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  Kchula-Tzaatz stood again. “Patriarch, we have nothing to fear from races long extinct. The Outsiders want nothing that we do. As for the Puppeteers”—he snorted in disgust—“I have met a Puppeteer. Its cowardice knew no bounds.”

  “Open your eyes! Courage is not power! The cowering Puppeteers could end our line to improve their sleep.”

  “Kittens’ fears! When the time comes we will take their technology and hunt them for sport. When have the children of the Fanged God failed to conquer?”

  “The Q’ryamoi must have thought the same before the herbivores destroyed their world.”

  “We have only the Puppeteers’ word that the Q’ryamoi existed at all.”

  “I bow to your wisdom, Kchula-Tzaatz.” The Patriarch’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Tell me where the Puppeteer homeworld is, and I will launch a conquest fleet tomorrow.”

  “Just because we haven’t found it doesn’t mean we never will.”

  “And in the meantime? Even the monkeys can raze a world. Do you doubt those herd animals could do the same?”

  Zraa-Churrt stood. “If I may speak for my honored cousins, Patriarch…”

  “You may speak for yourself.”

  “I have seven sons. My elder will inherit my name and my Pride. My second will advise him. The other five must command warships in hunt-conquest to justify their names. If that road is closed they will fight each other for my inheritance.”

  Graff-Kdar stood up. “I stand with Zraa-Churrt. Eight-to-the-seventh Heroes pledge fealty to Kdar Pride. I could not deny them conquest if I wanted to.”

  Meerz-Rrit flipped his ears. “This is a matter of leadership. You must lead your Prides as I lead you. You have heard my decree. Will any here challenge me?” He scanned the assembly again, meeting their gazes. None of them were happy, but none of them were willing to challenge his rule. Meerz-Rrit allowed himself to relax. The critical moment was past, and he had won. “So you must lead your Prides. We now possess the hyperdrive. You can send your fleets farther than ever before, find planets where no sapient will contest your claims. We have slave species enough as it is. If you want more slaves, breed them. Replace war prizes with construction. We shall not repeat the error of the Thrint. We shall not become so feared in the galaxy that we motivate other species to our extinction.” He paused to let his words sink in. “I want to make something very clear, Honored Cousins. There are those of you who will see opportunity here, opportunity to make gains at the expense of others in this circle, even at the expense of Rrit Pride.” He held up a paw as some of the assembly started to rise. “No, do not protest your loyalty. There are traditions that govern duels and those same traditions govern the Honor-War. The traditions will be followed in detail, and I stand behind them with fang and claw. Skalazaal will be declared and open for all to see and judge, and the traditions adhered to explicitly. The Patriarchy is made strong by conflict, but I will not see it destroyed by dishonor.” He paused for emphasis. “Mark my words, my Honored Cousins. I will command the full might of the Rrit against any who overstep those boundaries.” He had their attention now, and he met their gazes with his own narrowed eyes. “We are not monkeys, we are Heroes. We duel with sinew and steel, claim victory with honor. If any of you here today violate the traditions, I will end your line.”

  Meerz-Rrit took in the assembly, looking at him now with stunned silence. It was the effect he needed to end on, and he turned and strode from his dais without another word. Behind him the Great Hall exploded into snarls as voices rose in argument. Let them debate it between themselves. He was Patriarch, and none would dispute his rule. Second-Son followed him out, looking sour for who knew what reason. He glanced again to the hidden gallery where Yiao-Rrit sat with the humans. Most important, the monkeys would know that he could have launched a war, and that he had chosen not to. They would know they need not strike at the kzinti out of fear, and they would also fear to strike themselves. It had been a good assembly. The results could not have been better. He should have felt pleased, but he didn’t. Where was Pouncer?

  Without honor there is no victory.

  —Si-Rrit

  Kchula-Tzaatz left the assembly immediately after the Patriarch, leaving the swelling storm of protest behind him. He went as rapidly as dignity allowed back to his retinue’s quarters in the House of Victory. As soon as he arrived he ordered his guards into discreet defensive positions. Nothing must be obvious. They were all Ftzaal-Tzaatz’s elite Ftz’yeer, disguised as retainers and diplomats though each wore Ftz’yeer red and gold somewhere, here a sash, there a brassard, to meet the demands of honor. Nevertheless they were far too few to stand long should Meerz-Rrit decide that he wanted Kchula’s head.

