“Chuut-Riit named me successor and brother, for all to hear and scent,” Traat-Admiral said. “Do you lift claws, bare fangs, against the Patriarchs?”
Ktrodni-Stkaa arched his back, hissed. His tail lashed. “Never! And so I accepted Chuut-Riit, though all know I felt his policies foolish and unmartial.” That was a little unwise; many of the late governor’s partisans were seated here. “Yet I never challenged him, as others did.”
Traat-Admiral twitched his ears. That brought fur-ripples of amusement; Chuut-Riit had had an unequaled collection of kzin-ear dueling trophies. He saw his rival’s pupils go wide with anger at the imputation—quite false—of excessive caution. Good, he thought. His anger will throw off his leap.
“You—” Ktrodni-Stkaa began, then forced out words that sounded as if a millstone was being cut in half. “Traat-Admiral, you are not Chuut-Riit. Nor was Chuut-Riit, honor to him, Patriarch of Kzin. Chuut-Riit came among us with the patent of the Patriarch. You have no patent from Kzin itself. The mighty ones among us should consult as to who of full Name is worthy to dominate. Those whose ancestors have proven worth.” He preened slightly; for fifty-three decades the Stkaa clan had produced one of full Name in every generation.
Traat-Admiral yawned elaborately and licked his nose. “Show me where this is encoded in Law-disks,” he said. Ears and tail made a slight gesture toward Conservor, who was lapping blandly at his drink. The Conservors of the Patriarchal Past were technically supreme in such matters. . . .
Ktrodni-Stkaa came erect at that, fur bottled out and tail rigid. “You hide behind priests, you offspring of a Third-Gunner!” he screamed, tensing for a leap.
“No!” Traat-Admiral roared, crouching ready to receive him. “I accept any challenge. To the oath and the generations, I accept it!”
For a moment even as wild a spirit as Ktrodni-Stkaa was daunted. That was more than a duel; it was the ancient formula for blood-feud between chieftains. To the oath: the extermination of every sworn retainer on the losing side. To the generations: the slaughter of every descendant of every male on the losing side.
“Wait.” Conservor rose, and spoke in the eerie trill of the Lawgiver Voice. “Upon him who raises strife in the pack, when pack contends with pack, upon him is the curse of the God. No luck is his. His seed will fail.”
Traat-Admiral froze, hackles rising at the rare invocation of formal law, still more at the thought. Bad luck was something even a warrior was allowed to fear, although he must face it unflinching. . . .
Ktrodni-Stkaa recoiled as if from a blow across the nose. That pronouncement gave every one of his oath-sworn retainers effective leave to desert him without total disgrace . . . and in a challenge of oaths and generations, they would have every reason to do so.
Your testicles are on the chopping block, Ktrodni-Stkaa, Traat-Admiral thought happily. A warning chirrrr from Conservor brought him back to what must be done.
“Honor to you, and your Name, Ktrodni-Stkaa,” he said soothingly. Everyone present knew he spoke from a position of strength; he could afford concession. “Your eagerness to leap at the throat of the common enemy does you great credit. Perhaps there is merit in what you say concerning the governorship. We will memorialize the Patriarchy; I pledge to prostrate myself before any edict from Homeworld.”
Ktrodni-Stkaa’s head came up sharply, suspecting mockery. That was a thirty-year roundtrip consultation, even by message-maser. The Patriarch was probably wondering how the Second Fleet had done against Earth; even the regional headquarters was a decade away.
“And of course, there must be rearrangement of commands and assignment of estates,” he went on smoothly.
His teeth clamped slightly on the last as if a choice morsel were being torn from his mouth; Chuut-Riit’s bequest of his immense personal wealth—millions of humans and the equipment to employ them—entitled him to keep it all, in theory. In practice he must give without clawing back to solidify his position. That was one reason fresh conquests were so popular with established fief-holders. Traat-Admiral was doubly bitter that he must grant Ktrodni-Stkaa riches instead of deserving younger kzin among his own supporters, especially since it would modify his hatred not one whit. But it would make the new governor’s position stronger among the uncommitted, by showing that he did not intend to freeze out those of ancient lineage or traditional beliefs.
