They were met by a silent Jotok slave, in yellow-laced livery, who walked leisurely upon the pads of his primary elbows, thus freeing his hands. When a Jotok ran, and they could run very fast, they ran on their wrist pads, with their five-thumbed hands locked out of the way around the wrist. The centerpiece of the room beyond the hallway was a replica of ancient kzin battle armor of the kind that had been supplied to the kzinti by their then Jotok employees. The battlewear had, tied to it, ceramic tokens of kzin manufacture.
Something to humble the Jotok slaves who dusted it, thought Short-Son—except slaves were never taught their history. This yellow frocked dandy who preceded them would not even know that his kind had once had a home sun or that they had been stupid enough to hire mercenaries to fight their battles for them.
Jotok-Tender relaxed himself on his big lounge. He did not invite Short-Son to sit, and the youth, taking the hint, stood at attention, alert, his ears respectfully raised to catch any wisdom or approbation that might be sent his way.
“Your father will not be pleased with you, youngling!” he growled.
“No, Tender.”
“I will have to offer him an explanation.”
“Yes, Tender.”
“Younglings have been known to tell the truth by remaining silent. I wish the true story without the silent parts. It will save me beating it out of you.”
“My tongue is at your command!”
The giant’s ragged ears rippled in amusement. “In the meantime you may sit and relax.”
He turned his great head to the waiting slave. “Server-One, refreshments. Grashi-burrowers in the iridium bowls!” Above the arms, full of intestines, the slave’s warty head could show no expression. His invisible undermouth clicked acknowledgment. One eye was fixed on the Tender, a second eye fixed on Short-Son, while three other eyes wandered.
Short-Son did not dare to sit down and put himself at ease, but he had been ordered to do just that! He sat and tried to stay at attention. This Jotok-Tender seemed to like him despite gruff ways. Why? It was suspicious. He scanned all the hypotheses he could think of.
The slave reappeared on three elbows, two arms carrying a black lacquered tray with legs, upon which sat two small but tall ceramic sacrificial bowls, inlaid with iridium, and set in carved wood. Short-Son could smell the spices in the sauce—imported, expensive, inappropriate for a thrashing.
A second slave in blue livery brought the squirming Grashi-burrowers, who were mewing softly, handing one of the animals to Server-One, keeping the other. Expertly the animals were beheaded and their blood drained into the cups to enrich the sauce, the Jotoki squeezing/releasing to help the failed hearts move the blood. Then each slave sliced open his delicacy, swiftly removing the intestines, feet, and other inedible parts. The small beasts went back into the bowls, neck down; the slaves curtsied, and left the room.
For all this while Jotok-Tender had not spoken. He pushed one of the cocktails slightly forward toward Short-Son, taking one himself, to pick up the burrower and munch on it delicately, without using his ripping fangs. Then he dunked the beast back in his bowl for more sauce. Short-Son watched carefully. To him the morsel in the cup was but one mouthful, but he had no intention of displeasing his host—he ate his gift one tiny bite at a time, returning it again and again for more sauce. He was too anxious to actually enjoy what he was tasting.
“You are brave to have Jotoki for personal servants,” he said to make polite conversation. He knew that his father detested the five armed creatures and thought of them as treacherous liars fit only for the mines and factories.
“No. There are rules to training a Jotok. Do it right and one can find no more loyal slave among the stars. A competent kzin wins his battles; a kzin in a hurry loses his life—so goes the saying and few pay attention to it. A kzin troubled by his Jotok is a poor trainer. However, you need not listen to me. You are an impetuous youth and impetuous youths do not have the time to listen to an old kzin.”
“I am indeed impetuous in my ways and lacking in the wisdom that so great a one as you could impart to me—but not so impetuous that I would leap ahead of your stalking. There is pleasure in following the pads of a graceful gait.”
The ears fluttered again. “But I doubt that I would have anything to teach you about flattery. Your tale, youngling!”
Short-Son was already aware of his good luck. He had by now deduced that this old kzin, who had never made a name for himself and had never been allowed a household of females, dwelled upon the pleasures of fatherhood. Living alone, he lacked all knowledge of how much trouble kits and grown sons and pampered females could be. So he longed for a son. It was plain.
Just as plain as it was that Short-Son of Chiirr-Nig longed for a protector.
This was a delicate situation. Jotok-Tender would want a brave warrior for a son, and that was something that Short-Son could dream about but never be. Yet he couldn’t lie about himself to this potential protector—only slaves and monkeys lied—but if he told the truth…
“We young trouble-makers play games,” he began carefully.
“I remember,” said the old kzin gruffly.
“Today I was at a disadvantage. Seven well-trained warriors were arrayed against me.”
“Seven adolescent kits—short-tempered, with the brains of pre-adolescent Jotoki—were arrayed against you, yes,” snorted the kzin. He was insulting Short-Son’s companions; a pre-adolescent Jotok had no more wit than a female—animal cunning at best—and did not acquire male reason until after full growth.
“Brawn without brain can be quite effective in some situations,” the youth sidestepped. “There have been times when an immature Jotok killed his kzin