  That done, he retired to his private chambers. They were lavishly appointed; Meerz-Rrit treated his guests well. No sooner had he entered than a silent Kdatlyno brought in a spiced platter of fresh killed pirtitz, their blood rich in a decanter of shasca beside it. A pair of well trained prret curled on cushions by the window, swishing their tails suggestively and chrowling for his attentions—pleasant distractions to offset the stresses of the Great Pride Circle. He ignored them. Rage and fear alternated in his brain, and once he stopped moving, their scents mingled thick in the air around him. It was supposed to happen during the meeting of the Circle. He had been ready, and then nothing. Nothing! He had been reduced to some weak platitude about courage.

  So close! He had delayed speaking as long as possible. The drop capsules should have been landing around the Citadel even as he made his declaration of skalazaal.

  They had not, but the assassin would have struck by now, and the Rrit be alerted to danger. Now they would be looking for the guilty, and first suspicion would fall to him. He had to take immediate action, and for that he needed an ally. He pointed to one of his own Jotok attendants, waiting silently for orders. “You. Come.” Obedient and silent, the slave moved up beside him, its five multijointed limbs waving like tentacles to make it walk. He scribbled a note on his beltcomp and dumped the hardcopy, handed it to the slave. “Take that to Stkaa-Emissary, at once.”

  The slave abased itself and left. He could have dumped the note direct to Emissary’s beltcomp, but it would have to travel over the Citadel’s datanet. Quantum cryptcom was secure, supposedly, but the mere transmission of the message was information, and he had to deny his enemy all the information he could. It was now his only advantage. A handwritten message was more private.

  Of course the Kdatlyno slave who’d brought the food was Rrit as well, and who knew what it might be reporting to that execrable Rrit-Conserver even now. He was helpless, completely dependent upon his enemies. Rage got the better of him, and he kicked over the table, sending the sliced pirtitz flying across the room to stain the delicate tapestry. A servitorb floated over to the mess, ready with tools for a cleaning slave, but there was no cleaning slave, and Kchula kicked at it too. Fools! How could he attain greatness when all he had to work with were fools? That must be dealt with at once. He snapped open his beltcomp and punched up the command bridge on Distant Trader. Another piece of data for Rrit-Conserver’s intelligence net, but one that couldn’t be avoided.

  “Raarrgh-Captain.” His subordinate’s image floated over the belt-comp. There was two heartbeats delay for light speed, then his eyes widened as he saw Kchula’s snarling rictus.

  “Sire!”

  Rage tightened Kchula’s throat until he could barely get the words out. “Where…are…my…warriors?”

  “Sire, I abase myself! The first rapsar capsule jammed in the launch tube. We’re clearing it now…”

  “On all the ships? You try my patience.” A new fear shot through Kchula. What if it were not incompetence but betrayal…?

  “On Distant Trader only. I judged it best not to launch the Heroes without the beasts, sire.”

  “You judged it best…?” Rage.

  Raarrgh-Captain raked his claws over his face. “We stand ready to launch them on your command, sire.”
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br />   “Fix the launcher! Heroes can’t take the Citadel alone. Get the rapsari on the ground.”

  “We are working on it with all speed.”

  “Work faster!” The assassin had struck by now, perhaps the traitor as well. How long before the Rrit connected it to him? Not long at all. “I am vulnerable here!”

  Movement behind him. It was Ftzaal-Tzaatz. “You could return to orbit, brother.”

  “And demonstrate my guilt by running! Are you a fool? There is nowhere to go from orbit. We can’t outrun Rrit warships to the edge of the singularity.”

  Ftzaal’s voice stayed calm. “I make the suggestion merely to demonstrate the correctness of your current course of action.”

  It was insulting to be reassured, but there was nothing he could do about it now. “Is there any word from the traitor?”

  “None. There will be soon enough.”

  “You heard the Patriarch’s speech.”

  “Of course.”

  “I am opening negotiations with Stkaa Pride now. They have no love of the Rrit now that their conquest plans are thwarted. We need an ally here on the surface.”

