could come later. For now she had a war to wage.

“Zree-Rrit?” Kchula-Tzaatz looked down through the orbital fortress's command bay windows at the majestic curvature of Kzinhome. “Who is this Zree-Rrit?”

Ftzaal-Tzaatz's attention didn't waver from the sword battle drill he was practicing. “I told you before, brother, that a Rrit leads these attacks. I believe it to be First-Son.”

“You saw a striped pelt in the dark, seasons ago. This signifies nothing.”

“The Rrit markings are distinctive, and I have studied First-Son. It was him. Vsar-Chiuu said the Rrit had returned.”

“Vsar-Chiuu. We should have made an example of him.”

“That would have alienated the Lesser Prides even faster.” Ftzaal executed a perfect side-front-side parry combination in slow time, his eyes locked on his reflection overlaid in the command bay window as though it were an opponent.

Kchula growled. “I will not disbelieve you, Ftzaal. Still it signifies nothing. Whoever it is must be destroyed.”

“Of course, but there is a deeper game here. This messenger from Kzin-Conserver that skalazaal has been declared. This constrains us.”

Kchula ignored the point. “Skalazaal already exists, if this is indeed the Rrit. We are no more constrained than before.”

“It exists by no less than three traditions, through inheritance from his father, by his own scream-and-leap, by formal declaration. Why declare it again by Conserver-law?” Ftzaal paused, concentrating on the transition from guard-stance to attack-stance before continuing. “It is so that we know the Rrit has survived, because we could deny the other traditions by avoiding the knowledge of his survival. And more importantly so Kzin-Conserver knows, and the rest of the Great Prides.”

“Kzin-Conserver.” Kchula spat. “What need has he of this knowledge?” Kchula looked out at the fortress docking bay where a badly damaged Hunt-class battleship was being stripped to its frame. Patriarch's Talon had been the pride of the Rrit fleet until he had taken the Patriarchy and the fleet had scattered to the stars to raid the commerce of Tzaatz allies. Stkaa Pride had laid a trap and caught the battleship, and managed to cripple her. Now she was back where she had started, this time as a war prize. Two heavy cruisers floated nearby, each severely battle-scarred and in desperate need of heavy maintenance. They would wait while the stripped hulk took priority. Kchula growled to himself. Patriarch's Talon, you will be my sword of vengeance.

“Zree-Rrit needs him to know.” Ftzaal pivoted and executed a complex reverse block. “His forces are light, he has no space power. We could destroy him overnight if we were not bound by the traditions. I have been ruthless in my search, brother.” Ftzaal completed a thrust, block, thrust combination that ended with him reversed one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. His eyes met Kchula's. “I have come down on the jungle and the high forest like the Fanged God's fist.” His voice was harsh, snarling the words. “And yet he has eluded me, save when he chooses to attack. And he is attacking now, not fleeing, not cowering in the jungle. Now he chooses to formally declare his presence, constraining us and challenging at the same time. His strakh with the Northern Lesser Prides grows, and ours falls.” Ftzaal whirled, his slicewire whistling through the air. “This new declaration shows that he is looking to the time when he will rally the Great Prides against us. He is a danger that needs to be ended. Now.”

“Why have we not already done so then?”

Ftzaal sniffed. “You would not give me the resources, brother, in the time when we could claim not to know we were bound by the traditions. Now Zree-Rrit has made it explicit and we must tread more carefully.”

“I have given you every resource I could spare.”

“And I have located five czrav prides, one in the jungle, four in the high forest, and destroyed them all. I have not been idle, brother. But there are eight-squared or eight-cubed czrav prides. Maybe more, no one knows. If you want Zree-Rrit destroyed I must have more power, especially now. The czrav won't be so easy to eliminate under the traditions.”

“Resources.” Kchula paused, contemplating the world turning slowly beneath him. The battle station was in a polar orbit, and South Continent was giving way to North Continent in his field of view. The Plain of Stgrat was clearly visible, stretching wide and green between the ocean to the south and the mountain ranges and deserts that bordered it to the north and west. To the east it was dark, and on the night side of the terminator a sprinkling of lights marked population centers. On the day side there was little to indicate that the world was inhabited at all.

And down there, somewhere, are my enemies. And not only down on the planet's surface. Kchula turned to face his brother. “While you deal with five prides of primitives the humans have destroyed five worlds. Six now, with the loss of Vz'vzmeer. Skalazaal is epidemic, Kdari Pride wars with Vearow, Stkaa Pride wars with Cvail and now Varalz has leapt on Sceee, and who knows how many more I don't yet know about? Half the Rrit fleet is out raiding our allies. The Patriarchy is falling apart, Ftzaal, and you ask for more forces for your private hunt!”

Ftzaal stood motionless in leaping-stance, his variable sword extended and canted to guard his body, his other arm stretched backward as a counterbalance. “First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit is a greater danger to your rule. You said yourself you wanted him destroyed. I am merely telling you what it will take to accomplish your goal.”

Kchula growled deep in his throat. “We have less than perfect control over a few Lesser Prides. The kz'eerkti are razing whole planets!”

Ftzaal moved fluidly from leaping-stance to guard-stance and then back, repeating the motion until it was perfect. Only then did he break concentration to speak. “Which is why you have ordered our ships back to Jotok.”

“Jotok is our power base. We can't risk losing it to the kz'eerkti, or to another pride.”

“Without ships you limit my ability to hunt out this Zree-Rrit.”

“You have reconnaissance enough from this fortress and its brothers.”

“Which move on fixed orbits, and the czrav have shown they know when they are being watched. I need tactical surprise, and more warriors, and mobility for those, and more rapsari.”

“Use cargo haulers to move your forces. Use them in your search as well.”

“They lack a warship's instrumentation.” Ftzaal leapt and whirled, his blade splitting the air, until his slicewire stopped a handsbreadth from his brother's nose. Kchula didn't flinch. He was accustomed to his brother's battle drills. “The czrav attack from a new direction, did you know that? From a new stronghold, so my spies tell me. It is claimed a kz'eerkti leads the attacks.”

Kchula spat. “Impossible!”

“Impossible?” Ftzaal retracted his slicewire and hung his variable sword on his belt. “First-Son fled into the jungle with a kz'eerkti. Now one fights with him. How is this impossible?”

“No kzin would follow an alien.”

“There are stranger things. It is said this new army is composed of kzinretti.”

“Shall I say impossible again, Ftzaal?” Kchula snorted. “Give me evidence or leave me in peace.”

“Evidence. There is none, where none of our warriors survive their attacks. These are rumors, but they are unique rumors, which inclines me to believe them. They are at least worth the effort of verification.”

“Then verify them.”

“I need more resources!”

“Where shall I get them, Ftzaal?” Kchula lashed his tail. “From the defenses of our homeworld?”

“If necessary. Jotok is less important now. We have done the impossible, brother, we have dethroned the Rrit. If you want the victory to last you will make peace with the kz'eerkti at whatever price they demand, and concentrate everything here. These czrav spread rebellion like a contagion. Let the Great Prides fight each other, so long as they don't come here.”

“Make peace.” Kchula snorted in contempt. “You have been listening to Kzin-Conserver-who-was-Rrit-Conserver.”

“Conservers are known for their wisdom, brother. We do not have to like his advice to heed it.”

“Making peace smells of dishonor.”

“Don't talk to me of dishonor,” Ftzaal snarled, suddenly angry. “This campaign has cut close enough to the edge of principle already, close enough that we left Tzaatz-Conserver on Jotok. What would he counsel you?” Ftzaal slashed the air with his sword. “Make peace with the kz'eerkti to free your hand to consolidate what we have here on Kzinhome. Whether this Zree-Rrit is First-Son does not matter, whether he is even Rrit doesn't matter. What matters is, he claims the name, and the kzintzag believe him, and so do the Lesser Prides. They believe him because they desire, more than anything, for it to be true, because they suffer under our rule and they loathe our puppet. They will follow Zree-Rrit, whoever he is, all the way to the gates of your Citadel, and they will take off your head to present it to him.”

“Leaving honor aside, if I do not lead the Great Prides in conquest they will not follow me.”

“They are not following you now! The Patriarchy has become nothing but factions warring over spoils while the monkeys carry out the systematic annihilation of our species. Make peace and give me what I need to kill Zree-Rrit! Make peace and save us all!”

“Victory will reunite the Great Prides, and the monkeys will be destroyed.”

“With what will you achieve victory, brother? The Rrit fleet is scattered, our own is committed to Jotok, and inadequate to defend even that against the monkeys' power. Stkaa Pride is butchered, and Cvail will enjoy their victory only until the kz'eerkti bring forward their world destroyer. The others, they give you a few token ships while they plot conquest on their brothers, those who have not already leapt in skalazaal. To defeat the kz'eerkti you need an organized fleet, but before the Great Prides will give you that fleet you must defeat the kz'eerkti!”

“And yet you want me to siphon from my meager reserves so that you can hunt primitives.”

“Zree-Rrit is First-Son, make no mistake, and he seeks your ears, brother.”

Kchula lashed his tail. “So what if this Zree-Rrit is First-Son? They will never take the Citadel. He's as bound by skalazaal as we are. Even we did it only because we had rapsari, and we are the only ones who can make them.”

“Rapsari are not the only advantage to be found in battle. Shall I tell you a secret, brother, a Black Priest secret?”

“What is it?” Kchula leaned forward. His brother rarely even mentioned his time with the Bearers of Ill Tiding.

“An army of kzinretti, a Rrit who rides with the czrav, warriors elusive beyond easy understanding. These things are not unanticipated by the Black Cult.”

“So?”

“So they go hand in hand with other things that make this threat more dangerous than you might realize.”

Kchula waved a paw dismissively. “This isn't a secret, it's a riddle.”

“I cannot say more without violating my oath.”

“Your oath.” Kchula twitched his tail in annoyance. “What fealty do you owe to Priest-Master-Zrtra now?”

“It is my own honor I owe fealty to, not him. I hold my loyalty to you to the same standard, brother.” He paused, assessing his brother. “Else I might be Pride-Patriarch.”

Kchula's tail stiffened. “Do you threaten me, Ftzaal?”

“I state a fact.” The variable sword blurred and suddenly the slicewire was at Kchula's throat. “Could you stand against me if I challenged?”

Treachery! My own brother! Fear flooded Kchula's system. “No, no of course not, Ftzaal.”

Ftzaal held the slicewire where it was for a long moment, his eyes locked on Kchula's, and then he retracted the blade. “Do not insult my honor again, brother. The fact that you are alive is testimony to its depth.”

Kchula turned away, breathing deep to conceal his anger. “Which gives me no information on your riddle.”

“Take me at my word. You are at more risk from these primitives than you are from the entire kz'eerkti fleet and the rest of the Great Pride Circle combined.”

Kchula sat heavily on a prrstet. “Fine. What is it you want?”

“Ships in orbit to start, half a dozen scouts.”

“It is done.”

“Jotok's rapsar production returned to full capacity, with the beasts sent here for my use.”

“You ask a lot.”

“I am saving your empire, and perhaps your life.”

“That too then. What else?”

“Trained warriors, of course, and another telepath. Two would be better.”

“I have asked your priesthood for another telepath. So far they decline my request.”

“This is most crucial.”

“They are your order, not mine. Perhaps you should ask them yourself.”

Ftzaal snorted. “They will grant one to you long before they grant one to me. Our last Telepath's death at my hands is likely the reason they are slow to respond already.”

“Hrrr.” Kchula wrinkled his nose. “What did you do there, Ftzaal, to make them detest you so?”

“I held up a mirror and showed them the truth.”

“And yet you would go back if you could?”

“I cannot. My oath to you is binding.”

Kchula waved a dismissive paw. “I could release you. What would you do if you had a choice?”

“The Black Priest discipline is…” Ftzaal paused, choosing his words carefully. “…compelling.” He turned to look away. “I still could not go back, they would not have me.” He retracted his variable sword and turned a paw over to contemplate his extended claws. “Not yet.”

Not yet? Kchula raised his ears. My brother contains depths, dangerous depths, though his loyalty is useful. “Do you believe in the literal truth of the Fanged God?”

“The Fanged God is for the High Priests to know. I believe in the literal truth of power.”

“And yet you are content to give me rulership.”

“There is more power in the Black Cult's discipline than you will know if you rule as Patriarch for eight-to-the-fourth seasons, brother.” Ftzaal turned back to face Kchula, and his eyes shone, bright and intense. “That is something they couldn't take when they cast me out.”

Kchula shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. “Hrrr. Enough philosophy. What else do you require?”

“That is all for now. The telepath is vital. I must have at least one.”

“I will do what I can.”

“It is First-Son's kz'eerkti that is key here. With a telepath I can track it. It is the unknown factor. I need to rake out its story, one way or another. For the rest of them — make peace while we still can, let us secure our back before we look to new conquest.”

“The kz'eerkti.” Kchula lashed his tail. “They are less a menace than you imagine. I shall tell you a secret too, Ftzaal, one less mysterious than yours.”

Ftzaal unfurled his ears. “What is it?”

“See this ship?” He pointed to the gutted Patriarch's Talon floating outside the dock. “We are converting it. The kz'eerkti are powerful, but they have a weakness in that almost all of them still live on their original world.”

“What use is this if we lack the strength to conquer that world? Even the Rrit fleet couldn't penetrate their system defenses.”

“Conquer their world, no, we cannot do that.” Kchula showed his fangs. “But we can destroy it.”

Ftzaal laid his ears back, shocked. “Destroy it? How?”

“It is a kz'eerkti innovation, so it is simple poetry that we shall finish them with it. Relativistic weapons, kinetic impactors arriving close to lightspeed.” Kchula raked his claws through the air. “I will strip their world to its core.”

Ftzaal stared at his brother for long heartbeat, aghast. “Have you lost your reason, brother? This is not the fine edge of honor, this is unthinkable! What of the traditions? Are we to become like them?”

“Don't bother me more with tradition, Ftzaal.” Kchula snorted. “This is about species survival. The monkeys have shown us the way. Now we will follow where they lead. I will scorch their homeworld, and their other worlds will be my conquest prizes. The kz'eerkti will be a slave race, for once and for all. We need only protect our systems long enough to give us time to strike.” He turned to face his brother. “As for Zree-Rrit, I'll give you everything you want, including your telepath. You get me what I want. Bring me Zree-Rrit's head.”

“We are being within orbital parameters. Fuel state is being positive. Ktzaa'Whrloo approach control is being contacted on this watch. Initiating transfer from inbound to parking orbit.” Contradictory stood on three armlegs while the other two flipped switches on Black Saber's control board. Outside the ship's cramped cockpit the starfield flipped itself over as the Jotok aligned her thrusters to take them into orbit. Ktzaa'Whrloo hung overhead like a ripe popfruit. The ancient seat of Krowl Pride was a dusky red world orbiting a bright orange star.

“Cargo reception?” Night Pilot strapped himself in to his crash couch, ready to take over the watch.

“We have been contacting of our client and cargo reception coordinates are arranged. We are being expecting normal ground handling times.”

“Hrrr. Is the cargo secure for reentry?”

“It is being so. We are being reverifying of it at soon.” Contradictory clicked more keys. “Ship is being secured for atmospheric interface.”

“What is our descent profile?”

“It is being normal atmospheric braked descent with minimum thrusters assist.”

“Hrrr. Good, we'll save some wear on the thrusters.” Night Pilot checked his screens for the approach. “I have confirmation that we are in atmospheric configuration.” He clicked keys. “I have confirmation that our approach path is clear to preset coordinates.” He clicked more keys. “I have confirmation that we can relaunch immediately once we're unloaded.” He paused. “Refueling?”

“Refueling is being on orbit at Ktzaa'Whrloo main transfer station after reorbit. We are being confirmed that client Sklar-Overseer has being arranged for fuel at there.”

“Also good.” Night Pilot nearly purred in satisfaction. Black Saber would make a handsome profit this run. A light flashed. “Priority message.” His ears fanned up and he made a gesture to command the ship's AI to put it on screen.

“…all ships, be aware. Kz'eerkti scouts have been detected deep in system, orbital parameters to follow. Krowl Pride warcraft are intercepting now. Verarz-Krowl commands nonessential ships in system to proceed beyond the singularity and wait until the invaders have been repulsed. Be prepared to aid survivors and to fight if necessary. Marshaling orbits to follow. Be aware more enemy ships may be in system and undetected. Message repeats…”

Night Pilot made a gesture to cut the transmission, then tapped his console to bring up the enemy's positions and the commanded escape orbits. His nostrils flared when he saw them. “By the Fanged God, they are deep. How did they get so far in system without being picked up?”

Contradictory whirled, bringing the two armlegs that had been typing down to stand on as he brought two of the ones he'd been standing on up to replace them. “I am being concerned about more forces.”

“Hrrr. Yes… This situation could devolve. The kz'eerkti are sly. They had so many ships at K'Shai. Now we know the reason.”

“We are being assessing that we should be aborting of the approach.”

“No. We deliver our cargo.”

“The humans are being coming in force.” Contradictory added a third arm to the two constructing intercept profiles with the flight computer. “They are being destroying twice-eight worlds now. If we are being caught our lives are being ended.”

“Honor demands we fulfill our bargain.”

“We are being unconcerned with matters of honor.”

“Then be concerned with your reputation.” Night Pilot flipped his tail in annoyance. “We have no choice but to deliver if we want to carry cargo to this world again.”

“You are being unpersuasive. The humans are being ensuring no cargo are being carried here by any ships at ever.”

“I do not have to persuade you. I am Captain, I have only to decide.”

Contradictory brought up a holo. “Please be viewing of intercept profiles. Human ships are being in intercepting range at departure timing of us.”

Night Pilot growled. “We are landing.”

Contradictory swiveled three eyes at the kzin. “Are you being forgetting of incident of Meerowsk?”

The kzin wrinkled his nose. “I have not forgotten.”

“Your life is being saved by us there. Your life is also being saved by us at Ansrarw.”

“I know this.”

“Please being allowing of us to again being saving of your life at Ktzaa'Whrloo.”

Night Pilot gave his copilot a look. “Have I complained about your argumentativeness recently?”

“You are being complaining constantly. This is why we are being Contradictory as our name.”

“Hrrr. We deliver our cargo.” Contradictory put a fourth limb up to construct intercept scenarios, balancing on the one armleg remaining. Night Pilot bowed to the inevitable. “We will be fast.”

Fast meant a more aggressive approach profile, and a subsequent increase in fuel usage. On reentry Night Pilot pushed the skin temperature to the limit to get the most out of atmospheric braking. Fast meant heavy muscle work for both of them, unloading the motley cargo of cznip spice and fabricator cells that Sklar-Overseer was importing from Reessliu beneath the nose of the Krowl hierarchy, loading up the sealed crates, contents unknown, they would carry to Sklar-Overseer's contact on Kzinhome. The Whrloo slaves were diligent workers, but their small size meant they needed grav manipulators to unload the heavy crates and bales, and they were slow about it. In the end the need for speed meant that Night Pilot and Contradictory moved more than half the cargo themselves. Fast meant that, with muscles aching and not enough sleep they preflighted Black Saber and took off with a landing gear fault that really should have been fixed on the ground. There was no time to repair it if they wanted to avoid getting caught in the developing battle.

Through the whole process Contradictory kept one eye on his databoard, slaved from the cockpit with updated intercept scenarios. Krowl battle control in one of the orbital fortresses kept them updated on the progress of the kz'eerkti fleet. The news wasn't good. The human scoutships had been followed by a wave of cruisers, falling in from the edge of the singularity and then, once the cruisers were established in attack orbits, the heavy battle units had emerged from hyperspace. The pattern was clear by now, repeated in system after system. The humans would arrive without warning and in overwhelming force. The scouts would identify the defenses and the cruiser screen behind them would deal with minor outposts in the system and any kzinti ships attempting to escape. The battleships would close with the planet and engage its orbital defenses to allow the carriers to get into low orbit to launch their transatmospheric fighters and bombers. By then the battleships would be engaging the ground defenses, and under fighter cover the bombers would get in through the weak spots, usually far from the main bases, get low to protect themselves beneath the horizon and then, at the last moment, pop up to launch salvos of conversion warheads. The warheads would streak in, hugging the terrain, sequenced so that the detonation of the first would degrade sensors and defenses to clear the way for the next. By the time the last had gone off the bombers would already be out of the atmosphere, redocking with their carrier after a single orbit.

And that was what was starting to happen at Ktzaa'Whrloo. In none of their other attacks had the humans attempted to assault ships or secure the planet. They got in, destroyed everything and got out before the Patriarchy could react. Night Pilot thought that dishonorable. Contradictory thought it irrelevant, and concerned itself with the cruiser screen. It was tightening already, and with the scoutships far in advance of the cruisers in the screen would have plenty of time to change their velocity vectors to intercept anything the scouts picked up trying to escape.

Refueling in orbit presented a sudden problem. Priority went to warcraft boosting to meet the humans high up in the gravity well, and Sklar-Overseer lacked the strakh to get them advanced in the priority sequence, or at least he lacked the willingness to use his strakh to do it. The human scouts were braking hard now, already into the inner system, and there had been skirmishes between kzinti and human craft. Time was running out, and the seriousness of the situation was apparent. Krowl Pride didn't have the forces to resist the humans. The battle station was in chaos, warriors with nerves on edge making impossible demands on panicked slaves. Service Master, in charge of the fueling bays, was short and to the point. “You will be fueled when the combat ships have been fueled, not before.” Night Pilot, frustrated to the edge of his temper, bared his fangs and resisted the urge to scream and leap. There was nothing to be gained by it, and it might even delay them further.

“We are being attempting to be rectifying of the delay.” Contradictory was wearing slave livery, necessary protective camouflage in the Patriarchy. It set out, while Night Pilot took advantage of the time and the atmosphere in the fueling bay to work on the balky landing gear retractor. The problem turned out to be a broken piston sealing ring. He was able to get a replacement from the station's stores, but actually installing it was a delicate, finicky task better suited to Contradictory's fine manipulation skills. He settled down to a repair session that mixed frustration and obscenity in equal measure, trying to get piston, sleeve and sealing ring to stay together long enough for him to finish the assembly with only two hands to do the job with.

For the eighth time the assembly fell apart as he tried to slide the sleeve into place. He resisted the urge to hurl it across the bay and looked up to find Contradictory, back already. “We are being fueling immediately.”

“Hrrr.” Night Pilot growled, relieved that the problem was solved, annoyed that his partner had succeeded where he had failed. “How did you arrange this?”

“Techslave Fueling Controller is being Jotoki, we are negotiating with them directly. We are being having in addition to being first fueling priority the guarantee of tanks being capacity filled.”

“Excellent.”

“We are being indebted to the Fueling Controller, who is therefore to being embarked.”

Night Pilot's ears stiffened. “Slave theft is beneath our honor.” His voice held an edge.

“It is being irrelevant. Service Master is being now dead in a challenge duel. It is being also unlikely he is being predeceasing of this battle station of significant time length.”

“Hrrr. I still don't like it.”

“It is being our function in this partnership to being performed of necessary tasks which you are being finding difficult. We are now being saving of your life at Ktzaa'Whrloo. We are being asking that you are remembering of this at similar circumstances.”

Night Pilot waved a paw. “Yes, yes. Help me get this piston assembled.”

Contradictory did it on the first try. Night Pilot growled to himself in annoyance and considered eating their new passenger when it arrived. He hadn't had fresh meat in a long time, but mostly he enjoyed the thought because it would upset Contradictory.

Contradictory, oblivious, was already directing Whrloo techslaves to connect the fueling hoses. Night Pilot lashed his tail and went aboard Black Saber to plot their boost course. They would launch on a retrograde orbit. That would cost them power overall, but because the human ships were all trying to match velocities with the planet it would give them some additional closing speed, reducing the human's engagement times and giving them a distinct lead in a running fight. With full tanks they could afford to use the tactic.

The tactical situation update from battle command was not encouraging. The human cruisers were intercepting any ship that tried to make it out of the system. The situation on the battle station was hardly better. He growled and started plotting alternate escape routes, in case they got surprised on their planned course. He was interrupted by Contradictory who catapulted himself into the cockpit and began strapping in.

“We are now being ready to leave. Docking control is being giving clearance for bay door release.”

“Our tanks are not full.”

“Fueling lines are being disconnected. Our tanks are being as filled as they are being filled.” It clicked keys and Night Pilot felt his ears pop. “Loading ramp is being closed, cabin is being pressurized.”

