“What are they?”
“This symbol is the sigil of the Patriarch, demonstrating that you are under his protection. Without these you may be killed as game.”
Tskombe didn't look pleased, but said nothing. He too was accustoming himself to speak as a diplomat. Brasseur had been chosen because of his knowledge of kzinti culture, and Cherenkova was sure he was an intelligent choice for the role. She and Tskombe had been picked because it was felt the kzin would respect their considerable combat experience. The wisdom of that decision remained to be seen.
The ramp hissed and slid open, and Cherenkova looked out into a sea of predatory faces. I have nothing to be afraid of. Her hands were slick with sweat as she put the sigil over her head.
Yiao-Rrit sniffed the air and looked at her. “You are in no danger, Cherenkova-Captain. You are under the protection of the Patriarch.”
He was right, of course. That didn't stop the danger signals leaping from her hindbrain to her adrenal glands. The lead kzin came aboard and performed a ritual cringe before Yiao-Rrit.
“I abase myself, sire. I am Chmee-Captain. I trust your journey was successful.”
Yiao-Rrit returned the salute with a relaxed paw wave. “It was, Chmee-Captain.”
“We have quarters prepared for your guests, and entertainments for the in-fall.”
“Excellent.” Supple-armed Jotok slaves took the humans' baggage and led them into the depths of the ship.
Cherenkova found their quarters spacious. In fact everything aboard the alien warcraft was spacious by human standards, but the gravity was set too high and the lighting made everything orange. The kzinti had expected her to share accommodations with Tskombe. Brasseur had been given his own stateroom as leader of the mission. She felt a little thrill at that news, and the conflict in her heart between desire and duty rose a notch, but Brasseur chivalrously volunteered to trade his own. She hadn't expected that of him, but he was Plateau Crew. It was probably noblesse oblige. She couldn't protest, and though the move spared her from temptation she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.
Sleeping arrangements were a couch as big as a king-sized bed, covered in pillows and blankets. The washroom was a high-technology sandbox in an alcove paneled in scented wood; she'd figure that out when she had to. Food was waiting for her, thick slices of alien meat piled high on a platter, elaborately prepared and seasoned and absolutely raw, with a thin-bladed knife as the sole eating utensil. They'd given her a hydrogen torch to cook it with.
She considered it at some length. It can't be more alien than squid. She wasn't that hungry yet.
The door slid open and a kzin stood there, all fangs and claws, pupils contracted to narrow slits. What were kzin protocols about knocking and privacy? Brasseur had lectured them endlessly on kzin history and society, but it was the small details that mattered. She realized she had much to learn if she was going to do her job properly, and she was going to have to learn it in a hurry.
“You are the kz'eerkti Cherenkova-Captain?” Its words were slurred but intelligible. Kz'eerkti was the common semi-slang term for humans in the Hero's Tongue, the name of a tree-dwelling, vaguely monkeylike species on Kzinhome. It could be used as an insult, or simply descriptively.
“Yes.” She nodded, reflexively, not sure if the kzin would understand the gesture. Would Brasseur be as lost as she was? Academic knowledge was not practical experience, but he had lived twelve years on W'kkai.
“I am Second Officer. At the invitation of Chmee-Captain, there is a dance display in honor of Yiao-Rrit's return.”
A dance display? She tried to imagine the huge carnivore before her dancing and nearly laughed at the image. That would be bad. Laughing showed teeth, and showing teeth meant challenge; she knew that much at least. She considered, looked again at the bloody slabs of meat on the platter, looked at her beltcomp. It was more than twenty hours until planetfall on Kzinhome. Watching the display would give her something to do, and might give her some new understanding of kzin culture.
And it certainly would be an experience she'd never have again in her life. That decided her.
“Yes, I'll go.”
Second Officer gave her a claw-rake salute and left, and Cherenkova decided that he had meant kz'eerkti in its purely descriptive sense. He was probably as uncomfortable with interspecies protocols as she was. We call them ratcats anyway, because they look like naked-tailed tigers, and that's both descriptive and derogatory.
The display was held in a large room with wide tiers going down to a circular stage area in the center. The tiers were padded for reclining, too large to be easy steps for a human. She clambered down to where Brasseur and Tskombe were already waiting and exchanged greetings. A tier below them Chmee-Captain and Yiao-Rrit snarled amicably back and forth, their voices quasi-musical in the room's excellent acoustics. She had the déjà vu experience of a night out at the opera, waiting for the show to begin while the orchestra tuned up. She made herself comfortable, sitting back against the next tier. The padding material was resilient and warm and as she settled, the lights suddenly went down and a rhythmic beat began.
For several minutes that was all there was. The music built in tempo and volume, and then a spotlight came on and a kzin leapt onto the stage, pelt a uniform tawny gold and small, at least by kzin standards, with a distinctive dark tail-tuft. The dancer looked left, then right, pounced forward and then crawled, head low to the ground, tail twitching from side to side. Perhaps the dance simulated hunting.
Brasseur pointed excitedly. “I've heard of this; I've never seen it. This is a stylized version of the offering display where a female is gifted from pride to pride.”
Female? Cherenkova looked, saw for the first time the prominent teats. All of a sudden she saw the dancer's movements in a whole new light.
“Aren't the females non-sentient?”
Brasseur nodded. “In relative terms they are, but they're smarter than chimpanzees, just to put them in human perspective. They have language and tool use. These dances take months of training, and skilled trainers command considerable strakh.”
“What's strakh?”
“Reputation or status, more or less. Kzinti have no currency; they trade based on strakh. If you have high strakh you will be offered fine goods by the best craftsman, invitations to high-profile hunts, even fealty by other kzinti. By accepting you enhance the strakh of the giver as well as your own. Only the finest crafters have their work accepted by the nobility. If you have lower strakh you wouldn't be made the offer in the first place.”
“How do they keep track of it?”
“How do you keep track of who owes you a favor? It's their culture, they just do.” He pointed at the stage. “Shh, it's the next sequence.”
Another kzinrette had joined the first and the dance became an intricate pairing of symbolisms, mother and kitten, hunter and prey, male and female in mating. Some of the meanings were unclear, but there was a sensuous, powerful beauty to the way the lithe females swayed and stretched in syncopy with the rhythm. A third leapt in and the movements became more complex, the three circling nose to tail, reversing, leaping outward. Again the movements clearly symbolized roles, maybe entire stories, but they were now too abstracted for Cherenkova to tell what they meant.
One of the dancers leapt upward and yowled, a long, earsplitting wail. Cherenkova clapped her hands over her ears. Brasseur's fascinated absorption with the display didn't waver, but beside him Tskombe grimaced. The intricately unfolding dance was beautiful, the steady percussion rhythm compelling. The wail cut across the experience like a rusty band saw. The kzinrette sounded like nothing more than a wildcat in desperate heat. The next dancer in the circle leapt upward and yowled, if anything louder and longer than her sister.