  There was a long pause from Ftzaal while he processed this. “I concur.”

  Kchula returned his attention to the image on his beltcomp. “How long before the launchers are ready, Raarrgh-Captain?”

  “Before your localtime nightfall, sire, at the latest.”

  “Nightfall! That is far too long.”

  “Shall I have the Heroes leap without their beasts?”

  “Don’t toy with me, Captain. Fix the problem.”

  “As soon as possible, sire.”

  Alarms began to sound throughout the Citadel, a deep, sonorous booming. Kchula-Tzaatz cringed involuntarily. At best they had found the assassin, at worst the traitor. In either case he was rapidly running out of time.

  A spy is worth eight-to-the-fourth warriors, a traitor eight-to-the-fifth.

  —Si-Rrit

  Two warriors of the zitalyi in full battle armor crouched on one knee at the entrance to the Command Lair, weapons ready in their shoulders. Their faces were hidden beneath the blast shields of their helmets, but Second-Son knew that behind them their eyes were alert, searching out threats. Second-Son moved with neither haste nor delay and his manner was calm, as befitted a son of the Patriarch, but he found it difficult to quiet his mind beneath their watchful gaze. The alarms had been shut off, but the tension in the air was palpable. The inner sanctum had been breached, the heir apparent attacked in his own chamber, almost killed. The Patriarch’s Guard was disgraced and Guardmaster humiliated. Second-Son rippled his ears at that thought at least. One of the guards noticed, shifted his attention slightly, and Second-Son’s momentary pleasure evaporated. The guards could not, of course, know what was in his mind, but Patriarch’s Telepath could, and if he had looked in Second-Son’s mind then those same guards would need only a gesture from Myowr-Guardmaster to kill him on the spot. Would his father order it done? He shuddered. Meerz-Rrit was Patriarch; he would have no choice.

  His skin crawled as he went up to them. They did not shoot, although their manner made it clear they would like to shoot something. They waved him into the antechamber. Beyond the inner door he heard voices raised to snarls, muffled but clear.

  “They have harmed my son. I will spit their heads on pikes in Hero’s Square!”

  “He will recover, Patriarch.”

  “That is not the point, Rrit-Conserver.”

  “Hrrr. This is the most important point.”

  There was a pause, then the Patriarch spoke again, slightly calmer. “You are right, of course. Nevertheless I do not intend to let the attempt go unavenged.”

  Second-Son breathed deeply and entered the Command Lair. Things were not going as planned. He must be calm, remain flexible, wait for his moment. The Command Lair floor was knee deep in a holo of the Citadel, defenses highlighted in red, command units shown in green, combat units in orange, support units in blue. Guardmaster was at a command desk, snarling commands into his comlink. Meerz-Rrit stopped his pacing as Second-Son came in, lips twitching over his fangs, clearly still upset.

  “Do you have suspects, Father?” Do you suspect me?

  “It is not enough to suspect. I must have evidence.”

  “Evidence. Who would stand to gain by First-Son’s death?”

  Conserver unfurled his ears. “On first inspection, only you, Black-Stripe.”

  A thrill of fear ran through Second-Son. “Conserver, you insult me.” He knows!

  “It is a simple fact, not an accusation.” Conserver noted Second-Son’s carefully suppressed reaction. So he is involved. But he did not do this alone.

  “Had I designs on my brother I would not require such a devious weapon.” Only the p’chert toxin on my wtsai. Second-Son hoped he wouldn’t have to use that weapon here and now. His father, Conserver, and Guardmaster were all consummate warriors. Surprise might gain him the first kill, and the toxin might gain him the second, but that was all he could hope for, and even if he won, the guards would come in…If First-Son had died and he slew his father he could claim their fealty and their obedience as Patriarch, but First-Son had not died. “Stkaa Pride.” He tried to keep his voice level. “Stkaa-Emissary expected your support and lost everything. He seeks vengeance.” Focus their attention elsewhere.

  Meerz-Rrit turned his paw over. “No, that…that thing …This attempt took preparation, and Stkaa Pride has not had time.”

  “If not them, then who else has cause for vengeance?”