“What about our passenger?”

“Techslave Fueling Controller is being killed. Veefrawi-Captain of heavy cruiser Pride of Conquest is being objecting to his ship being fueled subsequent to us. Veefrawi-Captain is being arriving at shortly to being discussing this with yourself. We are being fortunately warned by newly appointed Fueling Controller.” Contradictory clicked keys and indicators flashed as the Whrloo ground crew cleared the fuel lines and vacated the bay.

Night Pilot opened his mouth, closed it. “We are boosting. Now.”

Contradictory clicked keys. “I am being agreeing with you.”

“Hrrrr. There is always a first time.”

“I am being requesting docking control departure clearance at now.” Contradictory keyed his com and snarled into it. Night Pilot unconsciously furled his ears, betraying his worry. If Veefrawi-Captain thought to go to docking control first they might not get it. There was a short, tense wait before docking control authorized their departure. Then they had to wait again while the fueling bay was pumped down to vacuum. He watched the external pressure, alert for it to stop dropping. That would be a very bad sign.

Finally the immense bay doors began to swing open. He rotated thrusters and nudged the throttles forward. Black Saber rose and glided forward, accelerating as Night Pilot dialed in more thrust. They were through the doors before they were halfway open. Did he imagine an outraged face in the fueling bay observation window? It no longer matters. Once they hit space, he shoved the throttles to their limits. The deck surged as he spun their acceleration vector to bring them into their retrograde escape orbit. Satisfied they were within parameters, he turned the precomputed boost profile over to the AI. He looked over to his copilot, who was busily running through the post-launch checklist with the computer.

“We are done.” He breathed out, his ears relaxing at last.

Contradictory spun on its undermouth, swiveling eyes at Night Pilot in sequence. “We are being one more time saving of your life.”

“Hrrr. You have more blood debt from me than I have blood.”

If the Jotok was pleased with the answer it gave no sign. Black Saber was well away from Ktzaa'Whrloo and boosting hard for the singularity's edge when they picked up the scoutship, a couple of light-seconds away and closing at nearly two five-hundred-and-twelfths of lightspeed. The scoutship was decelerating to slingshot past the planet, and as soon as they detected it, Night Pilot changed their thrust vector perpendicular to the scout. It would make a missile shot harder, and it would serve to determine if the scout had detected them as well.

A minute later they had an answer. The scoutship changed its vector to intersect theirs. Evidently it had decided Black Saber was easy enough game to take on without diverting a cruiser to intercept. Night Pilot cursed as the icon moved in his plot display. He punched up the intercept planes and course funnels for each ship. The results were not encouraging. They couldn't evade completely. They would have to fight.

The big kzin spun the navigation plot. “Compute intercept course and fire dusters.”

Contradictory swung the targeting cursor and set up a protective screen pattern. Scoutships didn't usually mount combat lasers, but dusters were cheap and there was no need to take chances. A series of tremors shook the ship as the turrets traversed and fired. “Dusters are being launched. Missiles?”

“Hrrr. No. Missiles are expensive. We will live or die, and the scoutship will be past and unable to attack again. If we die we gain nothing by killing it. If we live we might need our missiles later.”

Contradictory clicked keys. “You are being unthinking like a kzin.”

Night Pilot growled. “I have been sharing life support with you for too long.”

“Being also locked with predictive targeting are interceptors.”

“Excellent. Now we wait.”

But there was no wait. A horn sounded and a new icon appeared in the plot display. Contradictory tapped firing commands. “Missile detected. Interceptors are being launched.” The countermissiles streaked away and the transpax dimmed to cut the actinic blue light of their unshielded fusion cores. It brightened again as the missiles vanished to points of light, fast moving stars that twinkled and vanished. “Firing screeners.” Long moments later the transpax dimmed again as one of the interceptors detonated. On the plot board the incoming missile icon vanished.

And then they were past. Somewhere in the blackness there might be more missiles, or clouds of screener balls that might shred Black Saber so fast they wouldn't even know they were dying until they were already dead. What tricks the enemy had already played they couldn't know, but now nothing could catch them. Night Pilot rotated their thrust vector to make their course less predictable, eyes fixed on the plot display for the sudden blink of a warning icon. None appeared. After a time they both relaxed. They weren't out of the system yet, but the higher they got in the gravity well the less chance they had of being intercepted again, and with their retrograde orbit the closing velocities would only increase, making it that much harder for the humans to achieve kills.

Of course the next human ship they were likely to meet would be a cruiser armed with heavy lasers. Time would tell.

Eventually Contradictory unstrapped. Combat was over, for now at least, and Black Saber's systems needed the mate's attention. It pivoted on its undermouth while Night Pilot recorrected their course to compensate for the violent maneuvering they'd done. Night Pilot returned his attention to his instruments, keeping an eye on the combat display just in case there were any more surprises. The long com crackled with traffic, reporting brief, savage engagements as the kz'eerkti scouts swept in and past Ktzaa'Whrloo. At first the reports were short, calm and concise, painting a picture of a well organized defense, but as the main human force closed and engaged they became fragmented and tense, occasionally desperate and all too frequently cut off in mid-transmission. He picked up reports from Pride of Conquest as the heavy cruiser set course for the main human battle fleet at maximum thrust and cut her way through the enemy destroyer screen behind an almost solid wall of missiles and laser fire, destroying five kz'eerkti in the process. It was a heroic achievement, but it earned nothing but the right to take on the human battleships, whose huge spinal mount lasers gutted her before she could get into range. Night Pilot heard Veefrawi-Captain himself at the end. His ship was crippled, every compartment spaced. He was setting course to ram one of the enemy battleships. Whether he succeeded or not was unknowable; there were no more transmissions from Pride of Conquest.

At first it was mostly ships involved in the fight. Then the orbital defenses came up, sending targeting messages and damage reports that told a story of overwhelming enemy firepower. Contradictory's prediction of the lifespan of the orbital fortress they'd refueled at proved correct. Service Master and Fueling Controller had lost little in dying before the battle. Ground defenses came up, reporting contacts, and then, in voices ranging from shock to outrage, conversion weapon strikes. Inevitably they too fell silent. Night Pilot felt ill as he scanned through the channels for a signal. For a long time there was nothing, and then finally a faint voice, badly garbled by its passage through an ionosphere roiled by the energies of total mass conversion. It was a secondary command base, badly damaged but still functioning. Cha'at-Commander's surviving forces were deployed to defend against ground attack when it came, ready to fight to the death. So far they had seen no landers.

Night Pilot zoomed his combat display all the way out. The ship's AI had identified human units by their own transmissions, unreadably scrambled but usable for triangulation, and now arrogantly frequent in victory. The in-falling fleet had converged on Ktzaa'Whrloo and was on its way outsystem again. The scoutships had simply used the planet as a gravitational slingshot as they sped past to pick targets for the heavy units, but even the battleships had gone no lower than semi-synchronous orbit. Only the carriers had grazed the atmosphere and now, their attack craft recovered, they too were boosting for the system's edge. Cha'at-Commander would see no landers. The kz'eerkti had not come to conquer, only to destroy.

Night Pilot shuddered involuntarily. He had heard of the human tactics but it was another thing to watch them carried out. Cha'at-Commander didn't understand he was waiting in vain for an honorable enemy to close for the finish fight. Perhaps he refused to understand, but Night Pilot did, only too clearly now. They are v'pren. The thought was chilling. They are v'pren in the feeding swarm, and the Fanged God help any who fall into their path.

Contradictory came in, swiveling eyes. “Ship systems are being secure. We are being undamaged.”

“Good. We were fortunate.”

“Where are we being going now?”

“Hrrr. Kzinhome, for now. We still have a cargo to deliver. If the Tskombe-kz'eerkti has found its mate it will return with us to human space, and it may prove wise both to have kz'eerkti passengers and to find our way to human space again. If the kz'eerkti hasn't found its mate, Kzinhome is probably the safest place to wait, and we can leave with full tanks if we can strike a contract with Far Hunter.”

Contradictory popped open an access panel to check the cockpit coolant levels. “I am being agreeing. This war is not being good for trade. We are not being desiring of being getting caught at the middle again.”

Night Pilot watched him work for a minute, pleased with himself. Any decision Contradictory didn't argue with was probably a good one.

It was warm in the inner chamber of Ztrak Pride's western den, and Pouncer inhaled deeply to calm himself. The air smelled faintly of the scentwood paneling cut from the high forest far overhead. That aroma was overlaid with other scents, the odor of kzinti bodies, tuskvor flesh from the just completed Midwinter Bloodfeast, the earthy smell of the ancient rock itself. The Pride-Patriarchs gathered there had gorged heavy after the travails of another migration and the further journey to Ztrak Pride. They had come early from the jungle for this meeting, taking the first tuskvor and leaving their prides behind to travel with the main migration. Ztrak Pride itself was still split, the young and nursing mothers who had gone back to the jungle for the wet season not yet returned. But C'mell is here. He was glad of that; her presence gave him strength, even as he worried over her continued participation in raids against the Tzaatz. At least that worry is gone, for awhile at least. She was too busy with the kits now to raid, though she still went out to hunt. His kits would have her spirit, and that too was a good thing.

The pride leaders gathered into the circle. The festivities were over. Now it was time to forge the future. By the time the bulk of the czrav had returned, their plan of attack, if there was to be a plan of attack, would be complete. Pouncer looked out at the circle of battle scarred faces in the chamber, experienced warriors and leaders with ears heavy on their belts. Every one had been a Pride-Patriarch or Honored Mother longer than he had been alive. And yet I am to lead them now. What would my father have done?

He stood up and caught C'mell watching him from the shadows, both kits held to her teats to nurse. My father would lead, with courage and wisdom. He would seek the best counsel, lay his plans with cunning and execute them with skill. What he didn't know was how Meerz-Rrit would have made it happen. C'mell lowered one ear to him, their secret greeting, and slipped into the darkness, back up into the den. She had a faith in him he wished he felt in himself.

Show confidence, that above all. He had made his plans carefully, if not with cunning, and he could execute them with determination, if not skill. I have been trained by Guardmaster, the best warrior in the Patriarchy, and advised by Cherenkova-Captain, a subtle strategist even for a kz'eerkti. Neither of them were there now to guide him. He would stand or fall on his own.

The assembly had quieted when he stood, and he took the time to look each of the Pride-Patriarchs in the eye. My father taught me that. He raised his arms, tail erect. “Honored Cousins. We are gathered here in war council—”

A tall, well muscled warrior stood up and banged his long wtzal hunting spear for attention. “You are not Great Patriarch! You are not even Pride-Patriarch.” His voice was challenging. “What claim do you have to stand at this circle and call us honored cousins?”

Pouncer turned to face the interrupter. “I am Zree-Rrit, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and I am Patriarch of the Patriarchy. This is my claim.” Zree-Rrit; even after all this time it still feels strange to say.

The warrior snorted. “And I am Sraa-Vroo of Vroo Pride of the czrav, and I do not accept the leadership of the Patriarchy. Nor do my honored cousins, nor do the czrav prides they lead. This is our way, and this has always been our way. You are not of the czrav, certainly not a Pride-Patriarch of the czrav. You have no right to be here.”

Pouncer felt his claws extend reflexively at the challenge, but kept himself calm. “I am of czrav blood, through M'ress of Mrrsel Pride. Some of the czrav prides have chosen to follow me. I hope you will as well when you hear what I will present today, honored Sraa-Vroo.” It was difficult to control his anger at the deliberately insulting challenge, but it was important to remain true to courtesy-between-equals. Sheathe pride and bare honor.

“Follow you?” Sraa-Vroo rippled his ears and spat in contempt. “Honor demands my attendance at the High Circle. It does not demand I listen to a spot-furred kitten.”

Rage jolted Pouncer like a physical thing and his teeth bared of their own accord. He could feel his body making ready to leap. Rage is death. He breathed deep. If I am to achieve what I need to here I must not leap. He found himself incapable of answering, but V'rli-Ztrak waved her tail. “He speaks in my place, and my pride stands with him.”

Sraa-Vroo turned to her. “If he speaks in your place, why are you here then? Doesn't the Honored Mother care to lead her own pride?”

V'rli snarled, fangs suddenly bared, and she crouched to leap. Pouncer held his arms up again to interrupt, suddenly calm, as though his own anger had transferred itself to her. “This is unnecessary. I will take less of your time than a challenge duel will, and impose less of a cost. Hear me and decide for yourself what you will do.”

“I will listen.” Sraa-Vroo sat down, reluctantly, not taking his eyes from V'rli and with his lips still raised to show his fangs. V'rli sat down as well and Pouncer breathed out. I have passed the first test. There was no time to rest on his small victory.

“Honored Cousins, I am First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, rightful Patriarch. The Tzaatz have stolen what was mine, and for that reason I am sworn to blood vengeance against them.” He paused, again meeting every gaze in the chamber. “None of this need concern you. The czrav have lived since the time before time beneath the notice of the Patriarchy, and beneath the notice of the Black Cult. You may choose to continue that life, so long as the Tzaatz allow it. Those who follow me…” He nodded to V'rli and Czor-Dziit and V'reow who led the remnants of Mrrsel Pride. “…are committed to a different path.”

“And in following you they have brought destruction upon us all,” Sraa-Vroo snarled. “Entire prides have been wiped out. We are czrav, we carry the Long Secret. We have no business making war on the Patriarchy, whoever happens to rule it.”

Pouncer's lips came away from his fangs. “I am the Long Secret. I am of czrav blood and the Patriarchal line, the genetic welding of Kcha and Vda.”

“So you claim.”

“So he is,” V'rli said. “We have done the gene scans.”

Sraa-Vroo waved a dismissive paw. “And still we have no business making war on the Patriarchy. You have sworn blood vengeance against the Tzaatz. I grant you are true to your honor, but we have no need to join your skalazaal. But I am sure this Kchula-Tzaatz will accept a treaty-gifted daughter of the czrav. We can weld the Patriarchal line with ours through him, without bloodshed and without risk to our dens and kits.”

“Kchula-Tzaatz is not of the Patriarchal line!” Pouncer snarled the words.

“But his line will rule the Patriarchy.”

“No!” V'rli stood. “Meerz-Rrit exemplified all we want to preserve of the Kcha line. Kchula-Tzaatz is all we want to breed out! His brother carries the mind-blank gene set. Could we choose a worse genome to mate?”

“We have welded other lines. Half the Lesser Prides carry our blood.”

“And the Black Priests cull their kits! If we want to win the Longest War we must win it at the top. There is nothing so important to our victory as the Patriarchal line!”

“So we shall wait a few generations, and give the black-fur gene time to be diluted in Kchula's descendants. Since when has the Longest War been a matter of haste?”

“Since the Tzaatz deposed the Rrit! You said it yourself! How many of our prides has the Black Priest destroyed now? Where do you think he will stop?”

“So we give him what he seeks and he will stop. Send him Zree-Rrit and save us our blood.”

“You tread on my honor,” V'rli spat.

“You tread on our traditions, our ways, our secrets and our very lives. How many czrav will die so you can protect this Rrit?”

Pouncer stood before V'rli could answer. “You think the Black Priest hunts me? Yes, he does. But do you think he will stop when he finds me? No, he will not.”

Sraa-Vroo snorted. “I do not know what Ftzaal-Tzaatz will do, and neither do you. Call Ferlitz-Telepath and have him know the Black Priest's mind and we will find out.”

V'rli snarled. “You know he cannot know a mind that carries the mind-blank gene.”

“Give him the sthondat extract then, and that obstacle can be overcome.”

V'rli slashed the air with her claws. “If you want to see a telepath take sthondat, ask one of your own. I will not ask it of mine.”

“And yet you ask me to risk my pride in an Honor-War that is not mine.”

“You are free to decline, Sraa-Vroo, and free to leave this circle if you wish, as is everyone here.” Pouncer looked around the assembly. “I will make my proposal to those who stay.”

“Oh, I will stay, for amusement if nothing else,” Sraa-Vroo riposted.

“Hrrr.” He is staying, and he is silenced, for now. Pouncer raised his arms for attention again and continued where he had left off. “Honored Cousins, there are those of you who follow me now, and those who do not. For myself, I did not choose this path, it was chosen for me and I have no alternative but to take it to its end. I will lead those who will follow me to reclaim my birthright, and yours. For us, victory will mean victory in the Longest War, and defeat will mean extermination. Make no mistake, the cost will be high in czrav blood, and victory is not assured. I can offer nothing for your fealty except my own blood debt. With the support of Ztrak Pride and Dziit Pride and Mrrsel Pride I have shown what can be done, but that is not enough for final victory. Our strength depends on our unity, nothing else will give us success. For that reason I have decided…” He paused again, assessing his audience, making them wait on his words. “I have decided that if I do not have the support of every one of you here I will not press this campaign. Together we can win, together I believe we will win. Separate, it is better that we do not try. I will not see the czrav bloodline destroyed piecemeal. If I do not have your unanimous support, I will fight my own war, alone.” He paused again. “The decision is yours, Honored Cousins. I will leave you to make it.”

He turned and walked out into the darkened den passage, as snarls exploded behind him.

“…final victory…”

“…what of the risk?”

“…the Tzaatz…”

“…just a kitten…”

“…natural leader…”

The last voice was Czor-Dziit's, and though his opinion was not news it made Pouncer feel proud to realize that he had won the respect of that seasoned warrior. I have done my best. Now the Fanged God will guide my course. The voices faded behind him as he climbed up to the chambers of the outer den. The air was cooler there, the scents less intense. He went to the quarters he shared with C'mell. They were austere by any standard, but he felt at home there with her, comfortable in a way the Citadel had never been with its relentless crush of history. And yet I will be returning there, or dying in the attempt. It was a thought he did not want to think, and he turned his attention to C'mell. She was there, reclined on the frrch-skin prrstet, the kits piled up against her asleep, bellies plump, tails curled around their noses. He knelt and nuzzled them. Male and female, Whitepaws and W'neee, they were heavily spotted as czrav kits were, but already he could see the pattern in their fur that would become the distinctive Rrit striping when they came of age. They stirred but did not wake, and he lay down to nuzzle C'mell as well, taking strength from the contact of her firm flank. She swished her tail lazily and rubbed her whiskers on his chin.

“What did they say?”

“They are deciding now.”

“What will they say?”

“I don't know.”

“The full brother of Patriarch's Telepath doesn't know?” She rippled her ears. “What do you think they will say?”

“Sraa-Vroo is opposed. He is respected, others may side with him.”

She turned a paw over, considering. “It may not be a bad thing if he does. The Tzaatz are powerful. We risk a great deal by attacking them.”

“It is the path I must follow.”

“And I must follow you, but stealth is the czrav way.” There was worry in her eyes.

“If we win we will never have to hide again.”

“And the same if we lose.” She nuzzled him and they lay together in silence.

One of his lieutenants came to the entrance, Swift-Claw who had been Quicktail. “Pardon me, sire.”

Reluctantly Pouncer looked up from his mate. “What is it?”

“Our mazourk have returned from the jungle with the mothers and kits. They have brought an outsider.”

“An outsider?” Pouncer's ears fanned up. “Is there a reason he hasn't been killed?”

“Sire, he carries your father's sigil! And he brings kz'eerkti with him.”

“Cherenkova-Captain? She is leading the raids to the south.”

“No, sire! There are two kz'eerkti, strange ones. I thought it best…”

“You were right.” Pouncer jumped up, trading one last glance with C'mell. “Take me there.” As he went out Whitepaws stirred in his sleep, and C'mell ran a rough tongue over the kitten to settle him.

The afternoon sun was sending its rays slanting through the treetops, and Pouncer blinked as he emerged from the den. Twice-eight tuskvor milled beneath the den mouth, grunting as mazourk supervised the unloading of the laden tsvasztet. M'mewr was ushering the mothers and kits up the rocky trail to the den. The pride was whole again, and that was a good thing. Those who had stayed over the change of the seasons to fight were spilling out of the den. Snarling and purring rose as long-separated mates were reunited and old friends traded greetings. Soon the mating season would begin once more, continuing the cycle of generations. A tuskvor bellowed and another answered. Swift-Claw led him down the mounting ledge, where a lone kzin waited, apart from the turmoil of the returning migration. His muzzle bore four narrow stripes of white fur, the scar sign of a blood oath, and more white on his chest, sign of battle injury. It took Pouncer a moment to recognize him.

“I know you… Far Hunter! How did you come here? Welcome! How is your father?” The questions spilled out.

The other claw-raked. “My father is dead, sire. Killed by the Tzaatz as we helped the kz'eerkti to escape.” He stepped aside to show two smaller figures. “I have brought you these.”

This time recognition was instantaneous. “Tskombe-kz'eerkti! Welcome! I should have expected it would be you. And which one is this?”

Tskombe smiled, carefully not showing teeth. “This is Trina, First-Son.”

“I am Zree-Rrit now, much has changed. Why have you come back?”

“To bring Captain Cherenkova home again.”

“Your loyalty is impressive.”

“Is she here?” Even Pouncer could hear the eagerness in Tskombe's voice.

“She was here. Now she leads our advance base in raids against the Tzaatz.”

“Raids against…” Tskombe's puzzlement showed. “She leads kzinti raids, you mean?”

“You kz'eerkti are skilled and subtle planners. She has proven her worth as a warrior.”

Tskombe opened his mouth, closed it again. “When can I see her?”

“Now that the tuskvor are back we will be sending her supplies and reinforcements, this coming Hunter's Moon, or the next. You can go with them.”

The human breathed deep. It was not the answer he was hoping for, but he accepted it. More waiting. Pouncer noticed his reaction. “She has a telepath with her, Mind-Seer. We can let her know you are here.”

“I would like that very much.” Tskombe smiled. I am getting closer to her, and I know she's alive. “It's good to see you again, First…” He caught himself. “Zree-Rrit.”

“To you, I am always Pouncer.” He gestured for the newcomers to follow him. “Far Hunter, you have sworn a blood oath.”

“To avenge my father.” The rangy kzin gestured to the ears on his belt. “I have killed many Tzaatz, in Hero's Square and other places.”

“You do justice to his memory.”

Far Hunter riffled a paw through the ears. “I hope to have strakh enough here to claim a name at your circle…” He hesitated, then went on. “And your sister, if she is still unmated.”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer looked away. “You can have any name you choose. But my sister…” He paused. “My sister is dead too, killed by the Tzaatz.”

Far Hunter was silent, but his lips twitched over his fangs. The moment stretched uncomfortably long, and Trina reflexively edged herself closer to Tskombe.

“They will pay in blood.” Far Hunter snarled the words under his breath.

“They will pay higher than you imagine. Right now the czrav High Circle are meeting to discuss the future. If they agree, I will lead an army against Kchula-Tzaatz.”

“And if they do not?”

“Then you and I will fight our own war.” Pouncer looked to the horizon, then back to Far Hunter. “But vengeance will wait for a full belly tonight. You must be hungry from the journey.” Pouncer gestured to one of the youngsters who was unloading a tuskvor. “Sharp Ears! Get a fresh kill for our new arrivals.”

“At once, sire!” The youngster left on the bound.

Pouncer led the three up to the top of the sandstone dome to talk and admire the view. The experience seemed not-right somehow, the peaceful scene at odds with the gravity of the events unfolding around it. Above me the Tzaatz search me out from the orbital fortresses, below me the Pride Leaders are debating my future and my fate, and here in the middle I am feasting old companions as if nothing else mattered. He looked to Far Hunter “Tell me how you came to join the migration.”

“Hrrr.” The kzintzag warrior turned a paw over. “This kz'eerkti appeared at my stall and led me on an impossible quest. This other one” —he indicated Trina— “is a tracker of outlandish ability. We found the old jungle den of Ztrak Pride, and then found Ztrak border markers, where we waited with a border gift until M'mewr arrived and accepted it.”

Pouncer raised his ears, confused. “But that den is abandoned.”

“Abandoned, but the border we chose was the one with Mrrsel Pride. M'mewr led a hunting party there, and found us. They would have killed us on the spot, but Tskombe-kz'eerkti still carries your father's sigil. She recognized it as the same as the one Cherenkova-Captain wears.”

Pouncer rippled his ears. “You three have performed a feat of tracking the Tzaatz have been unable to duplicate.”

“Hrrr. The Tzaatz lack patience. They still overfly the jungle with gravcars, but they fear to walk in it. We camped on the jungle verge and went to the border marker to wait every day for the entire wet season, and into the dry again.”

