Pouncer moved back to his starting point. “You insulted me, Guardmaster.”
The battle scarred warrior rippled his ears. “Of course. I fight to win, and if I can cloud your mind with anger I will win. Insults will not kill you, but losing self-control is fatal. Rage is death. Anger makes you fight hard, but you cannot win if your mind is not clear.”
“It is easier to say than to exercise.”
“One day you will be Patriarch, Pouncer, and then you will have no one but yourself to keep your rage in check.”
“I will do better, Guardmaster.” Pouncer took a deep breath to ready himself for the next bout. “Again, First Trainer?” He moved to resting guard position in anticipation of the command.
“Again! V'scree!”
“Wait!” All three of them looked up to the gallery that ran around the top of the arena. Second-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was there watching them. Pouncer's younger brother had the same Rrit-characteristic orange/black coat as he did, but he was short and broad compared to Pouncer's lean form, with a distinctive series of black bands along his shoulders and back.
“Your training time is long over, Elder-Brother. This is my time for the Arena.”
A momentary annoyance washed over Pouncer. Second-Son was right, but as always his manner was unnecessarily hostile. He raised his ears and kept the irritation from his voice. “Of course, Black-Stripe, I am tired of looking up at Guardmaster's blade anyway.”
Second-Son's lips curled in a suppressed snarl at the sound of his hated familiar-name but he too kept his voice level. “Rrit-Conserver is expecting you.”
“My test is tomorrow, brother.”
Guardmaster watched the exchange in distaste, offended by Second-Son's antagonism. He trained First-Son because he enjoyed it and Second-Son because it was his duty. He hefted his variable sword and cocked an ear in not-quite-sincere invitation. “Would you care for a bout, Second-Son?”
“I will confine myself to the training drone.” Second-Son's voice held an arrogance he was entitled to by birth if not by ability. “Guardmaster, First Trainer, you are dismissed.”
Guardmaster swirled his tail in indifference. “As you wish.” Trainer gathered his training aids, turned to Guardmaster and Pouncer, and gave a claw-rake salute.
“Sires, until tomorrow.” He left through the training gate.
Guardmaster turned to Pouncer. “A quick hunt in the Darkmoon Park might make a meal.”
Pouncer depowered his mag armor, the perfect mirror surface reverting to lustrous copper, and tossed it aside for the pierin training slaves to collect. “The Hero's Square Market has easier prey for a tired student.” He rippled his ears in amusement.
Guardmaster twitched his tail as he depowered his own armor. “Hrrr. You know I disapprove of the risk.”
“What risk, with you as my sword and shield?”
“I'm too old to duel on some kzintzag's whim.” Guardmaster twitched his whiskers grumpily. “But I'd better come so you don't get yourself lost.”
On the gallery above them Second-Son watched them leave, his lips curling up over his fangs in distaste. He had been watching them for some time from the shadows of the gallery, his impatience growing steadily. First-Son used the arena as though it belonged to him, as he acted about all things in the Citadel of the Patriarch. The knowledge that one day it would belong to him, along with the Patriarchy and all that went with it galled Second-Son. The jotok beside him sensed his displeasure and tried to slip away, but a curt gesture stopped it. He ignored her, his thoughts occupied with his brother. It pleased him to see Guardmaster administer humiliation to his father's favored son, but there was no denying Pouncer's skill at single combat. Second-Son disdained the rigors of the formal combat form and its emphasis on self-restraint. Instead he preferred live meat. There was little danger in a duel between a hapless slave and a noble equipped with mag armor and a variable sword, but much excitement. Dueling slaves was forbidden, and First-Son lacked the liver to defy their father's edict, but simple obedience was not what it took to wield the power of the Patriarchy. For now there was little that Second-Son could do but bear his brother's unfounded arrogance and keep his trophies well hidden, but one day his moment would come. When Second-Son was Patriarch he would wear his ears with pride, and everyone who saw them would know he backed his rule with his own claws.
With a gesture he ordered the cowering slave onto the arena floor and then screamed and leapt from the balcony, his variable sword a blur of slash attacks as he channeled the rage he felt at his brother into his weapon.
Generosity gives a generous life.
The sun was up and on its way down again, filtering soft light through the high canopy of sheetleaf trees in the Eastern Park, warm on Pouncer's fur as he and Guardmaster went over the burbling Quickwater at the River Gate bridge in the outer fortress wall. Once the Citadel had sat on an island in the river, but the fortress had long since outgrown its boundaries. Only at River Gate was the Citadel's outer wall still protected by water. Upstream the other fork flowed through an ornate portcullis in the Middle Rampart to form the centerpiece of several of the parks and gardens within. Around River Gate smallholdings were scattered, visible here and there between the huge, gray sheetleaf trunks, largely the homes of those who served at the Citadel. Pouncer threaded his way down the wide paths, enjoying the stretch of his muscles after the hard training session.
“One day you will be challenged here.” Guardmaster reemphasized his disapproval. The safety of the Patriarch's heir was his responsibility.
Pouncer rippled his ears. “I imagine myself equal to it with you by my side.” Guardmaster's deadly precision with a variable sword was legendary across all of Kzinhome.
“A wise warrior chooses his opponents, sire. He doesn't let his opponents choose him. You are the Patriarchy.”
Pouncer waved a dismissive paw. “My father is the Patriarchy. I am only his son, and he has many sons.”
“You are the oldest, and by far the most worthy to succeed him.”
Pouncer rippled his ears, understanding the implied comparison with his next-oldest brother. “Black-Stripe is young yet. I remember when you took another unruly and disobedient kitten into training.”
Guardmaster's irritation faded at Pouncer's humor. “That one has improved with the seasons.”
“And has some improving yet to do.”
“You are too hard on yourself, sire. You have mastered a great deal for your age.”
“My father cannot walk in the market.” Pouncer changed the subject, uncomfortable with praise for a performance he felt was substandard. “His leadership is too important to risk. But the kzintzag will see his son and know the Patriarchy doesn't hide behind the Citadel walls. It is important.”
Guardmaster was silent. He is right, he thought to himself. Which does not mean I have to like it.
It was some distance to the market, but the breeze was heavy with its scent, the urine marks of the stall holders, hot metal from a coppersmith's booth, leather from a cloak vendor's, frightened prey animals in display cages, ozone and oil from gravcars, fresh plasteel from component shops. Pouncer inhaled the scent, sampling each of its notes with pleasure. There were times, more and more frequently of late, when he thought it would be easier to live as a crafter did, his days bound by nothing more than the cycle of trade and tradition. It was a thought without honor, he knew, but he could not deny its attraction.