  Conserver narrowed his eyes. “It is not vengeance they seek, it is advantage.”

  Meerz-Rrit’s whiskers twitched. “Your wisdom shows, Conserver. The attack while the assembly was in session was designed to show Rrit Pride as vulnerable before the Great Pride Circle.”

  “To what end, Father?” Second-Son spread his ears. Confusion mimics innocence.

  “Perhaps they were planning to declare open skalazaal before the assembly, and at the same instant claim first blood. To rob Rrit Pride of strakh with all the Great Prides at once, and claim the Citadel and the Patriarchy for themselves.” A thrill of fear shot through Second-Son. Did his father know, or was he guessing?

  “No, the loss of First-Son would cost us strakh, but no more.” Rrit-Conserver’s voice was sure.

  “No pride has taken advantage.” Second-Son did his best to sound like he was puzzling out the problem.

  Guardmaster stood from his console and turned. “They could not. First-Son did not die.”

  “But they did not, and could not, know that. Even we did not know his condition until his slave found him.”

  “The possibility frightens me.” Meerz-Rrit lashed his tail. “Skalazaal declared and the heir dead immediately afterward. Think of the strakh that would accumulate to such a bold stroke!”

  “But they did not make the declaration.” Conserver stroked his whiskers. “Either some component of their plan was not in place, or the timing is coincidental and there is a deeper game here.”

  “The game is deep enough already.”

  Second-Son breathed deep before he spoke. “What game?” Divert their attention!

  “This is the question.” Guardmaster turned his paw over. “Declaring skalazaal as the stroke falls is within the bounds of honor. Attack without declaration is not. To claim it now would bring shame and censure.”

  Second-Son unfurled his ears. “Perhaps the perpetrators want to have someone else blamed for their crime.” Plant the seed of doubt before the evidence starts to grow!

  “Guardmaster.” Meerz-Rrit’s voice carried decision. “Have Patriarch’s Telepath know the minds of our guests. We will find the guilty by the evidence of their own thoughts.”

  “Most have brought their own Telepaths. Their minds will be shielded.”

  “This is no obstacle for Patriarch’s Telepath.”

  “It will take considerable time, sire, and the results may be less than reliable.”
/>   “Find me the guilty, Myowr-Guardmaster. Give me no more delays.”

  “As you command, Patriarch.”

  While they spoke, Rrit-Conserver had closed an ear to listen to his complant, his eyes far away for an instant. “Patriarch, Ztal-Biologist has completed his investigation of the creature. His findings are ready.”

  “Excellent. Guardmaster, you know what I want. Seal the Citadel until Telepath’s investigation is complete. If the guilty are in my house they will not leave it. Rrit-Conserver, with me.”

  “As you command.”

  Outside the Command Lair the guards fell into formation ahead of the Patriarch, clearing the corridors and rooms ahead of him in deadly earnest. Ambush by a second assassin was not impossible, and they were determined the Patriarch not fall victim on their watch. Meerz-Rrit was impassive, the agitation he had displayed so freely in the Command Lair masterfully suppressed in the presence of inferiors. Second-Son excused himself since his father had given him no instructions. He needed time and space to think. The world was collapsing around his ears. He himself would not be subjected to Patriarch’s Telepath, but Kchula-Tzaatz would be, sooner or later. When he was, Second-Son’s part in the plot would be known at once, and then what? Exile, castration, death in the Arena. There were no positive outcomes.

  Curse Kchula-Tzaatz! He had promised warriors, a fast coup, bloodless and simple, and the Patriarchy as his own! Had Second-Son refused the offer, reported it, he would have been a hero, at least seen as a dutiful and honorable son. Had the plot worked, this morning the Patriarchy would have been in his grasp, First-Son dead while the Great Pride Circle met, Kchula’s Heroes dropping from the sky even as Kchula himself declared the Honor-War. A simple slash with his toxin-edged wtsai and his father would be out of the way, and an order sent, his first as Patriarch, for Guardmaster’s defenders to stand down. With Kchula throwing his support to Second-Son as his warriors secured the Citadel, none of the Great Circle would dispute the new order. And all whom he ruled would know he was a ruler ready to enforce his edicts with his own claws.