Sharp Ears arrived then, with another youngster, carrying a dressed and gutted zianya not devoured at the Bloodfeast gorging. Although he was still replete Pouncer shared a haunch with Far Hunter, and was surprised when the humans ate their portions raw. Everything is in flux. Eventually the protocols of greeting and feasting had been satisfied and they sat as the sun went down, trading stories of recent events. Beneath them the hustle and bustle of the migration faded as the Pride went down into the den. Soon it was tale-telling-time, and Pouncer took them down to be introduced to the pride.

And still the High Circle remained in their sealed assembly in the chamber below. Pouncer found it hard to concentrate on the stories the tuskvor travelers were telling of the newcomer. Finally, at general insistence, Far Hunter stood to tell the tale of their search and their arrival. He called Trina up with him to act the kz'eerkti roles, and Pouncer took the opportunity to speak to Tskombe.

“Come, and talk with me. I have been missing my kz'eerkti advisor.”

They slipped out into the darkness and walked and talked, taking the high trail back up to the top of the sandstone dome and bringing each other up to date on the events since they had parted. At the top they sat on the smooth rocks, and Pouncer described his campaign as it had unfolded so far while Tskombe listened. He is becoming an experienced tactician.

Tskombe nodded as he listened. “You have done a lot.”

“Not as much as we need to do. Our raids here are just pinpricks. The czrav are ferocious warriors, but even with every pride behind me it will be a close fight. We must fight a single, decisive battle, but Cherenkova-Captain has identified a problem. If we force such an engagement the Tzaatz may transgress their honor.”

“Meaning what?”

“They may employ weapons prohibited in skalazaal. They will not do it if they are certain of victory, with Kzin-Conserver watching, but if they start to lose…” Pouncer trailed off. It was a problem he had avoided mentioning to anyone except Ayla; he hadn't wanted to dissuade the czrav leaders from supporting him. That didn't solve the problem though.

“So what can prevent them from doing that?”

“Hrrr. I need the Great Pride Circle to bear witness to the battle, with armed ships in orbit willing to intervene if the rules are broken.”

“How is that arranged?”

Pouncer rippled his ears and twitched his tail. “It is not to be arranged. A Great Pride Circle is not convened lightly, or in haste. Even in my father's day they were planned far in advance. Now half the Great Prides are locked in Honor-War themselves, and the rest are fighting your species.” Pouncer paused and looked away to the far horizon.

“I didn't know it had gone so far. We didn't have much news in the jungle den.” An image of Oorwinnig flashed before Tskombe's mind's eye, and the destruction it had wrought on ED1272. Muro Ravalla has his war. Bile welled up in his throat at the thought. How many will die for his vision of power?

“I have agents now, even in the Citadel. It is true, Tskombe-kz'eerkti. You and I are enemies now.”

“No.” Tskombe shook his head. “We are not enemies. You risked your life for me. What can I do for you?”

“Advise me as Cherenkova-Captain did. The Pride Leaders are deciding now which path to take. If they follow me, where should I lead them?”

“The only place you can lead them is to the Citadel, and the Patriarchy.”

“Hrrrr. I may be leading them all to destruction.”

“There are no guarantees in war. Once you start one, you can't control it.”

“Some things are more likely than others. We can win, perhaps, if the fight is fair. If it isn't, if the Tzaatz break tradition, we will be destroyed.”

“What do you need to ensure that, short of a Great Pride Circle?”

“I need support. I need witnesses while the battle takes place, witnesses powerful enough that Kchula will not dare violate the rules. There are Great Prides who oppose him. I am still First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. If several of them put warships in orbit, we would be safe.”

“Will they do it?”

“Perhaps, if I ask. I will have strakh with them, if I could reach them, but the Tzaatz guard the spaceports too tightly now.”

Tskombe smiled, being careful to keep his teeth from showing. “I know where I can get a starship.”

Pouncer's ears swiveled up. “Tell me.”

“I came here with a freerunner named Night Pilot. He's back in orbit after a trip, and now he's waiting for me. Far Hunter has arranged fuel for him, and can arrange more. He can take your emissary to the Great Prides.”

“Hrrr. This is good fortune. Can you contact him?”

Tskombe held up his beltcomp. “I have the codes right here, and his orbital data.” He tapped the small screen. “He will be overhead…” Tskombe tried to do the conversion math in his head and came up with a rough answer. “…overhead at midnight. He can come down by direct descent if we need him to.”

“We will have to be careful in contacting him, and in bringing him down. Ftzaal-Tzaatz is actively hunting for us, and the orbital fortresses are always watching and listening.”

Tskombe nodded. “Night Pilot knows how to get in and out without being seen.”

“Hrrr. I will still have to choose an emissary.” Pouncer looked up at the sky, now flecked with stars. Some of the pinpoints moved, satellites or ships or docks or fortresses. Once upon a time only stars filled the sky. “If the Pride Leaders decide to follow where I lead.”

Tskombe nodded. Perhaps it would be better for him if they didn't. He had Black Saber in orbit, and Night Pilot was actively eager to have kz'eerkti passengers on board for his passage back to Known Space and out of the way of the United Nations' onslaught on the Patriarchy. He was almost in contact with Ayla. Best, perhaps, if we just get her and go. That thought had no honor. I owe blood debt to this kzin, who risked his life for me, blood debt to Far Hunter, who lost his father for me. I cannot do less than honor my obligation. All he could offer Pouncer was Black Saber. He would offer it.

Much later they walked back down and Pouncer laid out his plans. Tskombe nodded as he listened. He is bold, I'll give him that. He was amazed to learn the sheer size of the czrav population, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. They had half a continent to hide in. The czrav had won the support of the Northern Lesser Prides, and slowly extended their base of support south into the Plain of Stgrat. That gave them a safe corridor, where czrav agents could count on the support of the kzintzag and the nobility together. They had freedom of movement in those areas. The weakness of the czrav was the fierce independence that kept them from combining their power even as they worked toward their common goals.

Pouncer stopped at the lip of the den to look out into the night. “But if they will follow me, no force on this planet can stand against them.”

“Will they follow you?”

“They are debating that now.” Pouncer tried to keep the tension from his voice. Everything depends on this moment. The return of Tskombe-kz'eerkti could only be a good omen; the availability of a ship at this moment could not have been better timed. But I still need to choose an emissary.

In the den Far Hunter was still relating the tale of their search to the now rapt audience around the pride circle fire. He was a natural storyteller, as good as Swift Claw if less practiced. Inspiration dawned. Yes! He is not of the czrav, he speaks well, he will be acceptable to the Great Pride-Patriarchs. I will send him, if he will go.

A paw on his shoulder, V'rli-Ztrak. She was bleeding badly from a slash that ran from her neck to her arm.

He reached out to her. “You have been…” She cut him off with a raised hand.

“The wound is nothing. Sraa-Vroo challenge-leapt and I killed him. He did not know the single combat form.” She paused. “The czrav are behind you, Zree-Rrit, every pride. We will take our destiny back from the Patriarchy.”

Pouncer found himself wordless. It was his moment of triumph, but he didn't feel triumphant. I have taken on a vast responsibility. He looked over to where Tskombe-kz'eerkti had joined Far Hunter and Trina in the center of the pride circle. I must not fail.

There followed a time of frenetic preparation. Agents were sent out to gain information on the state of the Citadel defenses, patrols dispatched to reconnoiter routes and lay up points for the march of the building army. Czrav manufacturing was sophisticated, but not geared for large scale production, and so necessary equipment had to be stolen from the enemy, mag armor for warriors and tuskvor both, and variable swords, grav belts, combat computers and more. Far Hunter traveled south with a raid, to stay behind and rendezvous with Black Saber for his mission to Churrt Pride and beyond. Pouncer found himself missing the presence of the Cherenkova-Captain, but Tskombe stepped almost unconsciously into that role, bringing his greater ground combat experience to bear. The list of details he carried in his head was tremendous, and every day the plan was refined. These kz'eerkti are formidable planners. Good planning was essential; there was very little time. Their attack was set for the next High Hunter's Moon, and already it had half waned from its last peak. I must strike while I can, while the czrav are behind me, while the Tzaatz do not suspect my full strength, while the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag still support us. The experienced warriors of Ztrak and Dziit and Mrrsel Prides became the leadership who trained the others in his tactics. He pushed his followers without mercy, himself harder still. Every day more prides arrived from the migration, and the increasingly crowded tuskvor needed to be managed and fed.

I have unleashed something I can no longer control. He was riding the storm, guiding it as he could, but helpless to prevent its advance. It would carry him to the Citadel, and to victory or death. He had no time to think about that, there was too much to accomplish first.

The lighter floated out into the docking frame, thrusting gently onto a rendezvous trajectory. Overhead Kzinhome revolved and steadied against a backdrop of stars. Raarrgh-Captain let the pilot fly while he looked out the window at his new command. Once Patriarch's Talon had been a battleship, armed and armored for the Long Hunt. Now it was a stripped hulk, the only thing left her powerplants and her massive polarizers. The rest of her hull had been replaced with an open framework that held her new arsenal. It lacked the sophistication of the spinal-mount gamma ray laser and the secondary turrets and the racks of seeker missiles that had once made her a force to be reckoned with, but it was more lethal by far. Patriarch's Talon now carried launch racks full of simple tungsten spheres half the height of a kzin, wrapped in a thin shell of low albedo coating. With three-quarters of her hull cut away, the battleship's drives could push her at unheard-of accelerations, and when she was traveling so close to the speed of light that time dilation was the primary targeting factor, she would release those masses to travel on their own. They had no guidance, no warheads, no ability to locate and track a target, or even to maneuver. All they could do was travel as straight as a laser beam until they hit their target or missed it. For any space combat Raarrgh-Captain had ever fought they would be absolutely useless. Even moving at seven-eights-over-eight-squared times the speed of light, any ship not already crippled could elude them. In fact, the limitations on the ex-battleship's own sensors and guidance systems meant that they were likely to miss even a target dead in space, given the tremendous lead distance required to align her velocity vector on the target at such speeds. Patriarch's Talon had once been a weapon of power and precision. Now she couldn't hope to hit anything smaller than a planet.

Of course, that was exactly the plan, and a projectile of that much mass arriving at just under the speed of light would punch a crater to a planet's core. A pawful of them would sterilize a world, and it was that task, and that task alone, that Patriarch's Talon had been stripped for. In days his ship would be ready. It couldn't happen soon enough. There would be more suffering, more slaughtered kits by kz'eerkti before he could bring his weapon to bear. Every day brought new reports of colonies wiped out to the last kzin; even long established and well defended worlds were being invested and burned from orbit. The kz'eerkti had seemingly unlimited resources and their fleets were unstoppable, but they had not been in space long as a species, and they had a fatal weakness that the more established kzinti did not. Their colonies were few and lightly populated, all still at least partially reliant on their homeworld. Eliminate that and their campaign must inevitably collapse. Penetrating the heavy defenses of Sol system would be impossible for a ship, or even a fleet, but Patriarch's Talon no longer had to get close to strike.

And so Raarrgh-Captain would take his new warship deep into human space, to the borderland of Sol, and with alignment and timing precise to the edge of measurement he would accelerate to his hellish attack velocity and launch his war load at Earth. It was an unheard-of measure and it stood against the Traditions, against the Way of the Hunter, against honor itself to vandalize a living world like that. He would have been justified if he refused the mission, even justified if he renounced his fealty to Tzaatz Pride over such orders. He had considered both those options long and hard. It was true, as he had told Ftzaal-Tzaatz when the Black Priest had issued his orders, that the kzinti had never, in all their Conquests, used even conversion weapons on a world, let alone something like this. But it was also true, as Ftzaal had replied, that the kzinti had never before been faced not only with defeat but extermination. The kz'eerkti had shown no scruples in their attacks on kzinti-held worlds, assaults designed not for conquest but for annihilation. The monkey war was no longer about spoils and status, it was about species survival, and that changed everything.

Changed everything except the fact of final victory. That would remain a kzinti honor. His mouth relaxed into a fanged smile.

Ayla Cherenkova wasn't fast enough to run with the kzinti she commanded, so they carried her into battle instead. Her sedan chair was borne by eight kzinretti, her elite guard, each sworn to defend her to the death. It had room for her maps and planning charts, primitive tools long superseded by combat consoles, but they needed no power source. On a rack overhead was the heavy kzinti beamrifle that she was allowed to use because she was neither kzin nor slave, though if she ever had to use it, it would mean that her plans had failed badly. There was also room for Mind-Seer, her telepath, though he marched on his own except in battle, and beside the beamrifle were a series of small vials of sthondat lymph, should Mind-Seer ever need them in emergency. So far he hadn't; the czrav attacks had all gone perfectly, and his natural talent had been enough to know the minds of their enemies and pass Cherenkova's orders to her warriors.

And they were her warriors. Ayla smiled at that. Even among her volunteer kzinretti there had been some doubts at first, but now there was no more question about her ability to plan, to command and to lead. They would hit an installation, kill all the Tzaatz and take not just the ears but the bodies before vanishing into the night again. It was a tactic she had developed herself, aimed at striking fear into her enemies. The Tzaatz had a name for them now, pazpuweejw — the death shadows, the malevolent phantoms who haunted the ancient Kitten's Tales. She liked that name; it meant that her tactics were working.

She stuck her head out the side of the chair as they came to a rise. “K'lakri, stop here.”

“As you command.”

The bearers put her down, and Cherenkova picked up her beamrifle and got out of the chair. With just her beltcomp she didn't have all the functionality of a combat console but she could move around. Mind-Seer came up beside her.

“I have news from the den, Cherenkova-Captain.”

“What is it?”

“The Tskombe-kz'eerkti has returned for you.”

“Quacy? He's back?” It took a moment for the news to sink in, and joy flooded her system. All at once she longed to hold him and be held, to touch him, at least to talk to him. Tears came to her eyes unbidden and she wiped them away. Time for this later. You have a battle to win. Still she couldn't help smiling. She was due to return to the den soon anyway. Her force had been fighting thrice around the Hunter's Moon and they needed a rest. Quacy! It will be good, so good to see him.

She turned to Mind-Seer. “Tell them I'm glad. Tell them, tell him I'll see him soon.”

Mind-Seer closed his eyes and muttered to himself as he reached out with his mind for that of Ferlitz-Telepath. Ayla watched him, somewhat in awe, as she always was, of the Telepath's Gift. He opened them a moment later. The message had been sent.

And now focus on the battle. She came up to the hill, slid up on her belly and raised her binoptics to scan the target. It was a rare-earth mine, worked by Kdatlyno, recently confiscated from the minor pride of Vaasc by the Tzaatz as punishment for withholding tribute. It was possible the Vaasc had really done that — the Lesser Prides were growing steadily more rebellious as the limits of Tzaatz control became clear — but it was more likely that Kchula-Tzaatz wanted the mine's output to feed his fleet construction program and its wealth for himself.

And ultimately it didn't matter. Another part of Cherenkova's overall campaign plan was that the Tzaatz themselves would be punished every time they tried to exert control in the northwestern prideholdings. With every heavy-handed move Kchula made, with every rapier-swift reprisal she mounted against them, the forces of the czrav gained credence with those who lived in the shadow of the Long Range. Vaasc Pride were not yet allies of Pouncer's, but soon they would be, as other Lesser Prides had already pledged fealty to the resurgent First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.

She scanned the scene. The mine head was in a valley half full of tailings, and it slanted deep into the planet's crust to ferret out the scant pockets of rare-earth metals. The Tzaatz had a heavy guard mounted. A few of them had taken to carrying beam weapons as well, a disturbing trend she could do little about. Pouncer refused to countenance the czrav taking similar steps, and though he allowed her to carry her own weapon for last-ditch self-defense, he probably would have rather she didn't.

She scanned the valley. There were a lot of Tzaatz, but guard duty was a boring and unrewarding task that quickly took the edge off even the best troops. More importantly, she couldn't see her pazpuweejw though she knew they were there, infiltrated into their attack positions like the shadows they took their name from.

Mind-Seer came up beside her, looking faraway as he reached out with his mind. “The attack is ready.”

Ayla nodded, not so much to acknowledge his words as to confirm them to herself. She felt the familiar pre-battle tension growing in her.

“Are we safe? Do the Tzaatz suspect?”

“Meat… the mating… distant home… The sentries are unaware…”

“Good. Tell V'levian to advance.”

Again Mind-Seer's eyes unfocused. “She moves now.”

Ayla swung her binoptics to focus on the closest Tzaatz guardpost, three of them on raider rapsari at the access road that led to the mine complex. For a moment there was nothing, and then she saw a blur of motion, and the guards and their beasts were down.

“Tell M'telv to go.”

“Yes…” His eyes closed briefly, then shot open. “There are hunters! Coming fast!”

“Alert!” It was K'lakri, running up the slope at the same instant. “The Tzaatz are coming.” Ayla whirled around to see her guard commander pointing skyward. There was a high pitched whine, growing rapidly louder… “Gravcars!” Ayla shouted. “Back to the rally point.” A swarm of assault vehicles were dropping out of the sky onto their position.

Too close for coincidence. It took Ayla half a second to assess the situation. “They know we're here. Mind-Seer, order the attack aborted, V'levian and M'telv are to withdraw to the rally point under their own command. K'lakri, we're withdrawing now. They might not have us spotted yet.”

“As you command.” K'lakri flashed tail signals to her warriors while Ayla scrambled back to her sedan chair, but by the time they got there it was too late. The first three gravcars slammed down not a hundred meters away, Tzaatz pouring down the ramps. There were no rapsari, at least, and at K'lakri's order her pazpuweejw elite guard screamed and leapt as the enemy closed, carving left and right with variable swords. They weren't as strong as males, but they were faster. Their sex helped; the Tzaatz were slow to understand that the females were attacking them, and they cut down half the Tzaatz in under a minute. She grabbed her beamrifle and looked for targets.

But already the weapons on the cars that hadn't landed were firing as they made a low pass, pulled up and swung around to come back down. Netguns! Four of her bodyguard were caught and struggling, the rest diving for cover, though there was little enough on the rocky slope. Mind-Seer drew his own variable sword and leapt for a Tzaatz warrior. None of them carried weapons that could engage the cars; all they could do was fall back. Another wave of assault vehicles dropped out of the sky, slamming down in the gravel on the hill. Ayla ran for a small ravine, slid down into it in a shower of stones. Her force needed its commander, and for that she had to survive. She looked around wildly for Mind-Seer but couldn't see him, or anyone. Heart thumping wildly, she belly crawled under a low bush. Hopefully the Tzaatz wouldn't be looking for a human. If they found her they might think her a slave. That would be a good thing, as long as they didn't choose to eat her right then and there. She looked at the beamrifle in her hand. They might not eat her, if they didn't find her with a weapon. But I won't abandon my weapon, and I won't pretend to be a slave to buy my own safety. She would hide, but if they came for her she would shoot her way out or die trying. Minutes dragged by like hours, and her breathing stabilized. She could hear the Tzaatz moving about on the hilltop, snarling back and forth as they secured the area. They seemed to have missed her little gully, but there would be scent trail, and they might have some of their odious rapsar sniffers with them. She pictured the terrain and assessed options. She needed to get a plan together to get her captured warriors back.

Screams of rage and pain came from the hillcrest, two voices, too inarticulate for her to make out the words, but she understood what was happening. Her pazpuweejw were being interrogated. Anger swelled through her and she gripped her beamrifle. She had her rescue plan, and it was right here, right now. She scrambled up the slope she had slid down, came face to face with a surprised Tzaatz and pulled the trigger. His mag armor was depowered and his chest exploded as the beam hit him. She dropped behind his still steaming corpse for cover and started picking targets, pulling the trigger and moving on. For about fifteen seconds she had the advantage with firepower and confusion on her side, and then they spotted her. The Tzaatz warriors weren't cowards, and they screamed and leapt without regard for their own safety. She snapped the weapon to multifire and swept it across her front, hitting at least three in mid leap, sending the rest diving for cover amid a spray of shrapnel from rocks exploded by beams that missed. She saw one of her pazpuweejw claw her way out of a net and move to free another. A Tzaatz leapt to stop them and she snapped off a shot, catching him in the face. The body dropped, headless, and the two kzinretti vanished over the hillcrest. They will free the others while I cover them, and the Kzinrette Secret will be safe. There was silence while she watched, and again the minutes dragged, then rock clicked on rock to her left flank. She spun, saw a flash of movement and fired, catching a Tzaatz in midleap. His mag armor was on, but her weapon was still on multifire and the beams shredded him. She whirled back to cover her front again but nothing else was moving. Impasse. She became aware of pain, looked down to see that the beamrifle's charge pack had burned a hole in her shirt sleeve and sizzled the skin beneath. The indicator was way down. She'd gone through over half a charge already.

And I have to move or they'll get me from both flanks next time. If they managed that the game would be over. Had all her captured warriors escaped? A killscream sounded from above and cut off with a gurgle. That suggested that they had, and the Tzaatz were paying in blood to follow them. It was time to leave. Carefully she slid back down the ravine, then moved across the slope under the cover of some low shrubs, hoping to work her way back up. A gravcar whined over, searching, and she jerked her weapon up to fire. It hadn't spotted her, a miracle on the sparse terrain, and she let it pass. A beamrifle would do little to a combat vehicle anyway. She was running out of options. If she'd been smart she would have headed back for the rally point, and she listened for the voice in her mind that would be Mind-Seer, feeding her information, but there was nothing. Is he even alive? An unanswerable question. More rock on rock. She swung the rifle again, but there was nothing there. Think fast, monkey. They would stalk her, but as long as she didn't let them box her in she'd have the initiative. For that she had to keep moving. So that was the plan, fire, fall back, wear them down. Keep to the bushes where they'd have trouble picking her up from the air. They might get her in the end, but she'd make them pay.

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.

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?

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.”

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 cell. 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.

It was funny the things your mind considered when it had unlimited time to itself. For a while she had obsessed about what might happen next, and scenario after scenario involving the hunt park ran through her head. Now she was simply resigned to indefinite waiting in her cell until something happened. Resigned to wait, yes, but not resigned to my fate. When an opportunity to escape comes up I have to take it, and if they put me in a hunt park, I'm going to take a few of the bastards with me. There was a degree of desperate optimism in her thoughts that wouldn't allow her to contemplate the odds against her survival in any of those situations. As bad as it was, she was probably far safer as a prisoner of the Tzaatz than she was trying to survive on Kzinhome alone, and while she'd fight her hardest in the hunt park, she would be a cornered rabbit biting at the fox.

Pouncer was out there, and Pouncer wouldn't abandon her, but neither did he have the strength to storm the Citadel, and there was no guarantee he'd win when he tried. And Quacy! Was she only imagining what Mind-Seer had said, that he had come to Kzinhome for her? She hadn't touched him, seen him, heard him; it seemed much more likely to be a fiction invented by her subconscious to encourage her to hold on to her sanity until she could get out.

The keys jangled and the ancient lock snapped open, though it was early for the morning meal. She looked up as the heavy door swung in and one of the Kdatlyno looked in, gesturing for her to come out with long spindly arms, its silver knee and elbow horns glinting in the dim light against its tough, leathery skin. It seemed cramped in the kzin-sized doorway. A Kdatlyno would probably win a duel with a kzin, and she had to wonder how they'd been conquered, and how they stayed conquered.

The Kdatlyno ushered her down a stone flagged hallway to another room. She didn't like the looks of it: iron chains hung from the walls, and a large table of dark wood was in the center. A large, black-furred kzin was working with something on a long bench against the wall. He turned around as she came in and the slave closed the door behind her.

“I am Ftzaal-Tzaatz.” The kzin held up what looked to be a long, silver skewer.

“Good for you.” There was a reflex to cringe, to cover her nakedness, but she resisted it and stood straight. He isn't human anyway. Make him respect you for courage and you'll do better.

“My new Telepath tells me your mind is closed to him.” For the first time Ayla noticed another kzin, this one lying on a mat on the floor in what seemed to be a drug-induced stupor. “Why is this?”

“I don't know, why don't you tell me.” Defiance wouldn't help, but it would keep her morale up. She noticed two more black-furred kzin, standing impassively in the shadows. Will they eat me? The thought was somehow more terrifying than the simple fact that she might die.

