"What is this?" inquired Chuut-Riit mildly.
"This Animal is unfit to carry the duties of a Conquest Hero."
The ears of Chuut-Riit flicked in amusement. "I believe the tournament is settling such matters."
"This cowardly Animal won't be found in any tournament ring. I challenge him here."
"I see." Chuut-Riit seemed aloof from the menace and anger. He turned to Trainer-of-Slaves matter-of-factly. "Hssin-Liaison has been using his contacts among the young warriors to enlist troops for my Fourth Fleet." He lapsed into silence, waiting, perhaps curious that Trainer-of-Slaves had chosen to ignore the challenge.
"Voice of the Patriarch, my duty is to the execution of the hunt," Trainer replied stiffly.
"Good." Chuut-Riit only glanced toward his liaison underling, then addressed the others. He was obviously not willing to interfere in local squabbles about which he knew nothing. "I am here for a slow hunt no quick kill. We flush and pursue. We challenge and fall back. We play. We save the kill for twilight. Yes, I'm anticipating my first taste of human flesh, but I am far more interested in observing the response of the enemy under attack. No weapons. No devices. Those are the rules."
Every other kzin at the meet added another rule silently. The harassing would be enjoyable, but the final kill must be given to Chuut-Riit alone.
The banners were staked into a circle. Noiselessly the hunters moved into the woods under the arching ceilings. Chuut-Riit loosened his leather armor and gave Trainer-of-Slaves one last noncommittal gaze. "So the hunter becomes the hunted." Then he was gone.
Deeper into the trees a five-limbed beast dropped beside Trainer. "Hssin-Liaison threatened you with death."
"He won't be able to find me. Only you know the Run better than I. He's good on rooftops. He's a city kzin." Contempt. "I'm Mellow-Yellow, remember, who floats among the leaves like lamplight. I'll take him in circles." But the plan wasn't to take him in circles; the plan was to lead Puller-of-Noses away from the man-beasts. It was the least he could do for them, to neutralize one of the hunters.
The man-beasts were trapped, and allowed to escape, twice before midday. Jotok-Tender's slaves brought in a simple lunch for the hunters, served on collapsible canvas tables. Chuut-Riit paced about their vale making intellectual pronouncements upon the evasive tactics of the day's game. "Innovative," he called them. He liked that. Hssin-Liaison managed to mix some leaves into Trainer-of-Slaves meat. Kasrriss-As spent his time ingratiating himself into Chuut-Riits favor and discussing the textile trade with Traat-Admiral. He was the one who had stayed behind while the other warriors raided Alpha Centauri.
The canvas tables were folded and whisked away by the slaves. Chuut-Riit amiably resumed his tracking. However old his eyes, his nose was a marvel at spotting spoor, his mind superb at guessing the moves of his prey.
"We'll wound them this time, and watch how they handle that."
When Chuut-Riit smiled beside a craggy lava outcrop and then moved left instead of right a secret pleasure rippled under the fur of Trainer-of-Slaves. Last night he had not been able to determine for sure whether his man-beasts had understood this intricate back-track and feint move. A perfect execution. The maneuver had been taught to Trainer (too many times) by a wily old Jotok who was probably still at large, up there in the trees watching them, keeping his distance. It worked well on the kzin mind.
Trainer-of-Slaves followed the real trail, "carelessly" obscuring what spoor he found. He knew where they had gone, a broad and growth-sheltered ledgeway along the wall of a cavern that had all the appearance of a dead-end. It led to three good escape routes, but to anyone unfamiliar with the layout of the Run, the wide ledge smelled of trap. Prey avoided it and hunters avoided it because they thought prey would be avoiding it. Trainer was in no hurry to get there, perhaps to lead another hunter to them. They needed a rest from terror. He urinated. He smelled the flowers which reminded him of his mother.
With a rustling of leaves, Long-Reach dropped from the branches bearing the news that their game was safe but exhausted, laying low. He had other news. Puller-of-Noses was following and had cut around and in front to intercept Trainer-of-Slaves.
"Where are Joker and Creepy?"
"I have given them instructions."
"I'll have to do a decoy. What do you surest?"
"Climb up along the trinity hill he will see you from there, being on the other slope. Then drop down through the Burr Crevasse to The Lakes. He will have to follow, so you'll know where he is, but you'll already have passed through, so he won't know where to find you.
"I like it." The slave-trainer kzin became Mellow-Yellow, half Jotok, slipping along swiftly through all the little shortcuts he knew, unlit he came to the hill with the three giant trees that could grow here because of the ceiling vault, carved by tons of rock that had collapsed during the excavation, and now supported by a cathedral of arches. While he climbed he was looking intently into the woods across the depression for an orange-red blur.
Disaster is always abrupt. He met his enemy. In the wrong place. Five kzin-lengths in front of him, wearing that persistent grin.
They both fell into an instant crouch.
His mind reeled. What had happened a light breeze? for critical moments blowing in the wrong direction? Had his enemy smelled him coming? and simply waited? He made an instant tactical assessment. Puller-of-Noses was unaware of the Burr Crevasse or he would have blocked off that escape route. It was still available if he could dance his enemy a few paces downhill.
"There's no grass to eat here, Defecator-of-Undigested Grass."
"You swore before witnesses that you would let me live."
"That was then. We have many lives and one death. You've already lived an extra life. Today I have sworn to kill you."
Chuut-Riit had talked about the value of the unexpected tactical option. Trainer leaped, without grinning, without screaming, while an incredulous Puller-of-Noses shifted just too late to save his balance simultaneously, a reflexive swipe, accurate, deadly, disabled Trainer's right arm. They were both bowled over, taking out a tree before bouncing to their feet. Blood poured from the arm. But the coward was now on the right side of the Burr Crevasse. Facing the wrong way.
He couldn't run toward that escape. He had no way to defend his back.
Five kzinti screams descended from the trees, four arms wrapping around the enemy warrior while the fifth ripped his nose open. Before the attack was over, Long-Reach was jumping out of harm's reach. He skittered away, then turned to face the kzin. Motionless. It was a draw. The kzin could run him down, but he could climb a tree faster than any kzin could follow.
"A slave who attacks a kzin is warm meat!" snarled Puller-of-Noses while the blood ran into his mouth. "I'll kill you later!"
"There are three of us," said Long-Reach.
The kzin's eyes scanned the treetops rapidly, looking for the others. Nothing. When he turned back to his kzin target, he was alone. Chagrin. Both coward and slave were gone. No matter. All he had to do was follow the blood.
Trainer-of-Slaves jimmied himself down through the Crevasse at a record pace, one-armed, rocks ripping gashes out of his hide, leaving a trail of fur and blood as he bounced to the level below. He felt no pain. He ran. At first he gave no thought to obscuring his trail. What was the use?
Hssin-Liaison or Puller-of-Noses or Second-Son-of-Ktrodni or whatever in hell was his name would follow him to the ends of the Patriarchy right now, fangs ready for the kill.
In neat livery of Preen and red stripes, Joker swung out of the sky. "Follow me." He scrabbled along the ground, picking a route by some criterion Trainer-of-Slaves did not understand. What greater mortification on could there be than to have a slave lead him in flight! "Make for the water," said Joker before swinging back up into the sky to disappear.