The old kzin was grinning. It frightened Short-Son into a state of heart palpitations, even though he could see the faraway look in Jotok-Tender’s eyes. “I faced such a group as yours once. I also stayed and fought. I didn’t die. They only got half an ear for their belts.” Then the Tender did a strange thing. He stopped grinning, and he rippled only one ear, the ear that was half gone.
What could Short-Son say to that? He quoted military history. “It is recorded that the great Hanash-Grrsh at the battle of the Furry Nebula, when faced by a superior Jotok fleet, disengaged.”
“Ah, you are telling me, with oblique honesty, that you ran from your attackers.”
“Hanash-Grrsh defeated the Jotok fleet some octal-to-three days later!” said Short-Son defensively.
“With a command that included octal-to-six of tested warriors, don’t forget. I suspect that you, on the other paw, are acting alone. If you were indeed surrounded by these seven ferocious youths, how then were you able to escape?”
This discussion wasn’t going at all well. “Through an airlock,” he said meekly. “They weren’t thinking of the outside as a battlefield and neglected to cover that option.”
“Not likely. You surprised them. They didn’t suspect that you’d run. Kzin warriors don’t run from honor. You surprise even me. No need to explain to me why you chose to re-enter through the Jotok Run—they wouldn’t be here or even have spies here.”
“I will train myself and fight them to victory another day!” Short-Son half-growled defiantly.
“Not likely. I know the games. You are marked for death. They have smelled your cowardice just as I smell it now.”
Short-Son was stung. “I could stay here and work for you. I’m good with machines.”
“No. You are cruel with my helpless Jotoki. Cowardice makes a kzin cruel, always, always, always. I cannot shield your cowardice. You are your father’s responsibility.” He drooped his eyes sadly.
I’ll never have a protector, thought Short-Son. There was no place to hide. “My father will thrash me for trespassing.”
“I suppose he will.”
“I would rather have you thrash me, old one.”
Jotok-Tender cuffed the youngling gently, as if he were a brother. He growled for Server-One, who came scuttling in on five wrists, one armored eye on Jotok-Tender and another eye on the tray and bowls. After a whispered conversation, the eyes focused on Short-Son. The slave returned with a thin, polished switch.
“This will make welts that will impress your father,” the kzin growled, “but it won’t do any damage, and the pain will be gone within days. Three welts should be enough. Are you ready?”
Short-Son could endure anything when he knew he wasn’t going to be killed. “Yes, honored warrior.”
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Strange—when this giant beat him he was not even afraid. “You would make a good father.” He was trying to tempt the old kzin.
“We will never know. I will take you home to your father’s compound so that you will not be waylaid before you get there. I will explain your situation to him, and convince him to give you one last course in bravery. Listen to him. Do not listen to your false emotions. Your life depends upon that.”
“You speak the truth, old kzin.”
“I myself can teach you little about combat, not being as skilled a warrior as your honorable father, but I can teach you one maneuver that saved my life. Do you sometimes find it difficult to leap?”
All the time. “I have found it difficult to leap at seven smiles.”
“Hesitation is the essence of this maneuver. Studied hesitation is best, but hesitation induced by fear can serve just as well. This trick was never taught to me. I learned the whole thing at once, by chance, and killed my attacker. I practiced months to learn what I had done and how to repeat it. It is the only real warrior skill I have. Come.”
The giant took Short-Son through rock tunnels to a domed arena which was used to train many Jotoki at once, seducing them to the discipline of taking orders. An eight-and-four of the Jotok were there, practicing the physical arts in a game of move-ball. Their master shooed them to the sidelines where they clustered in a chaos of arms.
He placed Short-Son in front of him, then backed away, crouching. “Now leap at me!”
The youngling tried but fear paralyzed him and he couldn’t leap.
Jotok-Tender roared. “This is only a demonstration! Leap!”
He leapt at the giant, feebly hoping to please him.
The huge kzin sidestepped, turned, and reached out an arm. Short-Son felt his leap go awry, felt his arms fling out from the attack posture in an instinctive attempt to regain his balance, felt himself twisted to flop onto his back like a carcass of flung meat. How did that happen? A fanged face was grinning down at him. When he moved his dizzy head in an attempt to get up he saw along the wall an array of armored eyes watching him from the shoulders of a tangled mass of limbs, undermouths tittering.
Jotok-Tender was unconcerned. “If my claws had been extended, you’d be lying there with your throat ripped out, temporarily a very surprised kzin. Standing over my first victim, I was very surprised myself. Get up. Now I will jump you as soon as I have shown you how to swivel the pads of your feet.”
CHAPTER 4
(2391–2392 A.D.)
In the social protocol of the Hssin Fortress, Chiirr-Nig, the elder, would never have entertained Hssin’s nameless Jotok-Tender—but a matter of father and son always took precedence. There was no better way to enter a named-one’s household than to voluntarily take upon oneself the son-duties of an absent father, and, while doing so, protect the father’s reputation. Since the Jotok-Tender had handled the son’s transgression discreetly, without public humiliation for the father, with disciplined kindness for the son, he was welcome, even to a seat, in the great front room of the Chiirr-Nig compound.
Awkward kdatlyno slaves were in attendance and two wives lounged on the rug beside the rippling