“Then I will enlighten you.” Ftzaal was watching her intently. “There are three possibilities. One is simply that what Telepath says is true. Another is that someone is shielding your mind for you. The third is that Telepath can in fact read your mind and refuses to tell me what is in it.”

“I can't help you with that.”

“That is too bad. At first I believed that Telepath might be deceiving me.” He looked at the prostrate figure. “I have worked diligently with him the last Hunter's Moon, and I no longer think this is possible. Telepath has become increasingly eager to know your mind, as I have encouraged him.”

Cherenkova looked from the black kzin to the slumped figure, uncomfortable with the stress he'd put on the word encouraged.

“That leaves the other two options.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz continued. “I suspect the second is most likely true; your species is not noted for its telepathic prowess. Someone is protecting your mind. The question is, why?”

“I don't know. Why don't you find whoever that is and ask them.”

The kzin ignored her barb. “I am going to ask you. You are about to face the Hot Needle of Inquiry. Be proud, this is a privilege rarely accorded to slaves.”

“I'm not a slave, and neither is my species.”

Ftzaal-Tzaatz flipped his ears, mildly amused. “I can tell you'll provide good sport in the hunt park.”

“I'll have your pelt if you try it.”

Ftzaal held up the skewer. “The Hot Needle is a technique perfected by the Hunt Priests, who are justifiably feared by the kzintzag for their skill in applying it. Unfortunately, it would be beneath the honor of a Hunt Priest to squander his talents on a lower animal, and so you will have to be content with my own inexpert attempt.” The bench behind him held an array of similar skewers, some delicately small, some as large as climbing pitons.

“I don't have any information for you.”

“That is unfortunate, because information is the goal of the Hot Needle. The beauty of the technique is that, while the pain is excruciating, there is no chance that the subject will die prematurely.”

“Perish the thought.” Ayla put all the spirit she had into it, but couldn't keep a quaver out of her voice.

“Kz'eerkti anatomy is different, of course, but similar enough to ours that I think there will be only a few modifications necessary. I have read the references gained during the monkey wars. Your pain threshold is lower than ours, so care must be taken to prevent you from losing consciousness.” Ftzaal swished his tail. “Acolytes!”

The two waiting black kzinti moved. She shrank back despite her decision not to flinch. They grabbed her impersonally, with enough strength that even attempting to struggle was impossible. A second later she was face down on the table, and the kzinti were strapping her ankles to the lower corners. Her arms were splayed wide and secured as well, as though she was about to be crucified, which might yet turn out to be true. The straps were designed for kzinti, and they had trouble cinching them tight enough to hold her securely, but when they were done she wasn't going anywhere.

“The needle cauterizes the flesh it penetrates.” Ftzaal was still talking. “There is no chance of infection.”

Infection? That was worrying, not because Kzinhome's microbes had shown any interest in her but because it implied she'd be there long enough that they had to take special precautions. Reflexively she struggled against her bonds, but she couldn't move. Ftzaal went to the bench and flipped switches. Intense blue flames leapt up, and in their light she could see that the array of skewers was arranged so their points and shafts would be heated red hot while their wooden handles stayed cool. Fear shot through her system. I could give it up now, tell him I'll tell him everything and spin him plausible lies. It would buy her time while he verified the truth, and perhaps he would never find out. She found she couldn't take her eyes off the skewers, their shafts already beginning to glow. For the first time she began to understand that he intended to break her. At the same time her fear fueled her defiance. Ftzaal had been serious when he said the Hot Needle was an honor. He was treating her as he would a warrior, a testimony to the damage she had inflicted on the Tzaatz. If she surrendered she would lose that hard won respect, she would become a slave in his eyes. As a warrior she could deal with him as an equal, as a slave she would probably wind up in a hunt park. Her survival depended on her resistance.

She could smell the hot metal now, and Ftzaal took a long, hot needle by its wooden handle and brought it to her. He brought his paw down on her right hip, and she could feel the radiated heat against her skin. She struggled and managed to generate enough movement that he couldn't slide the needle in with the precision he wanted.

“First Acolyte, take her leg. Second Acolyte, hold her waist.” Ftzaal's commands were calm. Her small and temporary victory hadn't ruffled him at all. She felt their paws seizing her like velvet vises, with the faintest pressure of their needlelike claws on her skin to warn her of the consequences of further struggle. She felt Ftzaal's grip again, pulling the flesh out below her hip to make a target for the needle. First and Second Acolytes tightened their grip until she couldn't move at all, and Ftzaal put the needle through, slowly and deliberately. The pain, when it came, was excruciating and she screamed despite her resolve not to, muscles convulsing against the restraints. The point bit into the wooden surface and she was pinned there like a butterfly on a card. Slowly, too slowly, the pain faded to a pulsing throb.

“Now her lower limb.” Again the acolytes immobilized her more completely than the straps could, exposing her right calf. Ftzaal selected another needle. Again she felt the heat as he brought it close, and then pain, sudden and burning, lanced through her as he slid it remorselessly into the muscle. She was ready for it this time, and screamed through gritted teeth as her muscles convulsed hard, but the black acolytes held her motionless.

She had expected the pain to come with questions, to be applied to punish resistance and withdrawn as a reward for cooperation. Ftzaal simply picked up another needle. She noticed his ears were folded tight against the volume of her cries. At least he's suffering too. Cherenkova took dark satisfaction in that thought, and resolved to scream as loud as she could. To her surprise Ftzaal ordered the straps removed from her ankles; they were no longer necessary. The strap was taken off her right wrist as well, and they positioned her right hand in front of her face. Ftzaal chose a shorter, more slender skewer to violate her here. Why aren't they asking questions? Again she screamed, her throat growing hoarse. She felt herself trembling, her body reacting with adrenaline and the need to fight or flee, but she could do neither.

More needles, smaller ones this time, staking her hand down through the web of her thumb and between her knuckle joints. Her hand became a single hot spot of pain and she could not help looking at it, bright dots of blood around the dimpled flesh where the needles stabbed in, and the disturbingly appetizing smell of her own flesh fried by the heat. She tugged frantically against the restraints still on her other arm, desperately motivated to pull out the impaling metal, to nurse her injuries, but the strap was unyielding, nor would the acolytes have allowed her an instant's respite had she somehow managed to pull it free. Ftzaal switched to the other side, and that hand was also released, positioned, and run through with the cruel steel needles, this time by her side, forcing her elbow awkwardly up into the air. The horrifying process continued, slowly and inexorably. Her left leg was drawn up until it was underneath her, skewers pinned through the sole of her foot between her metatarsals.

And still no questions. She was eager for them now, eager to be cooperative, if only they would remove the searing needles from her flesh. There was a roaring in her ears as waves of pain coursed through her body. Tiny needles slid under her fingernails, under her toenails; a larger one through the cartilage of her upper ear nailed her head to the wooden tabletop, leaving her staring permanently at her right hand. Her breath came in gasps and she felt dizzy. She let her eyes flutter closed to let the relentless pain carry her into unconsciousness and peace, but if she relaxed her body the needles in her hip and calf would tear out. She would have thought herself beyond caring about that, but her body's self-defensive reflex wouldn't allow it.

And all of a sudden she realized the subtle genius of the torture she was being put through. Enough pain would push any sentient being into unconsciousness, but by making her position deliberately awkward the Hot Needle of Inquiry forced her to stay awake to maintain it, and therefore fight the relentless pain. The asymmetry guaranteed that her mind would find nowhere to escape, short of final capitulation to her captors, or death, if she was that lucky. That was why there were no questions. The only goal of this stage of the inquisition was to break her, utterly, in the shortest possible time.

After what seemed like hours Ftzaal-Tzaatz finished. By then Ayla was beyond screaming, beyond resisting, each new penetration of her flesh barely registering against the burning agony which had enveloped her body. There were hundreds of needles, she'd lost track of them all, and it didn't matter anyway. She still had not begged for mercy, but only because she knew it would not come. Perhaps Ftzaal interpreted that as stubborn defiance, but if he did that didn't matter either.

He left, for a time, and she suffered while he was gone, straining to maintain the position that brought the least pain. He returned eventually, the time interval long enough that she grew to want sleep, but sleep was impossible. Strangely she didn't feel hungry, though she must have missed several meals. Her world space was strangely ethereal, as though she were drugged, and even the pain had somehow transformed itself into something else.

“Now, kz'eerkti, we will discuss First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.”

“I have no information for you.”

“You lead raids for him. You lead kzinretti smart enough to plan and fight. I need to know about this.”

“I am fighting for myself.” And if he's asking, then my kzinretti all got away. It was a small victory. It lent her courage for what she knew would come. I can win other victories here.

“Hrrr.” Ftzaal touched one of the needles in her arm, and the slight motion freshened the dulled pain back to agony. She gasped, eyes watering. “You are stubborn.”

“I have nothing to tell you.” The words came around deep breaths as she fought to control herself.

“Then tell me of his sister. She wasn't like other kzinretti, was she? She spoke and planned like a male.”

“If you know, why ask me?”

“I need confirmation.”

“His sister is dead.” Ayla took some satisfaction in disappointing her captor.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I don't have any other information for you.”

The Black Priest considered her at length. “Why do you maintain fealty to First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit? You are kz'eerkti and he is kzinti. War has come again; our species are enemies.”

“I have my own honor to maintain.”

“You hold your pledge to an enemy alien higher than loyalty to your species? I don't believe that.” Again he touched a needle and she gasped.

“Believe what you want. I'll stand by my pledge.” How much more of this can I take?

“Hrrr. Did you know your fleets are sterilizing kzinti worlds?”

“I had heard something like that.”

“And this makes no difference to you?”

“I have my own war to fight. Against you, and your brother.”

Ftzaal ran a soft paw over the handles of the rows of needles that skewered her left side from collar bone to thigh, provoking another scream. “My brother has an interesting mind. He is less bound by honor than most kzinti, even as you seem to hold yourself to a higher standard than the average kz'eerkti.”

Ayla remained silent. It took effort to answer, and she needed every ounce of strength to hold her position and withstand the new pain. The tiniest deviation from perfect stillness was excruciating, and she breathed in and out in short gasps in order to minimize the movement of her rib cage.

“This doesn't interest you?” She could hear the mocking tones in Ftzaal's voice. “It will interest you to know he has violated the Hunt Traditions, although I will add, not without severe provocation. Do you remember the razing of K'Shai, the world you call Wunderland?”

“It was…” The words hurt and Ayla took time to breathe before continuing. “…before my time.”

“But you know of it, yes?”

“I've been to Thor's Crater.” Pause, breath. “And others.”

“Hrrr. You are a savage species. The galaxy has more to fear from you than us, but we are sentients too. We can learn what you teach us, and you have taught us much. The use of fusion drives as weapons, for example, and interstellar communications lasers. Those were the first lessons. We have learned the use of relativistic weapons too, and how easy it is to destroy a world if you don't desire to conquer it later.”

A sudden thrill of adrenaline shot through Ayla, momentarily overriding the pain. “You haven't…”

“Yes, we have.” Ftzaal's mouth relaxed into a fanged smile. “Even now our attack ship is in hyperspace to your singularity with enough lightspeed impactors on board to flay your homeworld bare. My brother intends to end this war.”

“You wouldn't do that. Tradition won't allow it.” Even as she said them Ayla's words rang hollow in her own ears. Kefan Brasseur had taught her the power of tradition in kzinti affairs, but her own experience told her that power was not absolute. The Tzaatz especially were prone to bend ideals to expediency.

“Is it any different than what humans are doing to kzinti worlds right now? Our traditions demand that we conquer, not destroy, but honor demands vengeance.” He paused letting it sink in. “I have a bargain to offer you, Cherenkova-Captain. It is a generous one, in the circumstances.”

“I don't want it.”

“You may not want it yet, but you will soon. I disagree with my brother's methods, and I disagree with his assessment of priorities. I see no need to destroy your species when we could do so much more with you in partnership. My interest lies entirely in First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the Telepath War and the line of Vda.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” The words hurt to say.

Ftzaal rippled his ear. “Yes, you do. I also know about it, in some detail. I know how they have hidden from the Black Cult for so many generations. It is unfortunate for them they have chosen to throw their lot in with First-Son; before that the priesthood had little idea they existed. I had my own suspicions. The telepath gene has not gone extinct in eight-to-the-fourth generations of vigilant culling, nor have the genes of the reasoning kzinrette. There had to be a natural reservoir somewhere. Even I did not suspect the full truth, though in retrospect it seems so clear. Where else could such a line exist but on Kzinhome? Where else on Kzinhome but in the jungles, among the czrav who live beneath the notice of the Patriarchy? Such facts as I could divine I raised to Priest-Master-Zrtra, but the Priest-Master would not hear them, nor would the Black High Circle.”

“How frustrating for you.”

“Perhaps, but that time is over. The Black Cult will not be able to deny the evidence I present to them, and they will thank me for exterminating in a season what they could not since the time before time. I will rule the High Circle, if I can keep my incompetent brother from destroying the Patriarchy beforehand.”

“At least we agree on something.” She spat the words, and the defiance cost in waves of pain.

Ftzaal rippled his ears, amused. “I think we will agree on a bargain very shortly. Here is what I offer. Tell me where to find First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit and I will tell you the launch coordinates and trajectory information for the ship that will destroy your world. Nothing less will save your world, Cherenkova-Captain. In addition, I will send you back to your Earth in a fast courier. You, and you alone, can save your species.”

Ayla remained silent, gritting her teeth. Billions of lives are at stake. How could she know he was telling the truth? How could she be sure he would keep his end of the bargain if he was? He is kzinti, his honor is his life. She had learned that honor could be a slippery concept, even among kzinti. But he is more than kzinti, he is a warrior. She didn't want to believe it because she didn't want to face the choice she was now facing, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was telling the truth. Earth would be destroyed if they weren't given the information necessary to intercept the impactors, and Ftzaal-Tzaatz would give her that information and send her home to give warning if she gave him what he was asking for. But I cannot betray Pouncer. The pain didn't make it any easier to think.

Ftzaal held up another red hot needle, looking over her body as if deciding where to place it. “This is a generous offer, Cherenkova-Captain. I will give you some time to consider it.” For a long moment he waited while she breathed in and out, trying not to anticipate the pain she knew her lack of cooperation was about to bring. Finally he put the needle down in front of her close enough that she could feel the heat of the glowing shaft on her face. It was a warning that there was more to come if she didn't make the right decision. He turned to the acolytes. “Watch her. Make sure she remains alive.”

“As you command, sire.” Ayla barely registered the words; the pain was reasserting itself over her consciousness. She was still coherent enough to be startled when, seconds later, Ftzaal opened his robe and urinated on her, the hot stream splashing over her body, burning where it ran over the needle wounds. In spite of herself she gasped in pain anew, fighting the urge to struggle that would only make it hurt more. He is scent-marking me, to let the others know I'm his property. It was a protective gesture, to keep the acolytes from becoming careless with his prize, but she found it degrading anyway. This means he will be gone longer than before, perhaps much longer. Sleep deprivation and hunger would soon start to erode her will to resist, even her will to survive. Ftzaal left and the acolytes faded into the darkness, leaving her alone with her torture. She would not weep, but her eyes were bright with tears. She could only wait for it to be over. Some timeless time later, in the twilight world of consciousness enforced over sleep by pain, she thought she saw a herd of tuskvor surging over a kill drop, as she had dreamed a lifetime ago coming over the high mountain passes on the czrav migration, only this time it was not Pouncer but Quacy Tskombe who leapt to save her, and this time she could not fly to save them both.

The broadleaf trees gave pleasant shade to the Sundial Grove. Kzin-Conserver sat on the grass beside a bench, performing the Eight Variations of Honor in his mind. The tranquillity of spirit he had felt in his days as Rrit-Conserver was increasingly eluding him. I am a slave to events, and events are not tranquil. He controlled his breathing, and focused on the discipline.

“Kzin-Conserver.” It was Ftzaal-Tzaatz. Kzin-Conserver abandoned the sixth variation, took a moment to steady his mind before opening his eyes to greet the Black Priest.

“I would walk with you, Conserver.”

“As you wish.” Kzin-Conserver rose and together they headed on the path that led from the grove back to the Citadel. A Tzaatz patrol mounted on rapsar raiders went past, and Ftzaal said nothing until they were alone again.

“We still fight the Honor-War we declared when we took this fortress. First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit has become a formidible enemy.”

“For a time I think you thought you had won your honor-duel.”

“My brother was convinced. I was not.”

“And now?”

Ftzaal turned a paw over. “The storm is gathering. I can sense it. Now it is my brother who is unconvinced.” He paused. “You favor the Rrit in this.”

“Second-Son is Rrit as well. You mean that I favor Zree-Rrit over the puppet of the Tzaatz.”

“Of course.”

“When I was Rrit-Conserver, I favored the Rrit over the Tzaatz, and yes, First-Son over Second-Son for reasons of both tradition and character. Now it is not my place to favor one side or the other. I only pass judgment on adherence to the Traditions, and give guidance to the other Senior Conservers.”

“And give advice to the Patriarch.”

“When he asks for it.”

“Scrral-Rrit has changed since the Hot Needle.”

Conserver rippled his ears. “I have noticed.”

“Hrrr.” Ftzaal's tail lashed. “He is still unworthy of the title he bears.”

“His future carries the stain of his past.”

“And despite your neutrality you favor his brother in this challenge.”

“I favor no one, which does not mean I have no judgment. Zree-Rrit has shown himself honorable so far. He is the elder brother and so entitled by blood to be Patriarch. For these and other reasons I believe he will serve the Patriarchy better than his brother.”

And my brother. Ftzaal started to say it and didn't. He remained silent until they reached the bank of the Quickwater. On the other bank the Citadel wall rose straight up, its coppery surface glinting in the light of high noon. They turned to parallel it. “There are ships in orbit now. Churrt Pride and Vdar Pride and Dcrz Pride, and others.”

“I have heard.”

“They tell my brother they have come in case the kz'eerkti come, to defend Kzinhome.”

“And you believe differently?”

“I do not believe Zraa-Churrt would dishonor himself with untruth. They are here for the reason they have given. I believe there is a further truth. They have come to bear witness to skalazaal.”

“Perhaps. You have overstepped the traditions, though no one has proof-before-the-pride-circle. The Great Prides fear this more than anything.” Kzin-Conserver looked to the fields beyond the Citadel's northern wall, where a formation of lumbering assault rapsari were going through their paces. “You are expecting a battle. Your forces are growing stronger every day.”

“I have committed everything I can to the defense of this fortress. This is the critical point. My brother believes we must protect Jotok, but it is here we will stand or fall.”

“Against the kz'eerkti or against First-Son?”

“Against both.” Ftzaal paused again. “If First-Son comes here, he will die. If he does not come here…” Ftzaal's lips twitched away from his fangs. “I will rake out his hiding place soon.”

“You have put his kz'eerkti female to the Hot Needle.”

Ftzaal's ears swiveled up. “You have good ears to have heard that.”

“When you are Kzin-Conserver you hear many things. I have also heard the kz'eerkti are in hyperspace to our singularity. I have not heard how your brother intends to deal with them.”

“He has given command to Ktronaz-Commander.”

They walked in silence for awhile, then stopped to watch a squad of Kdatlyno who were setting long metal spikes in a freshly dug defensive ditch. Kzin-Conserver turned to the Black Priest. “Why do you follow your brother?”

“I am his zar'ameer.”

“Even when he violates the traditions?”

Ftzaal started to speak, stopped, started again. “It is not for the sword to question the paw that wields it.” His voice held an edge.

“You had a question for me.”

Ftzaal shook himself angrily. “No. I have answered it for myself.” The Black Priest turned and walked back the way he had come.

Kzin-Conserver watched him go. Events are beyond his control now, and his brother's, and mine. He looked up at the sky, where the ships of eight Great Prides were circling invisibly, defense against the kz'eerkti fleet which would inevitably arrive to scour Kzinhome, defense against the temptation for Kchula-Tzaatz to use energy weapons against Pouncer in his War-of-Honor. Each of those Great Prides would be pursuing its own interests too, interests that were now starting to tear the Patriarchy apart. Stability, that sacred goal of the Circle of Conservers, was long gone. I have failed in my responsibility. It didn't help that he knew there was no way he could have succeeded. It was too late by far to save the Patriarchy he had been born into; perhaps it was too late to save it in any form at all. He thought back to the last Great Pride Circle. Stability had seemed so close then. At the time he had no idea how violently the apparent path of history would be diverted. The storm is gathering, and this time I know it. The question is, when will it strike?

It was time. Pouncer climbed aboard the tsvasztet strapped to the huge herd-grandmother. Ferlitz-Telepath was already there, and Tskombe-kz'eerkti and the Trina manrette, and Swift-Claw, Z'slee and Night-Prowler, acting now as his personal bodyguards. He looked across to the other beasts, where V'rli had Ztrak Pride marshaled, and where Czor-Dziit led Dziit Pride. The other czrav prides were farther back in the herd; the honor of the fore went to those who had fought with him the longest.

But they are all here! The czrav army was eight-to-the-sixth strong, eight-cubed prides and sub-prides, half eight-to-the-fifth tuskvor, the beasts armored and armed, articulated assault ladders on their necks and heavy weapons on their backs so they could serve as living siege towers at the walls of the Citadel of the Patriarch. His Heroes were trained to a standard even Guardmaster would be proud of, confident and ready for battle. He looked up into the darkening sky, streaked bloodred as the last rays of sunset lit the clouds from the western horizon. And they will have blood themselves, soon enough. Up there were Kzinhome's orbital fortresses, capable of wiping out his entire force in heartbeats. Today is the supreme gamble. The Tzaatz knew something was happening; his spies had told him that. The Great Prides were watching overhead. Skalazaal will be declared and open for all to witness. Kzin-Conserver who had been Rrit-Conserver would ensure that it was. Kchula-Tzaatz might yet decide to wipe out the threat to his rule with lances of fire from space. He would not do it with impunity.

And he will not do it yet. The weather was overcast and they would move at night. The Tzaatz did not know of the force assembled against them, would not know until it was too late. Or so I hope. The Telepaths had searched the minds of their enemies for knowledge of the coming onslaught, but even they could not see everything. There were too many risks in an operation this size, too many loose ends to control them all.

Another kzin climbed aboard, a kzinrette. C'mell!

“You should not be here!” He spoke before she could.

“I should not be anywhere else.” She leapt easily to the front of the travel platform, moved to the tiller bar where Night-Prowler was. The other silently gave way to her.

“Where are the kits?”

“They are with M'mewr.” Expertly C'mell unhooked the tiller bar from its restraints and tightened up the harness lines. Their tuskvor snorted in response to the pressure but didn't balk.

“They need their mother. C'mell…” he started to reason.

“And their father.” She waved a paw. “Who will make sure you are safe if I don't?” She pulled the bar back to raise the beast's head. It grunted and started to move. “And now it is too late for me to leave.”

Their beast lumbered forward and he started to argue. Already the other tuskvor were starting to move with them, the vast herd reacting like a single living organism, gathering momentum. C'mell pulled on the bar to haul the huge head around to set their direction. South! To the mountains and down through the passes, through the northern valleys and into the Plain of Stgrat, to the heart of the Patriarchy, to the Citadel, to battle and to destiny.

I am committed. Pouncer abandoned his argument. Around him the herd picked up speed. The great beast swayed beneath him. There was no need to give any other order. That quickly the plan was in motion. He moved to the side of the travel platform and looked out into the gathering darkness. Strangely, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now we travel, and my work is done until the battle begins. Those he had trained were now acting on their own, carrying out the well prepared plan. He looked to the back of the tsvasztet where Battle Captain of Ccree Pride hunched over the combat console with headphones on. Ccree Pride's experts had isolated the Tzaatz command bands. Even without breaking the enemy crypting they would be able to identify enemy units, and with the consoles carried on every command tuskvor, they would be able to triangulate and know their positions. The czrav had vocom too, but they wouldn't use it until the final stages of the battle, when the total security of telepathy was less important than the speed and flexibility of direct vocom. On top of dens scattered through the high forest, jammers would be switching on to delicately confound the ground scanners on the orbital fortresses, while overhead Black Saber's sensors watched the Tzaatz forces for the first sign that the czrav advance had been detected. Inevitably it would be discovered, despite deception and camouflage and countermeasures. It was impossible to move such a vast force in stealth, but with luck and the Fanged God's favor they would be through the bottleneck of the mountain passes and into the Plain of Stgrat by then, where it would be much harder for the Tzaatz to mount a defense.

