He had to think about getting out of the reserve even though he didn't want to leave. If he stayed, some adult would find and thrash him; if he left, his peers would kill him. Finding refuge in his father's compound was, perhaps, not the best idea. His brothers were allies, even though they taunted and humiliated him, but his father would just throw him back into the jaws of his peers to make a good warrior out of him. He could hear his father lecturing him in the sonorous formal tense of the Hero's Tongue, "Make every use of the games to hone your skills."
He found a large fungus the size of his head, growing between two roping trees, with microscopic flowers flourishing on the black patches. He sniffed in wonder. He found the trail of some small animal and he saw a wild Jotok sitting high above on a lamp, its elbows in the air, watching him with an armored eye that poked up out of a shoulder blade. The eyes of the other arms were retracted, probably asleep.
And he wandered down to the pond and waded among the reeds, looking for fish. All he found were prejotok arms swimming about, the size of his finger, the gill-slit red. Each arm was an individual creature only joining in a colony of five when they were ready to crawl upon the land. The polliwogs had an armored eye already, but only graceful fins where the fingers would develop.
What a distraction, wading in a pond. He should be thinking about the mock battle of the game. He shouldn't be alone here. He should have a whole squad working with him, or at least be on the team of some other squad. But he didn't mind the distractions. It was probably his last day alive. His father had forgotten that the games weren't fair. The kits tested each other and there were rules of honor and honesty to keep the exchanges from being lethal. And then something happened that had no rules.
A consensus developed about who was the weakling. And from that day he was hunted and marked for death. The unweaned were "after ear." There was no escape. No act of bravery was good enough. The consensus was a death sentence. Short-Son knew. He had himself helped hound a "designated" weakling into a trap to be torn apart eight of his peers. So much for being swift to do the bidding of Puller-of-Noses.
Death. Standing to his ankles in the water he found three of the Jotok arms locked together in a union that would last a lifetime, their thin-filament headfeelers waving, sending out a chemical call for two more mates. At this stage they were particularly helpless, unable to dart away, unable to escape onto the land. He pulled them apart, curiously, to see how the head was formed. It bled because the circulation system was already joined. The intestines of the head spilled out. When his wonder was satiated, he popped the arms, one at a time, into his mouth.
CHAPTER 3
(2391 A.D.)
"You devour my charges!" came a rough voice from the shore.
Before he turned, Short-Son of Chirr-Nig heard in his head an inane lullaby tune that his father sometimes sang to his sons when they had scampered and tussled too much and were very tired.
"Brave little orange kzin Brave little striped kzin, Turn to the din And if' it makes you smile, Leap But if it is nothing at all Really nothing at all You may turn-in; And droop your eyes while You sleep."
The fear was there again. Short-Son faced his challenger obediently. "Honored Jotok-Tender!"
And he clouted his own nose to indicate that he knew that he had offended, and stood willing to take the consequences. Inwardly he cringed, waiting for a clawed fist to smack him. Standing among the reeds, he couldn't roll onto his back and expose his throat. His stance was too defiant, but that couldn't be helped in water. The huge scarred kzin wasn't smiling, so at least there was a temporary truce.
"I was enjoying the smells of this delightful Run," he said absurdly.
"And killing Jotok, which is forbidden!" The voice was smiling, and that was bad.
'Tiny Jotok," the kit blurted out, knowing this was the wrong thing to say before he was finished speaking.
"Little ones, hr-r? The size of your opponent is a measure of your warrior skills?"
I'm dead, thought Short-Son. "My inferior warrior skills badly need the attention of a great scarred warrior such as yourself!" Maybe flattery would help.
The right ear and what was left of the left ear of this giant flanged kzin flapped in amusement. "I am no veteran of any war. My scars were earned as a kit in the games, at which I did very badly or I would bear no scars. Out of my reeds now!"
So he knows what is happening to me! thought Short-Son wonderingly, quick to obey the command to come out of the water.
"I will have to report this transgression to your father."
"Yes!" agreed Short-Son quickly, glad that the thrashing was to be postponed though perhaps it might be better to be "disciplined" by this orange giant than to be "disciplined" by his father. He followed the Jotok-Tender closely, trying to match his long stride.
After working their way through the swamp and then making a gradual climb through many turns within the arboretum, and finally passing beneath a chattering of Jotoki from the trees, they came to a rock face. The blast and cutting tool marks were still in the stone. Some stunted trees were trying to make it in a bed of flowering vines high on a ledge. A door in the rock face led into a more conventional kzin interior, stone-walled like a fortress keep with skins on the walls.
They were met by a silent Jotok slave, in yellowlaced livery, who walked leisurely upon the pads of his primary elbows, thus freeing his hands. When a Jotok ran, and they could run very fast, they ran on their waist pads, with their five-thumbed hands locked out of the way around the waist. The centerpiece of the room beyond the hallway was a replica of ancient kzin battle armor of the kind that had been supplied to the kzinti by their then Jotok employees. The battlewear had, tied to it, ceramic tokens of kzin manufacture.
Something to humble the Jotok slaves who dusted it, thought Short-Son except slaves were never taught their history. This yellow frocked dandy who preceded them would not even know that his kind had once had a home sun or that they had been stupid enough to hire mercenaries to fight their battles for them.
Jotok-Tender relaxed himself on his big lounge. He did not invite Short-Son to sit, and the youth, taking the hint, stood at attention, alert, his ears respectfully raised to catch any wisdom or approbation that might be sent his way.
"Your father will not be pleased with you, youngling!" he growled.
"NO, Tender."
"I will have to offer him an explanation."
"Yes, Tender."
"Younglings have been known to tell the truth by remaining silent. I wish the true story without the silent parts. It will save me beating it out of you.
"My tongue is at your command!"
The giant's ragged ears rippled in amusement. "In the meantime you may sit and relax."
He turned his great head to the waiting slave. "Server-One, refreshments. Grashi-burrowers in the iridium bowls!" Above the arms, full of intestines, the slave's warty head could show no expression. His invisible undermouth clicked acknowledgment. One eye was fixed on the Tender, a second eye fixed on Short-Son, while three other eyes wandered.
Short-Son did not dare to sit down and put himself at ease, but he had been ordered to do just that! He sat and tried to stay at attention.. This Jotok-Tender seemed to like him despite gruff ways. Why? It was suspicious. He scanned all the hypotheses he could think of.
The slave reappeared on three elbows, two arms carrying a black lacquered tray with legs, upon which sat two small but tall ceramic sacrificial bowls, inlaid with iridium, and set in carved wood. Short-Son could smell the spices in the sauce imported, expensive, inappropriate for a thrashing.