Ktrodni-Stkaa visibly considered alternatives, and sank back on his cushion.
“Perhaps there is wisdom in your words, Commander,” he said, spitting out the last word as if it tasted like burned meat. Commander was a neutral term, not one that acknowledged personal dominance. “Certainly the war must proceed.”
“Let us eat of great Chuut-Riit’s bounty, then,” Traat-Admiral said formally. “Then let us consider immediate security measures. We know that infiltrator-vermin were landed from the human raider ship. We strongly suspect that at least one slinker-warship was as well.”
He took another lap from his saucer and braced a hand on the zianya’s body. Its whining could be heard even through the tape across its nostrils; that and the flooding scent of it brought his attention to the food. Lines of slaver dropped from his lips as he tantalized himself with hesitation; then he sank fangs in the meaty flank and jerked backward, ripping loose a long strip of muscle and skin. Blood sprayed in a fan of droplets onto his face and shoulders, salty and wonderful.
Delicious, he thought, courteously giving Conservor the next bite. Zianya-flesh was a great dainty fresh-killed but even better while the beast lived and pumped fear-juices. Even Ktrodni-Stkaa ate with relish, plunging his muzzle into the ripped-open belly of his dinner.
Hours later Traat-Admiral licked the last cooling drop out of the blood-gutter and belched, picking his teeth with an extended claw and yawning with weariness. They had talked all through the night and into the morning, running simulations and computer projections, stopping to drink and feast, in the end roaring out the old songs and dreaming bloodily of the conquest of Sol system. Ktrodni-Stkaa had become half-jovial, particularly when Traat-Admiral had thrown in half a dozen females of Chuut-Riit’s line as a sweetener to rich lands, asteroid mines, and a stake in Tiamat’s processing and drive-engineering works. Now the hall was empty and cavernous, filled with a tired morning smell.
“A good hunt,” he said judiciously.
“Hrrrr, yes,” Conservor said. He had taken little direct part—formal politics and war were not for such as he—but his quieting influence had been invaluable. “Yet even Ktrodni-Stkaa will eventually realize that he has been sent to hunt cub’s prey.”
Traat-Admiral flicked his ears in agreement. Whatever the Yamamoto had dropped, it could not have been sufficient to cause real damage, not now that the kzinti fleets were alerted.
“Areoowgh, agreed,” he said. “And he will notice before the five-year delay which that verminous-pelted human raider caused us. We must reconstruct lost productive potential, and repair direct damage, and divert capacity on a high-priority basis to defense against further such raids. But let’s not chew that meat before we kill it. For the next few months I’ll have enough to stalk and drag down just getting the household in order.”
Conservor twitched his tail slyly. “Especially the harem,” he said.
Traat-Admiral coughed amusement. “If only I had gotten it twenty years ago!” He stretched, curling his spine into a C and then rising. “I go.”
Outside the light was enough to make him blink. The courtyard looked larger now, except for . . . he stared. There were humans near the ashes of the pyre. He stalked nearer, only slightly reassured to see that household troopers guarded and oversaw.
“Who are these monkeys?” he growled. Then: “Arrrr. Henrietta-secretary.”
His eyes skipped and nostrils flared, recognizing others of the household and management cadre Chuut-Riit had assembled over the years. Many were leaking moisture from their eyes; others had piled flowers—the scent was pleasant but absurd—at the base of the heap of stones where the pyre had burned. A line had formed, shuffling past the spot and out the main entrance of the castle.
Henrietta began to go down in the prostration; Traat-Admiral signed her up with a flick of his tail.
“Honored Traat-Admiral, great Chuut-Riit was a good master and protector to us,” she said. A blocky male who had served as house steward nodded beside her. “All . . . well, many Wunderlanders regret his murd—his passing.”
“Hrrr.” Not as much as you would if Ktrodni-Stkaa were lord here, he thought dryly, and then realized with a shock that they probably knew that too. Of course, his governorship had come after the harsh treatment of the post-conquest days, when few humans knew how to deal with their new masters and many died for their ignorance. Chuut-Riit sought to utilize their talents, he thought, slightly alarmed. Does that mean they must become a factor in our own struggles for dominance? The thought was disturbing and repulsive, but . . .