On the other side of the travel platform Quacy Tskombe paced, worried. The only way they were going to get Ayla back from the Tzaatz was to take the Citadel, he knew that. But what will they do with her when the attack starts? They could kill her on a whim, or as a last-second vengeance for their defeat. Or the attack could fail.

He turned to Ferlitz-Telepath, unable to keep himself from asking the question again. “How is Ayla?”

Tolerantly Ferlitz looked away, closed his eyes, concentrating. Tskombe saw the pain cross his face and flinched. After a time Ferlitz looked at him again. “She is still alive, still in pain.”

“Can you tell her we're coming?”

“It is still too far, and too large a risk if she knows.”

Tskombe breathed in, breathed out. “I know, I know.” He looked out into the gathering darkness, listening to the relentless rumble of the czrav army's advance. Hang on, Ayla, I'm coming. Trina came to stand beside him. Now she is the one who comforts me. He sat down on the prrstet and concentrated on the next phase of the advance. Morning should see them at the northern foothills, the following evening should see them starting the ascent through the passes. The passes were the critical point, and they needed to get through them in darkness.

“Ferlitz, how are our guides?”

Again the telepath closed his eyes, this time reaching for the minds of the scouts pre-positioned along the planned route, and along alternate routes as well in case something forced them to change plans. This time he was lost in the mind-trance for a long time, sometimes muttering to himself. Tskombe himself got flashes of images, a high mountain meadow still sunlit as the lower elevations were not, a river crossing seen from a nearby hill, a camouflaged hiding place beneath a burstflower bush. Ferlitz is sharing what the scouts see. Along with the images came a sense of rightness and safety. So far there were no ambushes. But we have only begun. It would take three days to ride from the passes to the Citadel, and it was certain battle would be joined before they got there.

The night passed uneventfully. There was a rotation set up between them, so someone would always be awake to watch the combat console, but he and Pouncer weren't part of it. They would alternate, unless there was a battle, in which case the kzin would lead and Tskombe would make sure he got the information he needed. Quacy was surprised to have so much of Pouncer's trust so quickly, but it seemed he was simply stepping into Ayla's shoes as kz'eerkti zar'ameer. She has done a lot here. His thoughts returned to her again unbidden, and he pushed them away. She needs me to be strong now, to do my job to get her out. Eventually exhaustion overcame him and he slept, rocked asleep by the steady swaying of their tuskvor. Fitful dreams made his slumber far from restful, but it was welcome all the same.

Dawn found them in the foothills, as expected, and there was no sign the Tzaatz had noticed their presence, either in the telepathically gathered reports of the scouts or in the imagery downlinked from Black Saber. Tskombe grew tense as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, leaving them vulnerable to the sensors of the orbital fortresses and the Tzaatz ships in orbit, but they continued on their way unmolested. The interference the czrav were beaming skyward was subtle, so as not to give the game away. It was possible to laser-jam the optical sensors as well, but that too-obvious measure had to wait until the battle was joined. The vast tuskvor herd was too big to simply escape notice, but the camouflaged tsvasztet on their backs might, and the Tzaatz didn't know enough about the beast's migratory patterns to realize how unusual their movement south was at this time of year. Darkness came again and they were climbing into the passes. A few more hours is all we need. Tskombe managed to avoid asking Ferlitz-Telepath about Ayla again. The Gifted kzin was spending nearly all his time in the mind-trance now, relaying messages, checking on the advance scouts, searching out the minds of Tzaatz commanders, still too far away to read clearly.

We should have brought another telepath. He had known that from the beginning, but every commander in the force needed a telepath to communicate with his or her command, and even among the czrav there weren't enough to go around. The air grew cooler as they climbed through the passes, and by midnight the lead elements were on their way down again. The Plain of Stgrat lay open before them. We're through. For the first time since they'd started he allowed himself to relax, and he slept again, dead to the world.

He was awakened by Trina shaking him. “Hey! They've started fighting.”

He rolled off the prrstet. War seemed was no different from peace; the rumble of the herd went on unchanged. But that will change soon. He went back to the combat console, where Pouncer was conferring with Battle Captain.

Pouncer looked up. “The scouts found a Tzaatz rapsar patrol. I tasked V'rli with eliminating it.”

“Results?”

“We will know soon.”

Tskombe studied the display. The advance of the czrav army was a red tide across the map, the last elements still pouring through the passes of the Long Range, the lead elements spreading out into a broad frontal advance. A blue icon marked the Tzaatz patrol, no doubt from the garrison at Skragga Pride's ancestral estate. Advance elements of Ztrak Pride were already assigned to deal with that garrison, but now they were chasing down the patrol.

“I'm getting code bursts.” Battle Captain's voice was tight. “They don't seem to be getting an answer.”

“Hrrr. We need our surprise to last longer.”

Ferlitz-Telepath, still deep in the mind-trance, stirred. “Blood… they leap…” After a moment his eyes flickered open. “V'rli reports success. We have no losses.”

There was a collective release of tension. The first obstacle is clear. Tskombe knew better than to relax. We were lucky. It will get harder. He looked to Trina, who seemed to be fascinated by the entire venture. Will her luck keep her safe? He no longer doubted she had it, he only wondered if it would last.

His beltcomp said an hour had passed when Pouncer ordered the main force to stop. V'rli's unit advanced by itself to take on the Tzaatz garrison that stood guard over Skragga Pride. Ferlitz-Telepath watched the battle through the minds of the combatants, and again he shared the images with Tskombe. Two Tzaatz guards on rapsar raiders, bored and tired, the rest of the garrison asleep. Suddenly a huge shape looms from the darkness, a tuskvor, the ground shaking beneath its footfalls. Sudden fear, the rapsari bucking and turning to run, a huge head swinging down, tusks spreading gore, and the herd moves through, pop-domes crushed underfoot, fear and confusion, dark shapes with variable swords dropping from the flanks of the tuskvor to slice out the lifeblood of anything they find, a rapsar sniffer running in panic, a huge foot coming down, and angry bellows echoing from the distant valley walls.

That quickly it was over. Victory in the darkness; the Tzaatz hadn't known what hit them.

“I have an uplink signal.” Battle Captain's words were clipped.

“What? Where?” Pouncer scanned the combat display. A blue icon appeared, deeper into Skragga Pride territory.

Tskombe shook his head. “The scouts missed an outpost.”

Pouncer's tail lashed. “Battle Captain, jam the signal. Ferlitz, relay that to V'rli. Have her destroy it at once.”

Battle Captain's paws flew over his board, isolating the signal for jamming. “There is a downlink.” He paused while he checked readouts. “Our surprise advantage is gone.”

“We knew we'd lose it soon.” Still, Tskombe was disappointed. They had a long way to go, and now the Tzaatz would have days to prepare their defenses. Ztrak Pride closed on the previously unknown enemy and destroyed them too, and he dared hope that the message from the doomed outpost might get lost between the orbital fortress and the Citadel. Pouncer ordered the advance resumed as the first rays of dawn shone over the eastern horizon. Days blend into each other in combat, I'd forgotten that. How many other lessons would he have to learn anew? Hopefully not many. And none critical. He couldn't resist asking Ferlitz how Ayla was again, though he knew the Tzaatz would not execute her, if that's what they were going to do, until the last possible moment. He got the same answer as before. She's alive, that's all that matters.

In the early light of dawn the army was an impressive sight, the herd spread out from horizon to horizon in battle array. In the high forest the trees were taller than the tuskvor and it had been impossible to gain a sense of the immensity of this vast, living fleet. C'mell and Swift-Claw traded places on the tiller bar. Night-Prowler prepared dried meat while Z'slee checked her weapon yet another time. Life on their cramped, moving world continued unaffected by the violence and death at the front of the formation, kilometers in front of them. Our turn will come soon enough.

The sun was barely up when the first gravcar came over. It came fast and high, well out of range of any hand weapons. It zoomed over the length and breadth of the herd and then vanished again without slowing down. At least they didn't start shooting. Tskombe had little trust in the restraint of the Tzaatz, if only because he had little himself. If I saw this herd coming toward me I would use every weapon I could lay hands on.

Battle Captain immediately started reporting crypted transmissions from the gravcar and identifying enemy positions by their answers. The orbital fortresses started downlinking, probably sending imagery.

Tskombe smiled, imagining the consternation in the Patriarch's Tower. “Jammers to full,” he ordered. Kchula-Tzaatz must have known something was coming. It seemed unlikely that he could have understood the scale until he saw it. The question now is, what will the response be?

The response wasn't long in coming. A phalanx of gravcars came in low and fast. As they swept over arrows rained from their back compartments, fired by Tzaatz warriors who crouched low to take advantage of the cover of their sides. Tskombe held his breath as they swooped in and ducked behind the tsvasztet's side. He needn't have bothered; the gravcars were moving too fast for effective shooting and all the arrows went wide.

The Tzaatz learned from that and the next pass was slower, the fire more accurate, but the czrav were prepared, and heavy ballista rounds arced into the air from the back of tsvasztet specially modified to carry them. It seemed a waste of effort — no weapon driven by spring tension could throw a projectile hard enough to penetrate cerametal — but to his surprise one of the gravcars was suddenly yanked from the air, as though an invisible giant had swatted it down.

“Nets.” Pouncer had followed his gaze. “Monomolecular filament nets trailing the leader rounds. The other ends are attached to boulders.”

As Tskombe watched, another ballista fired and caught a car, and this time he could see the heavy stones yanked hard from the back of the tsvasztet, though he still couldn't see the monofilament. The sudden load was too much for the gravcar's polarizers and it pitched forward, its own momentum driving it into the ground. It tumbled and broke up on impact, but warriors from the next tuskvor in line still leapt to the ground to see what they could kill.

The gravcars circled wide after that, but staying out of ballista range put them out of effective arrow range as well. It was a standoff.

“It was the Cherenkova-Captain's idea.” Pouncer's ears were up and forward as he watched the duel, and Tskombe noticed anew that half of the left one was missing. He is battle-scarred. Tskombe looked forward, past where C'mell was again steering their tuskvor. The gravcars flew off in that direction. So far so good, and the Tzaatz aren't using energy weapons.

Dziit Pride overran another Tzaatz garrison later that day with little more effort than it had taken Ztrak Pride the previous night. Black Saber downlinked imagery showing their route. It was surprisingly empty of resistance, but that anomaly was explained when he sent down the area around the Citadel. The Tzaatz had decided to make their stand there, using the natural defenses of the river backed by the fortress. The imagery was full of ranked assault rapsari, some almost the size of tuskvor. The difficult wooded areas were patrolled by raiders and packs of the vicious harriers. So the battle will be joined there. Darkness fell with little further action, though gravcars continued to circle and harass them. The night grew cold beneath ice-hard stars and he tried unsuccessfully to sleep on the steadily rocking prrstet. He could hear Pouncer working with Ferlitz to identify the thoughts of enemy commanders. There was consternation and even fear among the Tzaatz, but mostly there was confidence, and Tskombe had the uneasy realization that the Tzaatz telepaths would also be searching out his mind to learn Pouncer's battle plans. The czrav telepaths back in the dens should have been blocking his thoughts, but he called up Beethoven's Sixth Symphony in his mind anyway. It would help him relax and make it hard for the enemy to learn the czrav strategy in case the blocking didn't work.

From Ferlitz they learned that Ftzaal-Tzaatz had taken personal command of the battle. The knowledge was the source of the confidence with which the Tzaatz awaited the attackers, but by the time sleep finally claimed Tskombe, Ferlitz hadn't managed to read the Black Priest's thoughts. A judicious dose of sthondat extract had failed to help, though it had put Ferlitz deeply into the mind-trance. Morning arrived, seemingly an eyeblink later. Dawn was bloodred as 61 Ursae Majoris climbed over the eastern horizon, and there was something else, a scent in the air like wood smoke. Instinctively his hand went to his side where his respirator should have been hanging. A long forgotten voice from the Infantry School spoke in his head. In the event of a gas attack you will have nine seconds to don the respirator. The inhaled dose of cycloserasine necessary to kill a warm blooded being was so low you could count the molecules individually, and if you could actually smell its warm, inviting odor you would be dead before your next breath if you hadn't already injected the antidote. What do the rules of honor say about war gases? He held his breath but he wasn't wearing UN battle armor and he had no respirator and he recognized the ridiculousness of an act that might extend his life another forty seconds. The herd surged forward indifferently and no one else on the tsvasztet died in twitching convulsions. He breathed out and breathed in, and another red glow beyond dawn on the horizon warned of the true nature of the threat. The grasslands were burning ahead of them. The Tzaatz had set the savannah on fire to disrupt the herd.

“Even now the Tzaatz tread the edge of honor.” Pouncer had come up beside him, leaning forward to assess the red glow. It stretched across the horizon, reflected from the clouds overhead.

“As long as they don't cross the line.” Tskombe paused. “How are we going to deal with that?”

“Hrrr. Ferlitz-Telepath has known the minds of our route scouts. There are places the fire has died down. Tuskvor can cross fire, if it is not too serious.”

“No.” Tskombe shook his head. “The Tzaatz will use lasers from orbit to restart the fire in our path, no matter which path we take.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“Counterburning. We start our own fires along the route we want, burn everything we can, and advance over the ashes.” Tskombe looked to the sky. “Black Saber can do that for us.” He paused, realizing the dangers inherent in his strategy. “And then we pray for rain.”

Pouncer turned a paw over, considering. “I concur.” He turned to Battle Captain. “You heard?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Give the order to Black Saber. We remain on the primary route.”

“As you command.” Battle Captain keyed his console and spoke into it, then looked up. “Sire? Black Saber is targeting now. Night Pilot sends a message.”

Pouncer fanned his ears up. “What is it.”

“Scoutships falling in from the singularity. The kz'eerkti fleet has arrived.”

“Hrrr.” He traded a glance with Tskombe. “We may yet die at the moment of victory.”

“I can talk to them, get them to wait until we can finish our battle. They might even land troops to support us.”

“No!” Pouncer slashed his claws in the air. “This is skalazaal. I will not give the Tzaatz excuse to accuse me of using a prey species in battle. You may talk to them after we win, not before.”

Tskombe looked at him. Prey species… He let the point go, mentally calculating drop time from the singularity's edge. We'll only get one chance to win. After that the human fleet would attack in their now well rehearsed pattern, and the globe shaking detonations of conversion warheads would erase civilization on Kzinhome. And I will die, and Ayla… That was a thought he didn't want to think.

A brilliant blue-green line stabbed out of the sky ahead of them, the colors almost too pure to be real, the visible signature of an invisible gamma ray laser beam fired from orbit, powerful enough to strip the electrons from the oxygen and nitrogen in its path to produce the ionization glow. Dirt fountained where the beam touched the ground, ringed by flame and followed half a second later by a thunderclap report as the superheated column of ions shocked the quiet air around it. Tskombe blinked, the dazzling afterimage of the laser burned onto his retina. For an instant he thought Night Pilot had misunderstood and Black Saber was firing on them, but no mere freighter could mount weapons that could hit like that from orbit. The beams were the main armament of an orbital fortress. The Tzaatz had grown impatient. The dry savannah crackled as the fire took hold and the flames rose up. More beams stabbed downward and the flames grew and merged, until they were a wall of fire ten meters high. He swallowed hard. A direct hit by one of those beams would vaporize a tuskvor, and the Tzaatz could, if they chose, drag their target lines through the vast herd as easily as a child could fingerpaint. Thick black smoke swirled up, choking him and stinging his eyes, and their tuskvor bellowed. Others answered it throughout the herd as C'mell struggled with the tiller bar and snarled a stream of unintelligible curses as she tried to keep the beast on course. The Tzaatz might have hoped to stop the herd with the vast grass fires set ahead of its advance; now they were trying to destroy it outright by setting the fires all around them. They're getting closer to the edge of honor. We have them scared. That was a less reassuring thought than it might have been.

More beams stabbed down and the fires grew around them. Any other herd animal would have panicked and stampeded, but the Tzaatz hadn't reckoned with the power of the tuskvor's migration instinct. The heat grew intense, even high up on the tsvasztet, but the advance continued, the booming bellows of the herd rising up over the crackle of flame. Their own tuskvor snorted and bucked as it charged through a wall of flame that roared up in front of them like a living thing bent on consuming them whole. Tskombe threw himself flat on the floor of the tsvasztet and held his breath while flame licked around their sides, and then they were through. C'mell, her fur singed black in patches, was still hanging on to the tiller bar while Pouncer, Z'slee and Swift-Claw had leapt to extinguish half a dozen minor fires that had started on the tsvasztet itself. Something big crashed into the platform and it jolted sideways, almost spilling him to the burning ground. Another tuskvor, blinded by flames and bellowing in pain, had collided with theirs. The tsvasztet on its back was an inferno, and as he watched a kzin leapt from it, his fur burning hard enough to turn him into a living fireball. The kzin landed hard, and badly, rolling and screaming in pain, an unearthly wail that penetrated straight to Tskombe's hindbrain. The injured tuskvor lurched back the other way and fell sideways, crushing the critically wounded warrior and cutting off the sound. The massive beast thrashed its limbs, bellowing as the fire swept around it, but it wasn't going to be getting up. Tskombe grabbed the rail of the tsvasztet and looked around, breathed out in relief to see the surging armada emerge from the smoke and flames, despite the new gaps in the ranks.

He suddenly became aware of an absence. Trina! He looked around frantically and didn't see her. Her luck has failed. He cursed himself for relying on such an ephemeral shield as statistical improbability, his throat tightening in response to feelings he couldn't afford to show in battle.

Two hands, and she was clambering over the edge of the travel platform. His eyes met hers, traveled over the edge to where a burned-through securing line was retied. If she hadn't done that, the whole platform might have slid off the tuskvor's back on the next severe jolt. His gaze went back to hers, gratitude expressed with a glance. On the horizon ahead more flames glowed as the counter fires set by Black Saber's beams surged against the firestorm ignited by the Tzaatz. A vast wall of smoke stretched up into the sky, the convection triggering cumulus clouds which built higher and higher as they rode inexorably toward a scene that looked like some medieval version of the gates of hell. The beam strikes from heaven stopped as suddenly as they had begun.

“Tell Vlorz Pride to shift to the northern route. They will come down on the far side of the Quickwater. Dziit Pride is to move to the reserve position.” Pouncer was beside Ferlitz, again commanding the battle, ignoring the danger they had just come through.

Tskombe searched the skies, knowing with an old soldier's instincts that the pause was only the harbinger of another form of attack. Within minutes a squadron of gravcars swept over in close formation. These were armed with heavier, longer-ranged ballista. They concentrated their fire on a single tuskvor. Most of the shafts bounced off its mag-armored flanks, but a few found their way into gaps in the articulation. The huge beast bellowed in pain and fell, writhing, crushing its tsvasztet and throwing its occupants to the ground. Some of the scurrying figures escaped, perhaps to be picked up by a following tuskvor; some were struck down as the tuskvor shuddered through its death agony. Answering bolts flew up from the czrav, dragging down more attackers with their monofilament nets, but the Tzaatz were willing to fight now, as they had not been before, and the battle broke up into a dozen or more skirmishes. The fighting lasted an hour and cost them four tuskvor that Quacy could see, many more that he could not, according to the reports flowing in through Ferlitz-Telepath.

More gravcars appeared, combat carriers and tanks with polarizers too powerful to be overloaded with the boulder laden nets, and the rain of arrows intensified. Tskombe could only watch, powerless as tuskvor after tuskvor inexorably fell. The rules of honor would have allowed him to carry an energy weapon, and a magrifle like the one he had carried in the escape from the Citadel so long ago would serve admirably to engage the gravcars, but he didn't have one. Neither the Tzaatz nor the orbiting ships that served as witness to the conduct of the Honor-war would know the fire came from an alien exempt from the rules, and he had no wish to provide the enemy with an excuse to bring their vastly superior firepower to bear. The advance swept on, but the gaps in the ranks were getting larger. Ferlitz-Telepath was in the mind-trance continually now. Pouncer consulted Battle Captain's plot board, updated now with intelligence Ferlitz had gleaned from the minds of the enemy commanders.

“Tell Kralar Pride there are positions in front of him. He is to engage and fall back, pin them in place. The remainder of the force is to follow Vlorz Pride.”

Ferlitz echoed the words in a whisper. The entire force changed course now, following the northern route now being swept by Vlorz Pride, avoiding a series of rapsar-reinforced defensive positions that Ferlitz had discovered in the minds of the warriors waiting to spring the trap. The trap would be inverted now: the forces the Tzaatz had committed to ambush would be tied down and useless for the main defense of the Citadel.

Something flashed overhead, and Tskombe looked up in time to see a gravcar. Trina turned at the same instant and a crystal iron ballista shaft flew past her ear. Tskombe had a momentary flashback to the time he'd thrown the nyalzeri egg at her. Behind her, Ferlitz-Telepath was on his back, very still, pinned to the floor with the shaft through his temple. He would know no more minds. Tskombe saw Trina's eyes widen with fear at what had nearly happened, and he went to her, took her to the front of the travel platform to look forward.

Behind them Pouncer knelt by the body, going through the motions of emergency first aid, but there was no hope. He looked up in despair. My communications are severed at the critical moment. The advancing army was changing formation, and vulnerable in that moment without his direction. The Tzaatz would be reacting to the change, and he needed to know the minds of their commanders. He lashed his tail, angry at himself. I was a fool to take just one telepath. But keeping two for himself would have meant depriving one of his other commanders of one, a decision that could be equally dangerous in a different set of circumstances.

He looked around at his army, saw the orders he needed to issue. There is one way. He went to Ferlitz-Telepath's travelpack, drew out a small, clear vial full of black, oily fluid. The sthondat extract. I am full brother to Patriarch's Telepath. The Gift is latent in my genes. He opened the vial. The extract smelled bitter, and Pouncer contemplated it a long time as the battle around him seemed to slow down, time compressing until the moment contained only the vial and himself and the decision he was about to make. I cannot be Patriarch if I am a slave to the extract. The telepaths of the czrav managed to avoid addiction through sparing use of the drug, usually. But I am not a telepath. I will need more, much more. There was danger there, and he remembered his brother's wasted body on its gravlifted prrstet. Death was a better fate than sthondat addiction. He looked up to survey the advancing tuskvor. I have come so far, am I to lose in this moment? He looked back to the vial, its acrid smell penetrating the back of his brain, harsh and yet somehow alluring. This moment is the reason Patriarch's Telepath tested me. Did he foresee it somehow? I passed his test through self-discipline. I can pass this test the same way. Rrit-Conserver had taught that self-discipline was the fundamental underpinning of all that made a warrior. Now it was time to prove himself worthy of the training he had been given. He tipped the vial backward, felt the liquid slide onto his tongue. Immediately he began to feel strange, more aware of his heartbeat, a curious tingle, not unpleasant, began in his paw pads. It became difficult to focus his vision, and he felt his knees buckling. He gripped the railing of the tsvasztet, trying to hold himself up. I must not lose myself to the mind-trance. Blackness enveloped him, the same ultimate emptiness that had nearly cost him his sanity when Patriarch's Telepath had tested him in the Citadel's puzzle garden. His grip loosened on the rail and it fell away in extreme slow motion. Reality slipped away with it and the fear again rose in him, counterbalanced by the kill rage, and the universe was dark and empty and he was utterly alone in it.

“As you command, sire.” Ktronaz-Commander toggled the display and the Command Lair's strategic display of the Father Sun's singularity vanished, replaced by a waist-deep terrain holo of the Plain of Stgrat, the data relayed live from eight-cubed sources and integrated to show the best possible real-time map of the unfolding advance. He stood back with Kzin-Conserver and Scrral-Rrit to give Kchula-Tzaatz and his guest an unobstructed view.

Zraa-Churrt leaned close to the highlighted dots that marked the enemy. “What are these beasts they ride?”

“Tuskvor.” Kchula-Tzaatz spat the word.

Zraa-Churrt's ears went up, pink fans against his white fur. “Tuskvor? I thought they were untamable.”

“Evidently the czrav have found a way. It is irrelevant. They will not stand against rapsari.”

“Their force seems formidable.”

“These rabble do not concern me.” Kchula slashed his claw across the tiny images of tuskvor that populated the plain. “I will wipe them aside.”

“Your confidence is commendable.” Zraa-Churrt paused, considering the map. “I hope you will not tell me this citadel is impregnable. You proved yourself it could be taken.”

