Pouncer had grown up in the Citadel, explored its myriad corridors as a kitten, played in its secret spaces, dutifully learned its history from the stern Rrit-Conserver. At first the structure had been as pervasive and unnoticed as the air he breathed, but as he matured he had slowly come to understand what the vast fortress represented, and was increasingly unable to escape its implications.
It was about power, nothing more and nothing less. The Citadel was built to protect what belonged to its keepers and aid them in taking what belonged to others. Every detail of its construction, from the ancient stone battlements of the Inner Fortress to the mag field generators and laser cannon of the Outer Fortress, was aimed at that goal. Every tapestry, every holo, every sculpture in it told a part of that story of conquest. It was a nexus of control, its influence radiating from the Command Lair protected deep within its heart to the very borders of the Patriarchy, no less than fifty light-years in any direction you cared to point. That control stretched to vast fleets of warships, uncountable legions of Heroes, orbital dockyards, bases, colonies, entire star systems, eight sentient slave species, eight-squared Great Prides. All of them swore fealty to the Patriarch.
And it was certain that Meerz-Rrit deserved that fealty. He was a fearless warrior, cunning tactician, consummate diplomat. His honor was beyond question and his wisdom beyond measure. He was everything a Patriarch should, no, must be to exercise control over that vast empire. When he died there would be no lack of heroic deeds to immortalize in stone and steel, no shortage of tales of valor and victory to add to the eight-to-the-fourth stanzas of the Rrit Pride saga.
But when Meerz-Rrit died, Pouncer would become Patriarch. From his earliest realization of that fact he had applied himself diligently to master the skills he would need to rule his father's empire, but the more he learned the more he found he had yet to learn. He had long since despaired of achieving his father's greatness. Recently he had come to despair of reaching even minimal competence. He would have given a lot to have been born to a less demanding role. He rippled his ears at the irony, his mood lifting slightly. There were few in the Patriarchy, he knew, who would not have eagerly traded places with him, even, no especially Black-Stripe. His half-brother's ambition was clear, but Second-Son was young yet. A few more years trying to gain the skills required of a Patriarch would leave him happy to accept the role of trusted zar'ameer, the Patriarch's right hand, as his uncle Yiao-Rrit did for his father.
His steps brought him through the armory hall to the Puzzle Garden, a great courtyard within the walls of the Middle Fortress. An intricate hedge maze of manicured scentvine filled most of it, its configuration changed every High Hunter's Moon by means of clever gates that were themselves puzzles to open. You could lose a day, or several, trying to find your way through its convolutions to the amusing surprises the Jotoki tenders hid throughout it, but the maze itself was the least challenging puzzle in the garden. The best work of the Conundrum Priests came to the Puzzle Garden. Some of the sculptures were generations old, and some of them had never been solved.
Rrit-Conserver was waiting on a bench near the maze entrance. “You are late, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit.”
“I abase myself, Rrit-Conserver. I must confess no eagerness for today.”
“So I surmised. And how was yesterday's discipline with Guardmaster?”
“I have much to learn yet. Sometimes I fear I will never master the formal combat forms.”
Conserver nodded. “This is good. You are improving.”
“I don't understand, Conserver.”
“Single combat, like many disciplines, can never be fully mastered. You may only strive for continuous improvement. Knowledge of your limitations is the first step to maturity. From maturity comes self-discipline, which will allow you to excel at the warrior's art.”
Pouncer twitched his whiskers. “Your words don't fit my ears.”
“In time they will.”
“I am here for my test, Conserver. How may I prepare myself?”
“There is no preparation. You are going to visit Patriarch's Telepath.” Rrit-Conserver rose, the blue robe and sash of his station swirling as he led the way to the maze entrance.
A tremor of not-quite-fear ran through Pouncer as he followed. Like all of his kind, Patriarch's Telepath could hold no rank or status, crippled as he was by his addiction to the sthondat blood extract that enhanced his inborn talent. Unlike other telepaths he was treated respectfully, even deferentially. In the Patriarch's court it was whispered that his Gift could reach to other stars, that he could read the thoughts of the recently dead, that he could become the minds he probed. If the rumors were true it spoke volumes for his strength of will that his Gift hadn't claimed his sanity. Pouncer for one believed them. You had only to stand once in the presence of Patriarch's Telepath to know the truth of his power. It was a presence he systematically avoided.
Not today. A Whrloo slave was waiting at the maze entrance for them, no taller than Pouncer's knee, carapace iridescent in the afternoon sun. Conserver pointed. “This slave knows today's route to the center of the maze. Telepath is waiting for you there.”
“I will do my best.”
“I know you will.” For a moment Pouncer thought he detected a note of concern, even compassion, in his gruff mentor's manner. Rrit-Conserver's disquiet did nothing for his sense of equanimity. The Whrloo buzzed into the air. Wings blurring, it twirled on its axis and headed down the arching scentvine corridor. Pouncer hurried after it.
The route the Whrloo took led quickly into the heart of the maze, past intricate gardens whose flower arrangements hid route clues and carved game stones whose solutions coded hints to other mysteries. The puzzle gates had been set, Pouncer realized, to allow fast access to the maze center, if you happened to know the turnings. Another Whrloo buzzed heavily past and as Pouncer turned to watch its iridescent flight he saw a five-armed Jotok resetting one of the gates behind them. Anyone who happened to wander into the maze later would find his route impossible to follow and, he had no doubt, the center impossible to find. His test would be held not just in the inherent security of the Citadel, not in a closer privacy ensured by guards, but in subtle secrecy. Who might command zitalyi set by Rrit-Conserver to stand aside? Only his father, and his father was occupied preparing for the Great Pride Circle. So it was not just the test itself but the very fact that the test was occurring that was secret. It is serious, very serious, he thought to himself, and the knowledge was unsettling.
The slave led him quite quickly to the center of the maze. There was a larger garden there, shaded by tangle-trees, and a water-clock. A fountain at its top splashed streams through a bewildering array of troughs and basins, driving wheels and levers to move the gears that turned its bronze dials. The motion was ever changing and chaotic but the clock itself kept perfect time. Ordinarily Pouncer could have spent half the afternoon enjoying its motion. Today it didn't merit a glance.