“With rapsari. Nothing else would have done the job. No other pride in the Patriarchy has an eighth of the growth vat capacity I command on Jotok, not a sixteenth. These herd beasts are big, but they are herbivores, not meant for fighting. When they meet my main defense force this advance will falter and die.”

“And yet you still set the savannah on fire with energy weapons.”

“My brother is a skilled warrior. If he can win without fighting he will. It is within the traditions.” Kchula turned to Kzin-Conserver, who was impassively watching the exchange. “Is it not?”

“It is.” Kzin-Conserver kept his voice carefully neutral. “Although barely.”

“No. This attack is of no consequence.” Kchula made a gesture that dismissed Kzin-Conserver's reservation and the holo at once. “My concern is the kz'eerkti. Ktronaz!” Another gesture from the commander recalled the presentation of the Father Star and its environs out to the singularity's edge. The cryptic symbology of intercept planes, course funnels, orbit curves and spacetime gradients filled the representation. “The monkeys must be destroyed, once and for all.”

“My fleet is here to defend the Patriarchy, as are those of my brothers.”

“Hrrr. It is a pity you could not have brought more ships.”

The white pelted kzin turned a paw over. “My own worlds need defending too.”

“Of course, Zraa-Churrt. Your fealty will be rewarded.”

“Perhaps.”

Kchula looked sharply at the Pride-Patriarch, who returned it calmly. He is insufficiently submissive. When this mess is done with he will need to be taught a lesson. “Ktronaz-Commander, are your plans complete?”

“As we discussed, sire. There are no significant changes.”

“Excellent. Prepare your defensive orders.”

Ktronaz made the gesture-of-obeisance and took control of the display again to plot his battle.

“And Ftzaal-Tzaatz is commanding the ground war against these czrav?” Zraa-Churrt asked the question offhandedly.

“He does.”

“Why isn't he with Ktronaz-Commander then?”

“He leads his Ftz'yeer personally.”

“I see.” Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over. “Shall we return to the others?”

Kchula made a gesture and his guards opened the door to lead the way up from the Command Lair to the Patriarch's Hall where the other Great-Pride-Patriarchs were waiting. The Hall's huge, arching space with its massive ceiling beams was as impressive as it had always been, but now it was echoing and empty, far too large for the eight-and-half-eight Pride-Patriarchs gathered there to speak to him. Not a quorum of the Great Circle, but enough that he could not hope to evade their eyes in anything he did. It was frustrating. The banners draped on the walls, woven with stories of Rrit triumph, seemed to mock his achievements. But I am the first to take this hall from the Rrit. The huge, silent conquest drums waited patiently for their drummers to dance to his victories, the ranks of carved prrstet in exotic fabrics begged to be filled with his fealty bound nobles. When I have defeated the kz'eerkti I will proclaim a feast to my greatness. He looked at the faces watching him now. They were carefully neutral. They are not my allies but my rivals. I must bend them to my use here.

He considered ascending the dais, but decided not to, moving instead to a round table toward the back of the hall. Let them think I see them as equals. Scrral-Rrit and Kzin-Conserver took prrstet to either side of him. They were both simple obstacles to his plans now, but neither could be removed easily.

“Brothers,” he began. “The kz'eerkti are coming. By sunrise tomorrow the battle will be won or lost.”

Kdori-Dcrz fanned his ears up. “What of the challenger, Zree-Rrit?”

“Kchula-Tzaatz feels he is of no consequence,” Zraa-Churrt answered before Kchula could.

“Why is that?”

“Ftzaal-Tzaatz commands the battle.” Again Zraa-Churrt answered.

“Hrrr.” Kdori-Dcrz folded his ears again. “In this case perhaps the challenger is of no consequence.” He looked to Kchula. “Tell us of the kz'eerkti.”

“They are a threat, but we have the power to defeat them here, and we will. Ktronaz-Commander is plotting his intercepts as we speak. We will meet them high in the singularity. Your fleets will follow mine to intercept. Their strategy relies on their carriers, and they will be the priority for attack. We will ignore the covering forces, they are only a distraction, and if any battleships come in range of Kzinhome the orbital fortresses will deal with them.”

Kdori-Dcrz stood. “With respect, brother, and I think I speak for all present, I put forward that it would be better to meet them close in, backed by the weapons of your orbital fortresses.”

Kchula snarled and let his fangs show. “Do you question my orders?”

“Those were orders?” Mtell-Mtell unfurled his ears. “I thought you merely advised the Patriarch.” He gestured to Scrral-Rrit.

Kchula opened his mouth to snarl in rage, closed it again. I cannot antagonize the Pride-Patriarchs. Instead he looked at Scrral-Rrit. “Patriarch, do you so order?” He fingered the medallion controlling his puppet's zzrou.

“I do.” Scrral-Rrit looked more humiliated by having to issue the command than he did by having Kchula do it for him.

Kchula looked back to Zraa-Churrt. Let him argue that. “Will that suffice, honored brother?”

He expected agreement, but instead Zraa-Churrt turned to Kzin-Conserver. “Conserver, I request a ruling.”

Kchula whirled to face this new interruption as Kzin-Conserver replied. “On what point?”

“My brothers and I are here to defend the Patriarchy. In the circumstances we are also witnesses here to skalazaal. Does our obligation to protect Kzinhome require that we abandon our positions at the Patriarch's command, and so abandon our obligation to bear witness?”

“Hrrr.” Rrit-Conserver turned a paw over, considering carefully. “Yes, with exceptions.”

“And these exceptions are?”

“It is the role of the Patriarch to ensure that skalazaal is declared and open, and to ensure that the traditions are followed.” Kzin-Conserver spoke carefully. I am treading a narrow path of honor here. I must be impartial regardless of my personal preferences. “In this case it is the Patriarch himself who is challenged, and further he is challenged by his brother, whose claim supersedes his own despite the accession of the High Priests. The Patriarch cannot be considered to be able to give fair judgment in this case. Responsibility as witness then falls on the Great Pride Circle.”

On the other side of the table Mtell-Mtell twitched his whiskers from side to side. “Who we Pride-Patriarchs represent here.”

“Yes.” Conserver made the gesture-of-peer-acknowledgment. “The claims of fealty and responsibility are now of equal weight. Compromise is demanded.”

“Another judgment, Conserver?” asked Zraa-Churrt.

“Of course.”

“Is a defense mounted close in-system compromise enough?”

Kzin-Conserver turned a paw over. “It is.”

Kchula controlled the urge to scream and leap in frustration. “But…”

Kzin-Conserver held up a paw. “I have ruled, Kchula-Tzaatz.”

Kchula lapsed into silence, fuming. But I have lost little here, in failing to get the Great Pride fleets out of sight of the ground battle. Ftzaal would be unlikely to use a free hand even if I won it for him, nor will it change the outcome. It is the kz'eerkti who are the danger. He looked to the ceiling and contemplated the heavy chandeliers as though they held some clue as to how the battleground far above was developing. A close-in defense backed by the orbital fortresses made sense, but it ran the risk of allowing the enemy to launch their fighters and bombers into Kzinhome's atmosphere. Once they were in and low they would be almost impossible to intercept, and the Citadel of the Patriarch was a primary target, although he might survive the attack in the well protected Command Lair. His lips twitched away from his fangs. I should have scourged their world the moment I had the power to command it. Now he could only wait to see if the monkeys would raze Kzinhome first.

The universe was black and empty and expanding and at the edge of it there was an awareness. Without body or senses Pouncer reached for it, stretching himself and found himself looking back at a body collapsed on the floor of the pitching tsvasztet, a kzintosh, powerfully muscled but limp and motionless. He is dying. Unimaginable grief swept over him, the pang of loss, and then the tuskvor balked and he turned back to the tiller bar, steering the beast with savage intent, flooded now with the desire to revenge a lost mate, and he realized that the body was his own and the awareness he had found was C'mell's, and she had thought that she'd lost him. He tried to speak to her and could not, but she felt him respond to his own awareness, first with surprise, then with relief and understanding, and he knew her in a way that he had not before, even in the close intimacy of mating, and he could have stayed there with her forever but he could not. The universe was expanding and there were other awarenesses, Battle Captain, Night-Prowler, the strangely different mind of Tskombe-kz'eerkti and the Trina manrette, the faint, unforthcoming glow of their tuskvor, other kzinti, other creatures, jamming into his mind in a growing torrent of hope and fear, desire and rage, hunger and thirst and satiation. He tried to shut them out but found he could not, the torrent expanded beyond his ability to control, and he felt his own awareness eroding, torn away in the onrushing flow like a sapling in a storm.

He had a purpose, to direct the battle. How to find a stranger you've never met in a crowd? This is the burden Patriarch's Telepath bore. Time seemed to have no meaning as he jumped from awareness to awareness. Familiar emotion keyed recognition, here a commander, here a Pride-Patriarch, here a telepath, and he had half the battle won. He gave images to the telepath, a map of the battle unfolding as he saw it and then he moved on, secure in the knowledge that the information would be given to the telepath's commander. A harder task now, finding the minds of his enemies, waiting farther out in ambush. He found them too, surrounded by the small, vicious points of consciousness that could only be rapsari. Again he leapt from mind to mind, slower this time, taking the time to search out plans and tactics. He saw the battlefield through eight-to-the-fourth pairs of enemy eyes, saw how they had shaped it, prepared positions and traps for his force, and again he reached for the czrav telepath and gave him a revision of his initial plan, launching spoiling attacks to protect his own flank as he ordered his vast, living armada around in a sweeping turn to take the enemy where they were weakest. His force responded, and as the situation changed he sent more orders to respond ahead of the enemy. How much time has this taken? He had no way of knowing until he thought to tap the time sense of one of his Pride-Patriarchs, and realized that it was taking a long time indeed, and they were closing hard on the Citadel gates. The Tzaatz were in confusion, trying to move forces already being overrun by tuskvor. He sensed their fear, and the exultation of the czrav who sliced out their lives. He sensed their pain and confusion as death overtook them, and sorrow at their loss swept over him. This is the strength and weakness of the Telepath's Gift, the needle balance between the power to kill with ease and the cost of the pain of death. In knowing his enemy as he was, he was becoming them, and that intimacy made the immediacy of their death a terrible thing. Am I this strong? It was within his power to call off the attack. Not every necessary thing is easy. He steeled himself and went on, resolving to end it as soon as possible.

His advance guard were engaging more Tzaatz now, pinning their units in place, denying them the ability to respond to his main assault as it swept closer to the citadel. It was going well, so far, and he again revised his instructions to his commanders. But we have yet to meet the heavy rapsari. The raiders and harriers the Tzaatz outposts used were easy game for tuskvor-mounted Heroes, but the true test would come before the citadel gate, where the beasts clustered close and heavy siege weapons waited. He stretched his mind there, to gauge the defenses and the readiness of the defenders, and there he found not a mind but a place where a mind should be, a black hole in the universe.

It took him a long time to recognize it for what it was. The Black Priest! Ftzaal-Tzaatz was insulated from the world of observer quantum wave collapse by the Black Fur gene, which made his awareness unavailable to Pouncer, but he was there, waiting for him, he could sense that much at least. He is alive, he is aware, there must be a way to reach him. He concentrated, directed all his energy at it, felt his own awareness burning away with the effort of the attempt, but nothing he could do would penetrate the barrier. The Black Fur gene is powerful. More sthondat extract would let him know Ftzaal's mind. But I cannot lose myself in the mind-trance. If only I could touch him… Physical contact would strengthen the bond, let him break through the Black Priests' barriers, but that was impossible. Already he could feel the drug's effects fading, and the desire for more, to rekindle the vision, was strong, strong within him. The Citadel gates were coming up. How much time has passed? He fought the craving, fought as well to return himself to awareness, to open his eyes so he could lead his assaulters to the walls of his father's fortress, as he must. He entered a twilight zone then, between the two universes and then found another awareness, in terrible pain. It was different somehow, a kz'eerkti. Cherenkova-Captain! She suffers the Hot Needle! Her pain swept over him, consuming him like a swarm of v'pren and from far, far away he heard himself howling in response.

And the world returned like a sudden bath of ice water, and he found himself lying on the floor of the tsvasztet, Swift-Claw kneeling over him with concern. Sounds of battle rose, kzinti kill screams mixed with the deep, booming bellows of enraged tuskvor and the keening cries of rapsari.

He staggered to the front of the tsvasztet where C'mell still had the tiller bar. They were surging past Hero's Square, entering the forest of broadleaf trees that separated it from the Citadel, and the rapsar assaulters were waiting for them there. As he watched, a pair of them appeared and attacked a tuskvor immediately in front of him. They were half its size, but vicious, with pincer tentacles that slashed and stabbed, seeking the vulnerable flesh beneath the tuskvor's armor. The tuskvor bellowed in pain and the Ztrak Pride warriors on its back leapt with grav belts and variable swords to attack the Tzaatz infantry who rode the rapsari. The rapsar keened and tore at the tuskvor's neck. Blood began to fountain to the ground as the tuskvor struggled, thrashing its huge tail and trying to bring its tusks to bear on its antagonist. The other beast snatched a czrav Hero in midleap, crushing his life out and casting him aside. The tuskvor went down with a crash that shook the ground and snapped ancient broadleaf trunks to the ground. A volley of steel balls from a Tzaatz launcher rapsar deeper in the woods came over, one of them tearing the canopy and half the tsvasztet railing off of Pouncer's tuskvor, coming so close to him that he felt the wind of its passage. He toggled the vocom on his beltcomp and spoke into it, the battle picture he'd gained in the mind-trance still fresh in his memory. “Ztrak Pride, close and attack. Dziit Pride, right flank from reserve, take the north walls, clear the way for the assault prides.” The need for stealth is gone now, and the Tzaatz won't have time to break the crypting. “Support prides into position. Ccarri Pride, lead the others to secure the perimeter.”

The mind-trance was still strong enough on him that he felt his warriors responding to his commands, even as the confirmations crackled over the vocom channel. The battle had broken up into swirling knots of violence, the cohesion of both attack and defense broken by the close country. A pair of resin-spraying assaulters lumbered out of the trees, gouting noxious goo from their forehead nozzles. C'mell hauled on the tiller and their tuskvor bellowed and balked. She yanked the releases, letting the control lines run free, and the angered tuskvor swung its horns at the nearer assaulter, ripping its side open. It collapsed in a stew of its own ichor, twitching. The tuskvor lurched and jabbed at the second one, missing. The assaulter came closer, under the tuskvor's long, powerful neck, spraying wildly. A gobbet of the sticky poison hit Pouncer on the arm, burning where it touched, and drying to a thick resin almost at once, but there wasn't enough there to incapacitate him. The rapsar keened and their tuskvor ran over it, crushing it underfoot without slowing down, but the attack had already taken its toll. The tuskvor's neck and forebody were covered in the goo, and it bellowed in rage and pain. C'mell struggled hard to reel in the lines she'd let loose to regain control over the beast, but the resin had hopelessly snarled them. The tuskvor spotted another rapsar, this one a catapulter, and it bellowed and charged. The damaged tsvasztet lurched and slid backward as the catapulter cut loose a salvo of steel balls.

Pouncer grabbed for support. “Grav belts!”

The balls flew past and several smacked the tuskvor in the chest hard enough that Pouncer heard the bones break even over the din of the battle. The tuskvor bellowed again but kept moving. One of the balls tore away the mazourk's station, and panic filled him for an instant when he didn't see C'mell there. He looked wildly around, saw her behind him, closing the last buckle on her grav belt. She tossed him his own and he quickly snapped it around his waist even as the tsvasztet lurched again, its forward securing lines torn loose. He leapt for the still-stable back section as the tuskvor reached the fleeing catapulter, goring it and throwing its handlers to the ground to scramble out of the way before their now lifeless creation toppled on top of them. The violent motion parted the last restraining rope, and the front half of the travel platform slid off its back and splintered on the ground as the tuskvor stabbed at the corpse again and again. Another tuskvor blundered past with its tsvasztet on fire, this one crushing the rapsar handlers who'd managed to escape. Ferlitz-Telepath's travelpack was there, and he reached inside for the remaining two vials of sthondat extract. Already he was craving the power of the mind-trance. I am not addicted, I will only use them if I need them. Even as he thought it the impulse seized him to throw them away, to remove even the temptation to start down the path of Patriarch's Telepath. Their injured tuskvor staggered forward and the tsvasztet lurched dangerously. Reflexively he slid the vials into his hunt pouch and drew his variable sword as a two-sword of rapsar raiders appeared before them, their riders firing crystal iron crossbow bolts. Pouncer saw Battle Captain go down, a bolt through his neck. He looked around, counting his small band. Night-Prowler was nowhere to be seen. But C'mell is still here. That fact was more important than he ever could have imagined. Pray the Fanged God she is still here at the end of this.

The raiders circled, waiting for their prey to go down, and then a fresh shower of arrows rained down from nowhere. Pouncer looked up and saw the walls of the Citadel looming over them, mirror bright with mag armor engaged, with Tzaatz archers firing from the battlements. Here and there other tuskvor had made it to the walls, standing to their broad chests in the Quickwater. Their mazourk had hauled their necks high to act as assault ladders for the Heroes swarming up them. Further back, siege engines mounted on the backs of other tuskvor pumped ballista shafts and showers of catapult stone at the enemy to clear the way for the attackers.

“Leap!” Pouncer roared and leapt himself, just as their tuskvor collapsed half on the bank, half into the Quickwater, and the back half of the tsvasztet tore off to sink in the current. His grav belt surged as he arced for the parapet. A Tzaatz was waiting for him there, but he parried the first attack with his variable sword, then cut the attacker in half with a well timed counterswing. Pain flared in his mind as his opponent died, the echoes of the mind-trance spiking his death agony into Pouncer's awareness. The distraction nearly cost him his life, but he saw, in a single brilliant flash, the second Tzaatz, felt his developing attack and the rage in his killscream. He pivoted, slicewire blurring, and the other was dead and falling over the edge.

Shapes landed beside him. The two kz'eerkti. Where are the others? There was no time to worry about that. “Tskombe-kz'eerkti! Your mate! Go to that tower!” He pointed to Forgotten Tower, overshadowing the Puzzle Garden, where he could sense the dulled awareness of the tortured Cherenkova-Captain. “Go down the stairs, all the way. At the bottom there is a corridor with cells. At the end there is a chamber. She is there!”

Tskombe nodded in acknowledgment. Pouncer had changed since his recovery from the sthondat drug. He was more distant, more commanding, and the depth in his eyes was frightening. What does he see there? He followed the pointing talon to the distant tower, locking it into his memory. All along the wall czrav warriors were gaining the battlements, and a storm of arrows came up from the courtyards and the inner curtain wall. He looked to Trina and swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time he'd faced death in combat; it was the first time he'd brought a teenage girl with him. But I couldn't leave her, and she's lucky… He would need luck himself, and lots of it. He grabbed her hand and they leapt for the tower, grav belts whining as they arced toward it.

Pouncer watched them go, and more shapes landed beside him, C'mell and Z'slee, he knew without looking. In the courtyard below them the Tzaatz were bringing up another siege rapsar with powerful secondary legs meant to cock and fire the heavy ballista mounted on its back. Behind him Ztrak Pride had secured the outer north wall and Dziit Pride were leaping in to reinforce them. The attackers had taken heavy losses, and their hold on the battlements was precarious. If the rapsar below came into action it could cost them that tentative victory. He reached out with his mind, felt again the presence-of-absence that was the Black Priest. He is close. He found another mind, nearby, Ftz'yeer Leader waiting in ambush in the Citadel's central courtyard, ready to lead his elite force out on his master's command, to crush any czrav penetration of the inner sanctuary. He knew beyond doubt that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was directing the defenders now. Behind him he sensed his own forces, the vast array now embroiled in lethal combat with the rapsari. We need reinforcement or we will lose the battle here and now.

He keyed his beltcomp. “Assault prides, leap to the north wall. Support prides, saturation fire from the east across the Quickwater.” Below him the Tzaatz were bringing their launcher creature to bear. He screamed and leapt, and the two kzinretti screamed and leapt with him. As he touched down a sword of Tzaatz leapt at them. I will earn victory here, or a death of honor.

There was little arrow fire as Tskombe jumped for the tower, and he and Trina touched down unmolested. The tower was old, its stones worn smooth by the ages, and a tightly coiled spiral stairway ran down it. He led the way down. It coiled down to the left, as tower stairs did on Earth. And on Earth that's done so that right-handed attackers fighting up the stairs have their sword arm hampered against the inner wall. It occurred to him to wonder if kzinti had a preferred hand, and then he had an answer as a warrior screamed and leapt in front of him, variable sword held in the left hand with maximum freedom of motion. He parried the blow awkwardly with his right hand, then thumbed the retractor until his slice wire was dagger short. He ducked the next attack and stabbed it down, getting the tip into the shoulder articulation. The hit wasn't crippling, but his opponent fell back, bleeding, and dropped his weapon. Tskombe reextended the slice wire and swung, this time getting the edge inside the Tzaatz's belly articulation and gutting him. So the spiral is no help, but being on the high ground is always an advantage. He leapt over the body, nearly slipping in fresh spilled blood and continued down.

Thirty seconds later something was wrong. Pouncer said a corridor, but he was in a garden, aromatic and well manicured hedges and complex sculptures. A panicked Jotok ran past, arm/legs undulating, but he could see no other way down. He breathed deep while Trina caught up.

“Which way?” she asked.

He looked left and right, then inspiration struck. “You tell me.”

She nodded, and without hesitation ran across the garden. On the other side was an open archway, and another set of stairs spiraling down. Trina's luck. He took the lead again and found a corridor two flights underground, musty with the damp of ages. But Pouncer said cells. This corridor ran straight, with occasional arches leading to cross corridors. Trina ran and Tskombe followed her, trying to keep track of the twists and turns so they could find their way out again. I'm trusting her luck so why bother? Because her luck wasn't his luck, he realized. The image of her turning just in time to avoid the ballista shaft that went on to kill Ferlitz-Telepath was burned in his mind.

They took stairs spiraling down again. It was an old part of the fortress, the walls made of huge stones. At the bottom was another corridor, this one with cells, and at the end of it a chamber. A kill scream paralyzed him and he turned to see a black blur in midleap. Instinctively he swung the variable sword and his attacker was cut in half. The body parts slammed into Tskombe and knocked him over, covering him in gouting blood. Another scream split the air and a second black-furred kzin flew through the space he had been standing in. He struggled to his feet shakily. He had no mag armor. If the kzin had been wearing any, strength and mass alone would have made the match a short one.

He wiped blood from his eyes, saw the second attacker impaled through the forehead on a long, wicked looking skewer stuck into one of the large wooden support posts that held up the ceiling. Trina was standing in front of him looking shocked. There was smeared blood on the kzin's feet and it took half a second to put the picture together. He leapt at Trina even as I killed his companion, and got blood on his feet and slipped, hit the skewer and died. Trina's expression told of horror and he followed her gaze. He saw a human figure staked to a heavy table with cruel steel spikes. It took him longer to realize it was a woman, and he did not want to think it was Ayla, but it was. She was naked, her body twisted into an unnatural position by the skewers. Coagulated blood caked around the larger wounds, and her hair was matted. He knew from Ferlitz that she had been there three days, at least. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, but he could tell she was not asleep. Her face looked strangely relaxed, as though she had somehow come to terms with the constant, excruciating pain.

“Ayla!” He was afraid to touch her. If she moved the skewers might tear out. She didn't respond.

“Ayla!” Her eyes fluttered.

“Ayla, it's me.”

“Quacy?” Her eyes wouldn't focus at first. “Quacy, am I dreaming?” Her voice was distant and dreamy.

“No, I'm here, I'm real.” He put his hand on her shoulder tentatively, as though even that contact might do her further injury.

“Oh Quacy.” She looked up at him, moving just her eyes because of the way she was pinned down. The reality of his presence brought her mind back from wherever it had fled from the pain, and she shuddered. “Oh Quacy, it hurts.”

“It won't hurt much longer. Just hang on.” He tried to be gentle getting the skewers out, but it was impossible; they were driven deep into the wooden table top and had to be worked loose. “Trina, help me.”

Trina moved around to Ayla's head to pull out the smaller needles that pinned her hand to the board.

“Valya?” Ayla was staring at Trina with an odd expression. “Now I know I'm dreaming.”

Trina stopped, her expression frozen. “What did you call me?”

Ayla's eyes refocused. “I'm sorry… Valya, my sister… you look like her.”

Trina was staring, eyes round. “Valya was my mother.”

Tskombe let go of the skewer he was working on, understanding arriving with sudden shock. He looked from one face to the other, saw the family resemblance in the shape of the nose, the chin and the high cheekbones. Suddenly he remembered how familiar Trina had seemed when he first met her. And lucky Trina has come fifty light-years through two wars to find her only living relative. It made sense now.

And there was still a war on. “Come on, we have no time.” He pulled hard on another skewer.

“Quacy…” She gasped in pain as the skewer let go and pulled free. “There's a ship aimed at earth, lightspeed weapons…”

“We don't have to worry about that now. First we're going to get you somewhere safe.”

She shook her head violently, a motion that must have caused considerable pain. “No, we have to stop it. The black-furred kzin, he knows the coordinates.”

“One of these two?” He gestured to the bodies.

“No, another one. Ftzaal-Tzaatz.”

“Is he the one who did this to you?”

“Yes.” She groaned as another skewer came free, fresh blood oozing from the crusted wound.

The Tzaatz will pay for this. Tskombe smiled grimly as he worked another needle loose. The flesh seemed to be cauterized where the needles had gone in. They put them in hot. Anger flooded him. Oh yes, they will pay. Each tug caused her new pain, but Ayla gritted her teeth and bore it stoically.

Noises in the corridor. He grabbed up the variable sword and turned to face a mag armored kzin coming into the room at the bound, four more behind him.

“Kr-Pathfinder!” He lowered the variable sword, relief flooding over him.

“Tskombe-kz'eerkti. We must leave, now.”

Tskombe nodded. “Help me get her free.”

Pathfinder gave tail signals, and a pair of czrav warriors moved to secure the room's other entrance. Then he grabbed the larger skewers that pinned Ayla's thighs and calves and yanked. Ayla screamed then, but she didn't cry, as Tskombe and Trina and Pathfinder pulled the needles from her body. The tears didn't come until the last skewer was gone and she collapsed, unable even to sit up. She tried, struggling, and when she couldn't she looked down at the horrific damage done to her body and wept, and Tskombe lifted her and carried her out of the chamber of horrors that she thought she'd die in.

Pathfinder snarled. “She is lucky to be alive.”

Ayla breathed in and out, self-control reasserting itself. I am still an officer. Still she had to fight down a wave of nausea as she saw what had been done to her. “They've ruined me, Quacy.”

“Don't worry, it's nothing an autodoc won't fix.” He tried to be gentle as he carried her, but there was still a battle going on, and speed was critical. He took a moment to kiss her though, gently at first because he was afraid he might hurt her, and then hard because he loved her and had lost her and wanted her to know that he'd never let her go again. And then they had to go, so he carried her up the spiral staircase into the light. He found himself in the same garden as before, but on the other side of the tower. Pouncer's instructions were right, I should have gone right around the tower on the outside. But he hadn't and who knew how fate would have woven events if they'd taken the easy way. Trina's luck worked in mysterious ways.

“We have to get the black-furred one.” Ayla was breathless, still trembling in his arms. “Ftzaal-Tzaatz.”

“Oh we will.” He clenched his jaw grimly. Sounds of combat rose over the Citadel walls.

Kr-Pathfinder dropped to attack-crouch, searching for hidden dangers in the ornate garden. He made tail signals, commanding his half-sword into defensive positions, then keyed his vocom. “Sire, we have the Cherenkova-Captain and the other kz'eerkti.”

Tskombe looked at him, only then realizing that the big kzin's appearance was not coincidence but plan. Pouncer is winning here. He found that somehow surprising, and he realized he had never allowed himself to think in terms of final victory, even as he planned for it. Because to win I had to have Ayla, and now I do.

A crystal iron crossbow bolt embedded itself in the tower's stonework with an audible spang, a handsbreadth from his head. One of Kr-Pathfinder's sword wheeled and fired an arrow back, knocking a Tzaatz warrior from the battlements. Other Tzaatz appeared. And now I have her, we've got to get out of here while we still can.

Ftzaal-Tzaatz watched the battle unfold from the security of the Patriarch's Tower. Far below Heroes contended with sinew and steel, fighting for every last stone of the Citadel. The czrav forces had made it over the north wall and penetrated as far as the Middle Fortress. That was as it should be. He turned to the semi-comatose form drooling on the prrstet beside him, one of two telepaths he had managed to extract from the Black High Circle.

“Where is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit now?” He almost purred the words.

The telepath's eyes rolled back in his head. “He is… he is rallying warriors to storm the Hall of the Patriarch.”

“Is he still in the mind-trance?”

“No… Not in the trance… but still aware… aware of mind space…”

“Excellent.” Ftzaal turned his palm over. “It is time to put the bait in the trap.” He looked again to the unfolding battle and keyed his viscom. A holo appeared, showing the Command Lair where Kchula-Tzaatz watched the battle with his entourage.

“Brother.” Kchula's voice came over the voice link.

“The battle threatens you. I have created a secure area in the Patriarch's Great Hall. You must move there with your staff.”

“From the Command Lair?” Kchula's voice was incredulous. “If they can get me here, how is the Great Hall safer?”

“Because I so command it to be safer.” Ftzaal snapped the words testily. “There is a secret way to the Command Lair. They may use it.”

“I will go then.” Kchula broke the carrier.

Ftzaal returned his attention to the battle unfolding beneath him. My brother serves his purpose at last. The Rrit still feels the effects of the sthondat. He will sense Kchula and go to him. His claws extended of their own accord. And when he does I will capture him, and test a theory. He keyed his com again.

“Assault rapsar parties, move now. Citadel defense, fall back. The trap is set, Ftz'yeer, stand by for my word. Remember I want him alive.”

“As you command, sire…” “As you command, sire…” The voices cracked back. Outside in the forests eight-cubed assault rapsari began moving to cut off and encircle the czrav. They had Ftzaal's other telepath with them to shield their minds from the czrav. Their presence would be a complete surprise. Neither the czrav nor the Rrit would escape him today. Unconsciously, his jaw relaxed into a fanged smile. I will go there myself to see the Rrit taken. He turned to the telepath beside him. “In a moment you will cease shielding my brother's presence. We will show this leader-of-czrav what he is really up against.”

Crusader fell in toward the Traveler's Moon, and Curvy watched on her battleplot as the two fleets closed. The kzinti weren't climbing up to meet the UN force high in the gravity well, as they usually did. Instead they were waiting for the UN ships to close. Their battle plan was clear. They would let their orbital fortresses engage the human fleet while their battleships and other heavy units maneuvered for close combat, accepting high casualties to get at the carriers that were the heart of the UN attack plan. Still, she could see advantage to be gained. The kzinti were deployed in battle groups, and it was clear from their motions that they were not well coordinated. They were probably acting independently, and if the human force could split them and engage them separately they could keep their casualties to a minimum. She keyed data into her console. Projections on her strategic matrix ranged from twenty-five to fifty percent casualties for the UN force, a heavy toll for ultimate victory. Kzinhome was well guarded, but there were no outcome spaces that did not result in UN success, so the only problem was how to minimize the losses.

There was a higher level problem, which was the response that the rest of the Patriarchy would mount to the destruction of their homeworld. It was a large empire, its full extent still unknown, though it would probably collapse with its central authority removed. What might happen after that was worrisome. The UN had demonstrated how easy it was to devastate a world. Her strategic matrix showed a nearly ninety percent probability of kzinti retaliation in kind, with a thirty percent probability that they were already mounting an exterminating attack. That probability had dropped somewhat when she'd seen how many major kzinti combat units were committed to the defense of their homeworld, but it was still far from zero. A fleet attack was only one way of razing a world, and not even the most efficient. The UN had proven that too.

She nosed her way to the bottom of the tank to snap down a salmon, and then swam over to nudge Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr from his nap. They mated in an amorous flurry, and then she let languor overtake her and she half-napped while he watched the unfolding battle. They worked in split watches now. Even with the end of worlds at hand life's pulse goes on uninterrupted. They would destroy Kzinhome and the universe would continue. There was no sense in regretting what she couldn't control.

The Tzaatz screamed and leapt, and Pouncer's variable sword was already in the trajectory of his leap, canted just so. The Tzaatz died, decapitated as Pouncer's slicewire found the gaps in the neck articulation of his armor. In mind space Pouncer felt him die, and the sudden terminal pain flooded his awareness. He shook off the sudden paralysis, then froze again as he felt a disturbance in mind space. The sthondat extract had worn off to the point he could no longer know thought, only presence, but this presence was special. Kchula-Tzaatz! He is in my father's hall. He looked around to assess the battle, saw the Heroes of Ztrak Pride, much diminished, had secured the House of Victory. He was already in position to attack. We can take the Great Hall and end this here.

He raised his voice. “Ztrak Pride, with me, skirmish order. Advance!”

His warriors leapt to obey, and he could not help but purr at the crisp discipline of his command, even as he appreciated the gravity of their task. His forces held the entire north wall now, and his furthest advance scouts were as far south as the Inner Keep. I will win this yet. He looked to C'mell, leading his left forward four-sword now, and to Swift-Claw, leading his right forward. We have lost so many… He would not falter now, so close to victory. Their deaths would not be in vain.

“C'mell, take your four-sword to secure the rear of the Hall. Don't let anyone escape that way.”

“As you command.” Her reply was clipped, as professional as any zitalyi. I cannot show her favor.

“Sire, we have the Cherenkova-Captain and the other kz'eerkti.” It was Kr-Pathfinder, his voice confident.

“Acknowledged. Move to the Great Hall of the Patriarch. We are securing it now.”

“As you command.”

They advanced against trivial resistance. The Tzaatz forces seemed to be falling apart. It was almost too easy, and he reached out into mind space to detect a trap. There were potentials, to be sure… More sthondat would let me know their thoughts, know their intentions. He pushed the thought away. I cannot allow myself to become addicted. He would have to make do with what he had.

They gained the entrance to the Great Hall, rushed up the ancient stone stairs into the vaulted antechamber. Tzaatz grav skirmishers still leapt overhead and arrows fell sporadically, but resistance seemed to be dying down already. He could sense Kchula-Tzaatz inside. And my brother! He contained his eagerness to confront them in favor of caution and security. I owe it to my warriors not to squander their lives. He sent a sword forward to secure the entrance, and they reported it clear.

He advanced another sword and followed it. The hall was large, full of hiding places. Clearing it would take time. As he moved forward he was struck by the changes that had taken place since the last time he had entered its familiar confines. I have lost my father, become a warrior, taken a name, found a mate, fathered kits of my own, forged an army and led it here… Meerz-Rrit would be proud of him, and there was both joy and sorrow in that realization.

Kill screams echoed, cutting off his reverie, and at the same instant mind space was flooded with new awareness, eight-cubed bright spots of awareness, close. Ambush! With the realization came the knowledge that he had been tricked, that the Tzaatz had shielded their numbers from him in mind space, had encouraged him to overconfidence and overextension. Red and gold mag armor. The elite Ftz'yeer were leaping to the attack. At the same time voices flooded the com channel.

“Sire! Rapsari to our north, eight-squared…”

“Sire! We need reinforcement…”

A flash in mind space, lumbering rapsari in wedge formation, closing in on the prides who held the perimeters. They were built like raiders but quadrupedal and bigger, much bigger. They made these to kill tuskvor. In that instant he realized how long the Tzaatz had been anticipating his attack. They have kept their own secrets well. In the vision the wedge slammed into his perimeter guard like an in-falling comet, fangs slicing tuskvor flesh, and then a Tzaatz screamed and leapt and he nearly died as he pulled his variable sword in line to block the blow.

“Ztrak Pride! To me, defensive circle now!” He screamed the command, and blocked again as the Ftz'yeer swung overhand. His warriors responded, and he anticipated another attack, feinted low and then sliced his opponent's belly open when he fell for it. There was no time to celebrate the victory — two more Tzaatz leapt to attack him. He parried one and dodged the second, and then had to fall back to the forming defensive circle. The sthondat extract aids my anticipation. He felt another attacker closing from the flank, pivot turned and cut him in half almost without effort, and then he was in the circle. Something popped and he ducked in time to avoid a monofilament net that flew over his head to entangle the czrav warrior beside him. He turned and hooked his slicewire into the mesh and brought it up, ripping the net open, but the distraction left him vulnerable, and the Tzaatz he had just blocked whipped his slicewire up and under Pouncer's sword arm. Pouncer leapt vertically and the slicewire cut empty air instead of amputating his arm from the armpit up. He swung as he came down and decapitated the Tzaatz from above, spinning in midair to gut the second one even as he screamed and leapt. Victory, for a heartbeat, but more netguns were firing and the tight defensive circle of czrav was disintegrating. A mind flash showed tuskvor in lakes of blood, his support prides fighting for their lives as the Tzaatz cut the Citadel off with eights and eight-squareds of rapsari.

We will live or die in the next moments. The czrav beside him went down and he slipped sideways and brought his slicewire up to gut the Ftz'yeer who'd overextended himself to gain the kill. These Ftz'yeer are too good. In the raiding campaign he had grown used to the low standard of battle discipline in the Tzaatz rank and file, but Ftzaal-Tzaatz's elite were as good as any czrav, and here with the advantage of surprise and numbers they were going to win. His defensive circle was starting to collapse under the pressure. More netguns popped, and he risked a glance backward to see a quarter of his force struggling under the monofilament mesh. They mean to take us alive. That was bad, that meant the Ceremonial Death…

No time to consider it. He stepped forward, feinted, blocked and slashed downward, and a Tzaatz fell at his feet gushing blood. They will not take me alive… He stepped back again. The defensive circle was getting smaller. His death of honor would come soon. Flashes of pain and fear struck him in mind space. His force was being slaughtered. The Tzaatz had laid their trap well. But I can save what I can. The prides outside the Citadel walls could escape, if they could disengage from the rapsari. It would be a shameful retreat, but the shame would be his, and he would not have to endure it long. His warriors would survive, with their honor intact. Sometimes honor demands that we accept shame. He keyed his vocom to give the order.

“Ftz'yeer! Hold!” The voice rose over the din of battle, and Pouncer looked up, surprised. The kzin who gave the order was standing by the high-arched entrance to the main hall, broad shouldered in red-and-gold armor. The circle of Tzaatz drew back, and Pouncer looked around the antechamber. He had a pitiful pawful of warriors left, standing back-to-back and watching warily for any renewal of attack. They were outnumbered four-to-one at least, the outcome of the battle, this part of it anyway, was in little doubt. Why did they stop? He reached out with mind awareness but sensed only the presence of his enemies.

“Zree-Rrit-First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, show yourself.” The Tzaatz leader's eyes searched the circle, searching. “An honor truce has been commanded.”

Honor truce? Why? He stepped forward. “I am Zree-Rrit.”

The Tzaatz made the gesture-of-respect-to-an-enemy. “I am Ftz'yeer Leader. Come with me.”

Warily, Pouncer followed him into the Great Hall, his warriors coming after him. Could it be a trap, even with the Pride-Patriarchs watching? It seemed unlikely; the Tzaatz had victory within their grasp without the need for trickery. Inside the vaulted chamber he understood the reason for the sudden truce. C'mell was there, her four-sword deployed to guard a small group of kzinti in noble's robes.

“Look what I have caught for you, Zree-Rrit.” C'mell's tail stood straight with pride and pleasure as she met his eye. She made the gesture of mate-fealty and pointed. In the center of the ring of slicewires was Kchula-Tzaatz. There were others at the front of the hall, Zraa-Churrt and the Pride-Patriarchs he had asked to come bear witness to the traditions, his traitorous brother Scrral-Rrit — and Rrit-Conserver! No, he is Kzin-Conserver now. He resisted the urge to greet his old mentor. There will be time for that later. He looked to C'mell and returned the gesture. She must have infiltrated her small force into the Great Hall and taken the Tzaatz leader by surprise. She has forced Kchula to the truce and saved us all. There were sporadic sounds of battle from outside the hall, but they quickly faded. Skalazaal was over. Now it was time for skatosh.

The Pride-Patriarchs were watching, and Kzin-Conserver himself. I must be true to the finest point of honor. He stepped forward, drawing his variable sword, waving C'mell's warriors out of the way so he could stand before his enemy face to face. “Kchula-Tzaatz. For the death of my father, for the usurpation of my birthright, for the dishonor you have brought this house and the Patriarchy, I challenge you to single combat.” Fear in Kchula's mind. His mind-awareness was increasing again; it seemed to come and recede in gradually diminishing waves. Pouncer dropped into attack crouch. He is old and fat. I will finish this here. He shot a glance at Scrral-Rrit. And I will deal with my traitorous brother later.

There was a commotion at the entrance to the hall, a wedge of Ftz'yeer entered, and a black-furred kzin. Ftzaal-Tzaatz dismissed his bodyguard and drew his variable sword. “I stand for my brother.” The black killer stepped forward, extending the slicewire of his variable sword. “Leap if you dare, Rrit.”

Pouncer had turned to face the newcomer, and he screamed and leapt, his own slicewire blurring around to catch Ftzaal before he could take a defensive stance, but Ftzaal turned sideways and brought his blade up and blocked the blow effortlessly. Pouncer fell back before Ftzaal could counterstrike, but Ftzaal followed, delivering a swift left-right combination that Pouncer wasn't ready for, nearly breaking his guard. Pouncer flexed his knees to bring his center of gravity lower and present a smaller target, hiding behind his own blade as though it were a sapling. There was a split second while Ftzaal flowed into a lower stance to match him, and in that instant Pouncer kicked out with his forward leg, hoping to connect with his opponent's knee and break it. Ftzaal was ready though, and pivoted slightly, catching Pouncer's heel with his own and hooking it forward. Pouncer sprawled to the ground. I've been trapped. Even as he had that awareness he was rolling to get out of the way of the killing blow he knew was coming. Ftzaal's blade came down a handsbreath from his head. Pouncer knocked it clear and rolled again, flipping back to his feet, and the pair faced each other, eyes locked. I have the mind gift, what is he thinking? But Ftzaal's awareness was muted to his mind sense even this close, and Pouncer couldn't see enough to give warning of the Black Priest's next move. The black fur gene is at work.

Ftzaal screamed and leapt, swinging overhand and Pouncer moved to block the blow, but it was a feint and the real threat was Ftzaal's hind claws, coming around to rake at his face now that Pouncer's slicewire was out of line. Instinctively he jerked back, although his armor would have protected him from any serious damage. As he did so Ftzaal brought his blade around and down, aiming for Pouncer's neck articulation. Double feint! In desperation Pouncer twisted sideways. The motion saved his life as the monomolecular filament cut into the grooves that protected his neck but didn't penetrate all the way. He didn't get a chance to reflect on his luck. Ftzaal had used the momentum of his swing to carry him into a spin, swinging again as he came around. Pouncer blocked awkwardly and fell back, and again they faced each other.

Ftzaal was breathing deeply and evenly through bared fangs. “I want you alive. Put down your sword and I pledge my honor to your life.”

“I came here to win or die. Pledge your honor to your own life.” Pouncer turned the last word into a scream and leapt, feinting high, slashing low. Ftzaal blocked and spun sideways as Pouncer touched down and turned, his hind claws tearing strips from the lavish carpeting as he stopped his forward momentum with sheer muscle, crouching low to keep himself from tumbling. He slashed again, and his opponent jumped back to avoid the unexpected strike.

“You are skilled, Rrit. I may actually wear your ears.”

“You'll have to collect them first, Ftzaal.” Pouncer spat the words with a confidence he didn't feel. He is better than me and he knows it. With more sthondat drug he could know even Ftzaal's mind well enough to anticipate his moves, but he didn't have the option of taking it now. And dare I face the addiction? Could I bring myself to kill him with our minds connected? Sthondat was seductive, but he had seen what it had done to his brother. I don't want to share Patriarch's Telepath's fate.

And he didn't have the option to take more now anyway. When in doubt, attack. Guardmaster's words came back to him. He screamed and leapt again, swinging his variable sword up and around to catch Ftzaal on his weak side. His opponent pivoted to block the blow, and Pouncer went past, lashing out with his hind claws at the Tzaatz's hip to knock him sideways. The ploy worked, but his claws skidded off Ftzaal's armor. His adversary staggered but didn't fall, and still managed to get in a counterblow as Pouncer came past. The slicewire bounced off the back of Pouncer's helmet. There was little chance it would have hit a weak spot with enough force to penetrate from that angle, but the blow served as a warning. Never leave an opening. The first mistake would be the last when facing the Protector of Jotok in single combat.

He rolled again as he landed, then flattened himself to the ground as Ftzaal's slicewire blurred over his head. He had a split second's respite to scramble clear as Ftzaal brought the swing around to cut him in half from above. He dodged back and forth, flat on his back as a flurry of blows rained down around him, then finally managed to get his slicewire into position to block. He caught the edge of Ftzaal's weapon and managed to flip it out of line, but from the floor he lacked the angle necessary to exploit the advantage, and Ftzaal just stepped back out of range, flipping his ears in amusement. Pouncer rolled to his feet, breathing hard. Ftzaal was relaxed and unruffled. He is toying with me. It was a sobering realization. Pouncer was putting every sinew into the fight. Ftzaal-Tzaatz was not even trying hard. The black-furred killer would end the fight when and how he chose and there was nothing Pouncer could do about it. I too have more power here than I am using; my troops control the Citadel. He pushed the thought away as honorless. He had chosen skatosh to finish Kchula-Tzaatz because he needed to set an example for his followers, needed to demonstrate that he was the kind of Patriarch who fought his own fights. His warriors would come if he called them despite the traditions that said they should not, their loyalty was that strong. It would save his life if he did, but he would lose their respect. He could never rule effectively without their support, and the Patriarchy needed a strong Patriarch now more than ever. No, if my destiny is to die here I will die here, but I will not show cowardice to my followers.

Ftzaal circled him slowly, forcing him to turn to keep his guard toward his enemy. When in doubt, attack, but he was tired now, and his opponent was still fresh, and Guardmaster had also cautioned that attack must come from a position of strength. I am allowing him to set the conditions of battle here, fighting his fight. I need to change that, force him to fight my fight. The problem was, Pouncer's fight was Ftzaal's fight, the single combat form, and Ftzaal was better at it. Nor was he liable to be sucked into the kill rage with a few insults.

Ftzaal lunged forward, slicewire cutting the air, and Pouncer blocked and stepped back. Ftzaal snapped his weapon vertical, avoiding the block and then bringing it down again to slice through Pouncer's arm articulation. Pouncer turned and rolled backward, the only option he had to save himself, and again Ftzaal rippled his ears. “Let me know when you're ready to die, Rrit.”

Pouncer didn't waste breath on a reply. Make a decision fast, time is running out. He flicked his eyes around his father's hall, seeking anything he could turn to his advantage, but there was nothing. So if you can't fight your own fight, at least choose a fight that isn't his either. His eye came over the crimson Patriarchal banners hanging down the carved stone walls and inspiration struck. He screamed and leapt, not at Ftzaal but past him, retracting his slicewire as he did. Ftzaal swung as he went by, but the distance was too large for him to connect, and then Pouncer was at the drapery, claws extended to catch the fabric. It sagged as it took his weight and for a moment he thought it would collapse, but it was heavy woven hsahk, firmly bolted to the vaulted roof, and it held. He scrambled up it, his claws tearing slashes into the precious fabric as he went.

“So the Rrit runs like a vatach.” Ftzaal was enjoying himself. “And you think this is how a Patriarch fights?”

Again Pouncer didn't bother to answer. At the top of the drapery he drew his variable sword again and extended it to full length. Leaning backward he leapt to grab one of the thick stonewood ceiling beams. On his way past he swung the sword, arm fully extended, to cut the support chain of one of the room's huge, ancient chandeliers. The chain parted and the chandelier fell as he grabbed at the beam with his other hand, claws digging in. He pivoted his hind claws around to get purchase, and then levered himself onto the beam. The chandelier crashed to the floor, spraying gemstones from their fittings, but Ftzaal-Tzaatz had managed to dodge out of the way before it hit. His reflexes are incredible. Already the Tzaatz had understood that Pouncer was not fleeing but changing the ground rules, and he was leaping to climb another drapery, choosing one far enough away that he too would be up in the ceiling beams before Pouncer could scramble over to cut it loose beneath him. Ftzaal's reflexes would be an asset in a battle fought in such an awkward and precarious environment, but most of the single combat form would be inapplicable. The assembly below watched, awestruck. Pouncer swung his slicewire through the beam beneath him. The timber popped loudly as it was severed and ancient strains suddenly relieved. He felt it give slightly beneath him, but the two cut faces pressed against each other kept it from collapsing completely. Now I have a trap, if I can lure him into it. A second cut would drop a section of timber to fall to the floor, and if Pouncer could get Ftzaal to stand between himself and the first cut, when he made the second cut the Tzaatz would fall with it.

But he couldn't make it that obvious. His mind awareness surged slightly, perhaps in reaction to the intense emotion of the encounter, and through it he knew Ftzaal, felt his intention to kill him and his complete confidence that he would succeed in it. It was a frightening mind to face. Fear is death. He leapt from beam to beam toward his opponent, who had finished his climb.

“You will not escape me, Rrit.” Ftzaal leapt as well, so they were on the same beam, now facing each other. There would be little opportunity for maneuver here. Confined as they were to the linear space of the beam, they would fight a battle of finesse with the variable sword, with the added tactic of trying to unbalance the other fighter into a fatal plunge to the stone floor below.

Pouncer slashed the beam beneath him, backed up, slashed again so a thick chunk of stonewood crashed to the ground. The remaining segments of the beam sagged, now supported only at one end. Too many beams cut would bring the whole roof down. And that too may be a strategy, if I have to employ it. It would be a last resort.

“You think that gap will stop me?” Ftzaal spat, angry now as he had not been before. He had expected an easier kill. Pouncer backed up further. Let him think I am afraid. He will grow careless.

Ftzaal screamed and leapt the gap, landing with perfect footing and coming up into attack stance, feinting down and swinging high. Pouncer let his guard drop with the feint, but not so much that he left himself vulnerable to the swing. I knew he was going to do that. Pouncer flowed into v'dak stance, and smoothly blocked two more blows. I am gaining something from mind awareness. It was not enough to win, but perhaps enough to survive.

Ftzaal fell back, and Pouncer took the opportunity to cut the support chain for one of the decorative tapestries hanging from the ceiling. It fell with deep rustle of heavy fabric and nearly enveloped Ftzaal where he stood. As it was, he had to leap backward, nearly losing his balance in the process. The black kzin's fangs showed white in a wide gaped smile. He is angry, and rage is death. Pouncer began to think he might win. He held his ground a long moment, waiting for the wild killing leap, but it didn't come. The Tzaatz was too smart a warrior to let hot anger interfere with cold intent. He advanced and Pouncer fell back, a pace at a time, all the way to the wall. There was a wide ledge there, where the beams joined the walls and roof. When he got close to it Pouncer turned and leapt. He had hoped the sudden move would give him room to maneuver, but Ftzaal had anticipated it and leapt with him. Pouncer pivoted as he landed, nearly overbalancing, and found Ftzaal's slicewire already coming for his head. He got a partial block in, enough to deflect the blow, and the weapon slashed chunks of ancient stone from the wall to clatter down into the hall below. Pouncer retreated again as Ftzaal feinted low, feinted high and then swung in the middle, but again mind awareness gave him enough warning to keep his guard where it needed to be when the killing slash came. He fell back until he came to the next crossbeam, the one he had cut. Now we spring the trap. He swung hard, overhand, connected and swung again, beating Ftzaal's guard down through sheer force. It was a short term strategy that would lead to exhaustion without any other result if he kept it up, but it bought him the second's respite he needed to leap backward onto the beam. The position he held was precarious and difficult to guard, but he stayed there long enough for Ftzaal to recover and swing at his ankles. Let him think I have made a mistake, and he will expect me to correct it. He blocked the blow, then leapt down the beam, leaving the way clear for Ftzaal to mount it and follow him. He turned again, adopted v'scree stance in time to see his opponent take the same position. Ftzaal advanced, slowly and deliberately. When he got within striking distance Pouncer began to withdraw. He flicked his eyes to the beam with each backward step, trying to pick up the almost invisible cut he'd already made.

There! He backed up farther, taking each step carefully, as Ftzaal continued to press his guard. The thick timber sagged slightly as Ftzaal approached the cut, less than perfectly stable. Would Ftzaal notice? Pouncer feinted forward to make sure he didn't, which turned out to be a mistake. Ftzaal easily parried the quick thrust and slash then countered with his own attack, taking advantage of Pouncer's overextended position at the end of his slash to beat his slicewire out of line and then thrust for the kill. Pouncer backed up again, but Ftzaal pressed him hard, his slicewire again slamming Pouncer's out of line to expose him for the finish. Pouncer nearly lost his variable sword with the impact, and overbalanced dangerously, nearly falling. He forgot about his trap and concentrated on survival, regaining his balance just in time to get his slicewire back in line to block another swing. For an instant it looked like he'd gotten away with it, teetering precariously but still on the beam, but then Ftzaal slammed his free fist into Pouncer's shoulder, toppling him. He lashed out to save himself, his variable sword flying off into space as he tried to regain his balance. He fell and for a long instant his vision was full of the hard stone floor far below. He grabbed wildly and managed to get his claws into the side of the beam. Wood fibers tore into long scratch marks, then held, and he was dangling. His variable sword shattered on the ground, and for a heartbeat he flashed back to the instant he'd leapt after T'suuz, high on the conduits in the Citadel's power hall on the day of the Tzaatz invasion.

Ftzaal-Tzaatz came and stood above him, looking down. “You fought well, Rrit. Not well enough.” Ftzaal raised his slicewire for the killing blow. In desperation, Pouncer brought his hind claws up and braced them against the beam, then leapt into space as Ftzaal brought his variable sword down. He had swung with enough force to cleave through armor articulation, and deprived of its intended target his swing carried on, cutting through the thick stonewood beam as though it wasn't there. The section he was standing on was between Pouncer's first cut and his own. No longer supported at either end it fell. Ftzaal leapt up to grab one of the remaining beam sections, but he hadn't expected the fall and his leap was slow. He managed to connect with one set of claws but he held on to his variable sword with the other. His claws cut long grooves in the dense wood as Pouncer's had, but with only one paw there wasn't enough purchase to entirely support his weight. They pulled out and he too fell.

Pouncer twisted in midair to land on his feet. His leap aimed for one of the huge conquest drums — its taut drumhead was the only thing in the room that might serve to break his fall. He hit it and the drumhead burst with a deafening boom. He hit the floor beneath it hard on all fours, joints collapsing to absorb the impact. His chin hit the ground, snapping his head back and making the world spin. He stood, steadying himself on the drum's rim and tried to get the scene to focus.

All eyes were on him, czrav and Tzaatz alike. Ftzaal-Tzaatz had not been so lucky in his fall. His body lay bent and broken over the fallen beam section. Ears ringing, Pouncer staggered from the wreckage of the conquest drum and went to his recent adversary, kneeling to pick up the Black Priest's finely carved variable sword. The slicewire was still extended, and he turned to the head of the hall. The fall had hurt and he was exhausted and disoriented, shaking now in reaction to the fight juices. It took a long moment to realize that he had won. He tightened his grip on the variable sword. I will not falter now.

“Kchula!” Pouncer bared his fangs and found a sudden, deep anger welling up that made it difficult to speak coherently. “Your brother is dead. Stand your ground.” Rage is death, a tiny voice said in the back of his mind, but he found it too easy to ignore.

Kchula-Tzaatz rippled his ears and raised a beamrifle from under his cloak. “It was amusing to watch you fight my brother. I'm going to enjoy killing you, kitten.”

He brought the weapon to his shoulder and triggered the aim dot, swung it to target Pouncer. The silence in the room was complete; even breathing seemed to have stopped. None of the czrav were close enough to intervene, and Pouncer couldn't move fast enough to get out of the line of fire before Kchula could shoot.

“You have no honor, Kchula.” Pouncer spat the words, hoping the insult would goad him to leap, but in mind space he saw Kchula's intention to kill form, the command to pull the trigger welling up in his forebrain. The split second's warning might have saved him, if he had anywhere he could dodge, but he didn't and with his eyes he saw his own death arriving in the mirror-bright bore lens of the beamrifle.

There was a piercing scream and suddenly the welding of mind-picture and sight dissolved as a tawny shape flew through the air. Scrral-Rrit-Second-Son had leapt at Kchula, his w'tsai extended to kill. Kchula whirled and fired but the beam went wide, spraying shards of ancient stone from the wall, and then Scrral-Rrit was on him, driving the primitive weapon up through the gap between breast armor and belly articulation, up beneath Kchula's ribcage to slice organs and sever arteries. Kchula screamed in pain, falling backward under the attack with arms flailing, and the beamrifle went flying. Scrral-Rrit withdrew the weapon as blood geysered from the wound, then stabbed again, this time up and under Kchula's chin, driving it up into his braincase.

The flailing stopped, and at that instant Second-Son screamed, his back arching as though he'd been scourged, every muscle in his body tensing. He stayed like that for long heartbeats, then pitched forward, face down in his victim's still oozing blood.

The zzrou! “Brother!” Pouncer leapt to Second-Son's side and slashed his robe open with one claw swipe. The zzrou was there, a dull octagon on his brother's shoulder. He tore it loose, ripping flesh as its teeth came free. It was a reflexive act, and it would have emptied the zzrou's poisonous contents into his brother's body, had it not already done so itself when triggered by the cessation of Kchula-Tzaatz's heart. P'chert toxin dripped, oily and acrid, and Second-Son was gasping on the floor.

“Bring a Healer!” Zree-Rrit's command brooked no hesitation, but when he turned back to face the dying puppet-Patriarch, Pouncer's voice was soft. “Breathe deep, brother, help is coming.”

But Second-Son's breaths came quick and shallow, his eyes glazing as his eyelids fluttered. “There is no time… I have paid for my dishonor.”

“A Healer, now!” Pouncer lashed out the order, and Medical Officer of the Tzaatz was running forward, slaves and kzinti alike scattering before him, but Second-Son's eyes were already shut, and his breathing had stopped. P'chert toxin was swift.

“You have earned your name at last.” Pouncer cradled Second-Son's head in his lap, the universe reduced to the still-warm body before him, the last of his family. The sthondat-induced mind awareness was strengthened by the physical contact, and he felt the last glimmer of his brother's consciousness dwindle and fade, until all that was left was an overwhelming emptiness.

Medical Officer arrived and dropped his crash bag, slapping a spray infuser against Scrral-Rrit's chest and starting the elaborate dance of resuscitation. Pouncer stood and moved back, knowing it was too late. P'chert toxin attacked the central nervous system, destroying the cell proteins at the synaptic gap. The countertoxin could prevent the damage from occurring, at the cost of doing some of its own. It could not reverse it once it had occurred. Medical Officer would try of course, the oath of his craft demanded nothing less, but he and Pouncer and everyone watching knew he would not succeed.

Pouncer stood back to give him room anyway, looking at the silent body. My brother is dead, he isn't coming back. Some things even the Patriarch could not command. I am alone now.

“No, you will never be alone again.” It was a familiar voice. He looked up and saw C'mell, her armor smeared with Tzaatz blood.

“How did you…?”

“The sthondat works both ways. Your thoughts leak, to those sensitive enough to respond.” She nuzzled him. “You are safe, my Hero, and you are Patriarch.”

Her physical touch triggered a flood of emotion, and he saw himself through her eyes, felt her love as physical thing, but mind awareness was receding again, further this time as the effects of the drug wore off. He felt his deep connection to his mate growing indistinct. How can I live in a universe so dark, having seen the light? The instinct was to get more, immediately, to not only prevent the fading of mind awareness but enhance it to its ultimate capacity. This is the sthondat addiction. The realization didn't help, the pull was strong. But sthondat drug cripples too. He remembered Patriarch's Telepath's emaciated body lying on its gravlifted prrstet. This blade cuts two ways. The Patriarchy needs a strong Patriarch. I cannot be slave to the drug and rule. He stood to face the room. More czrav were filing in, disarming the Tzaatz who were still there. The struggle was over. It was hard to know what to do next.

“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit abased himself at the entrance as he came in with thrice-eight battle-scarred warriors behind him.

“Patriarch!” Zraa-Churrt did as well. “Patriarch…” “Patriarch…” One by one the assembly made their obeisance.

“Enough.” Pouncer held his paws up for silence. “Stand, all of you! You who have seen fit to fight with me, those who stood by Rrit Pride in its darkest hour, you all are worthy enough to stand with me. As we have shared battle, we will share victory.”

“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit's voice showed his amazement, but he stood, and the others stood with him. There was a commotion at the back, snarls rose. Tskombe-kz'eerkti and Kr-Pathfinder with his half-sword, and the manrette Trina.

Pouncer raised his voice. “Let them through!” Tskombe was carrying Cherenkova-Captain, and Pouncer felt anger when he saw her condition. They have given her the Hot Needle.

“Where is Ftzaal-Tzaatz?” There was urgency in Tskombe's voice.

Pouncer pointed to the body. “He is dead.” Beneath his dark complexion Tskombe paled, a signal Pouncer had learned meant there was a serious problem. He swiveled his ears up. “Why, do you need him alive?”

“The Tzaatz have launched a vengeance strike on Earth. He's the one who knows the launch coordinates.”

“Hrrr.” Pouncer turned a paw over. “Your species and mine are at war now, Tskombe-kz'eerkti. Your fleet is falling in to the attack even now.”

“If either race is going to survive we need to stop this.”

“I agree.” Pouncer looked to the black furred corpse. “Do any other Tzaatz know the coordinates?”

Tskombe spread his hands. “Someone must. Kchula-Tzaatz would, perhaps.”

“He is dead too.”

Tskombe was silent, and Pouncer became aware of the entire assembly watching him. I am Patriarch now, and I need to lead. There was little time before the humans arrived to destroy his world. I may be the last Patriarch ever. Kchula has given me a gift with this revenge strike. I can use it to bargain for my world, if I can get the launch data. There would be other Tzaatz who knew the information, the technicians who had set up the attack profile at the Patriarch's Dock in orbit, but he wouldn't be able to find them before the human fleet arrived. Earth would die, and Kzinhome would die before it.

Unless… He remembered a rumor about Patriarch's Telepath. I am his full brother. How much of his Gift did he share? His paw went to his hunt pouch, felt the two vials of sthondat extract there. I cannot rule as a slave to the drug. He could not rule if the Patriarchy was destroyed either. There was no time, and no choice. He drew out a vial and drained its bitter black fluid in a single gulp.

Immediately the mind-trance came on him full strength, familiar now, but with none of the gradual onset of the previous time. He felt C'mell's love, Tskombe's concern, Cherenkova's pain, the loyalty of Kr-Pathfinder and V'rli and Czor-Dziit and the czrav, the fear of the slaves who cowered around the Citadel while their masters contended for its rulership. The blackness of mind space was absolute, but he forced himself to open his eyes, not surprised to find himself on the floor. I must not show myself to be owned by this. He stood shakily and turned, walking with deliberate steps to the black-furred corpse over a floor that seemed to pulse and writhe with the thoughts of the onlookers. He knelt, grateful that he had to walk only a short distance, and gazed into Ftzaal-Tzaatz's glazed-over eyes, still open from the moment of his dying, touching him on the shoulder. It was said Patriarch's Telepath could know the minds of the recently dead. He closed his own eyes and concentrated, seeking out the tiny, dying spark of awareness that had been the most feared warrior in the Patriarchy, trying to block out the overwhelming strength of the other minds around. He found it, finally, behind the darkness of the black fur gene, and nearly lost in the blinding light of impending death. The awareness stirred at his intrusion, and pain became dawning recognition.

You fought well, Rrit Kitten. You will be a good Patriarch.

May the Fanged God welcome your soul, Protector of Jotok.

And there was the information he sought, a battleship stripped to its frame, launched to destroy the kz'eerkti homeworld with relativistic impactors, and there the coordinates and trajectory data, and the launch time, and with it the knowledge the kz'eerkti had little time left. He focused on the knowledge, infused it, welded it to his own awareness until it was a part of him, until the awareness that had been Ftzaal-Tzaatz faded at last and went dark. For a moment he drifted in the same emptiness that Patriarch's Telepath had known, and then the surrounding minds came surging back at him, flooding out his own thoughts, his own sense of self diluted by the wash of otherness. It was frightening, exhilarating, danger and joy at once. This too is the sthondat drug's danger. I must never take it again, never. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the sudden return of external reality. Ftzaal's body lay before him, seeming somehow shrunken. He pitched his head back and roared the zal'mchurrr to consign a worthy warrior to the Fanged God's pride circle. The scream had the effect of clearing the other minds from his, and when he stood to face the room they were at enough of a distance that he could keep them at bay.

“Did you get it?” Tskombe-kz'eerkti was watching him anxiously.

“I have it. Now we must deal with your compatriot's fleet.”

Quacy Tskombe swallowed hard. The Citadel's Battle Room was set to show the close space defense zone of Kzinhome. The ships of the Tzaatz and the various Great Prides who had come to lend their strength to the Patriarchy were boosting out beyond the orbit of the Hunter's Moon. UN Scoutships had skirmished with kzinti destroyers higher up in the gravity well and had fared poorly. Kzinhome was far better defended than any target they'd taken on before this, but now the human cruiser screen was closing for battle. The green icons that marked kzinti forces were well deployed to intercept the incoming fleet, and they presented a formidible force. It was the size of the UN fleet that gave Tskombe pause. The ranked green icons filled a globe over a meter across at the display's scale. There were hundreds of ships, more firepower than had ever been assembled in one place in known space, to his certain knowledge.

And they are coming to destroy this world and everything on it. He had no illusions about the intent of the fleet. Looking at the armada as it was laid out in the plot tank he had no illusions about their ability to do it either.

Unless I can convince them otherwise. He looked to Ayla, sleeping now on a gravlifted prrstet under a sedative from his medkit, with Trina looking after her. The girl was gazing with childlike concern and adoration at the woman who was her last link to her mother. Ayla wasn't in danger, yet, but she was weak and in pain and grievously injured, and she needed medical attention that she could only get aboard a hospital ship. He thought back to his escape from Earth. If he hadn't fled, hadn't deserted, he wouldn't be here for her now, but he was painfully aware of the reception he was likely to receive in contacting the fleet. Maybe they haven't uploaded my file. It was a faint hope. It would have been better if Ayla could have made the transmission. Her record was unblemished.

But she couldn't. It was up to him. He looked across to Pouncer, who would speak after him, and nodded. Pouncer made the gesture that commanded the room's AI to transmit. There was a pause for speed-of-light lag, and then the Pierin slave who ran the equipment raised a manipulator to tell him he could begin.

He took a deep breath. “This is Colonel Quacy Tskombe of the United Nations Special Mission to Kzinhome. I am here with the Patriarch of Kzin and I have a negotiated peace settlement here in my hands.”

He counted ten seconds slowly, the turnaround time, then another endless minute. The UN would be getting the right person on the line. The display showed a face, gray haired and severe. “This is Admiral Mysolin. Who are you?”

Tskombe repeated himself, waited the ten seconds. The admiral looked offscreen for a second, said something with the audio cut off, then came back online.

“Colonel, I have no information on your mission. Can you verify who you are?”

“You'll have to check with New York.”

Ten seconds. Mysolin smirked. “Colonel, you and I both know that's not going to happen. I understand you're in an uncomfortable position planetside, but I've just fought my way across Known Space against fanatic resistance and paid my way into this system in blood.”

“We don't have time to argue. Admiral, I have important information for you. You have to stop your attack.”

Ten seconds. Mysolin was using the time, checking something on his screen while he waited for Quacy's signal to arrive. “I have your file here, Colonel.” His eyebrows went up. “You're a fugitive, according to this, and I'm in no mood to discuss the situation. I'm here with overwhelming firepower and a set of very specific orders from the Secretary General. You say you have information for me then give it to me, and then I'm going to finish what I've started here.”

Tskombe looked over at Pouncer. “Admiral, let me put this in the barest possible terms. The kzinti have launched a revenge strike with enough lightspeed impactors to reliquefy Earth's crust. I have here the only kzin who knows the launch coordinates and trajectory data, which represent the only chance we have of getting ahead of those rocks and carrying out an intercept. Press home your attack and your victory is going to be a moot point for twenty billion people.”

Ten seconds. Mysolin's face hardened. “I'm hope you don't expect me to respond to threats, Colonel.”

Tskombe felt his blood freeze. They aren't going to stop… “Sir… Sir, you have to believe me.”

Ten seconds. “I don't have to believe you, and I see no compelling reason that I should. You're a deserter, and from all outward appearances a traitor. You may be just a simulation on a kzinti computer. Whatever you are, you're on the wrong side of this war. I'm sorry about that, but that isn't going to change what's about to happen here.”

“Sir, I can understand your hesitation.” Tskombe tried to keep his growing desperation out of his voice. “I can verify that there's a ceasefire in effect. Take your fleet into a parking orbit and issue defensive orders. You'll be left alone.”

Ten seconds. Tskombe felt his heart pounding and tried to keep his breathing under control. Finally Mysolin spoke. “And give them time to set up for us?”

“Sir. You said it yourself, you've got overwhelming firepower. You might not be aware but there's a civil war down here, they're in no position to stop you. What have you got to lose?”

Ten seconds. “I have ships to lose, and lives. Now I'm done talking here. I'm sorry for your predicament, Colonel.” Mysolin made a chopping gesture and his image vanished.

Tskombe slumped. The UN would raze Kzinhome now. The Command Lair was well protected. It wasn't impossible that they might survive the attack, but civilization on the planet would be destroyed, and three humans were not likely to survive long in that environment. He looked across to Trina, who was looking worried. She's finally run out of luck.

Pouncer turned a paw over and moved to the primary battle console. “I am Patriarch now. I will direct the defense. We may yet prevail, Tskombe-kz'eerkti” His voice was level as he spoke, but his eyes were on the icon array of the human fleet, and Tskombe could tell he didn't favor their chances.

Nor do I, but we'll go down fighting. It occurred to him that with that thought he had finally crossed the line from deserter to traitor, not that it would make any difference soon. He looked across to Ayla. So I haven't saved her, but at least she knows I didn't abandon her. Battered as she was she still looked beautiful, and he knew he could have made no other choice.

The viscom flashed with an incoming signal, and a face appeared. Admiral Mysolin again. His expression was sour. “Colonel Tskombe, on the advice of my Senior Strategist, I'm going to put my fleet in parking orbit. We will not attack unless attacked. I want the trajectory information for those impactors. We're going to verify your story. Let me promise you this. I have your communications triangulated. If this turns out to be some kind of ruse, and we wind up taking this planet by force after all, you will not survive. Am I clear on that?”

“Sir. I'm on your side. I'm going to switch channels now and make sure the kzinti fleet knows the program. I'll be back on the air in three minutes with the information.”

The display split and another image appeared, with a long snout and a broad, toothy grin. Curvy. She whistled and chirped, and her translator spoke. “You have done well, Quacy Tskombe. I look forward to poker. You owe me many salmon.”

Mysolin looked annoyed at the interruption. “Three minutes. I'll be waiting.”

Tskombe nodded and then made room for Pouncer on the transmission dais. Pouncer strode up, confident in his command, the look Tskombe had first seen in his eyes when he came out of the mind-trance had deepened. He has mastered the sthondat extract, Tskombe realized. He is Zree-Rrit now in every way. He's going to make a formidable Patriarch. Pouncer made the gesture that ordered the AI to switch to the General Command channel and strode into position. “Heroes of Kzinhome, this is Zree-Rrit-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, Patriarch of Kzin. A peace-with-honor has been negotiated. The kz'eerkti ships will adopt parking orbits and will not be intercepted while in those orbits. Fire weapons only in self-defense. End transmission.” He slashed a paw in the air, commanding the AI to terminate the link.

Tskombe raised an eyebrow. “Aren't you going to wait for acknowledgment?”

Zree-Rrit's lips twitched over his fangs. “I am Patriarch. They will obey.”

Tskombe nodded, slowly breathing out the accumulated tension in the room. “Right.”

He met Ayla's gaze. She had woken up and watched the final exchange. He went to her, felt the warmth of her presence, took her hand carefully so as not to hurt her, sat with her and Trina on the prrstet.

Ayla smiled up at him. “What happens now?”

“Now, Cherenkova-Captain.” Zree-Rrit answered before Tskombe could. He fanned his ears up, his tail relaxed, secure within the absolute authority of his command. “Now, we forge peace on the anvil of war.”