Man-Kzin Wars IV by Larry Niven (graded readers .txt) 📗

man, with a hideous hooked nose. Unfairly, he had an unearned name, Peter Nordbo, but that was the way of the monkeys who did not know the value of a name.

“You’re big,” said the Herrenmann’s child to the new kzin. “What’s your name?”

Trainer-of-Slaves could hardly understand beast talk, and he knew the child would not understand his. He had not yet grasped enough words in the slave language to translate his name. But Long-Reach’s name for him was an easy translation… “Mellow-Yellow,” he said. Those two words he did know. He added stiffly, “You are Short-Son of Nordbo.”

The boy cocked his ear. “I’m Ib Nordbo, ehrenvoll Yellow.” He put his three-year-old back to the tree. “Push!”

After the two kzin had carried the log to the roadside with token help from their human vassals, the child found a nest of petal-pickers that had been disturbed by their activities, the tiny scaled creatures dashing grief-stricken around their paper home. Ib Nordbo, not the least bit afraid of the kzin, took Trainer by the paw and made him stoop to his haunches while he explained the social life of petal-pickers with three year old seriousness.

Peter Nordbo watched his son anxiously while Yiao emitted a purr to reassure his vassal. Trainer-of-Slaves listened intently to everything Ib told him, even understanding some of it. He was fascinated. The man-beasts he had seen were very badly organized into slavehood. There had to be a better way. Learning animal psychology by direct communication with their young was a source of important clues to domestication.

Mellow-Yellow let a petal-picker climb onto his stick waving its long front legs. Ib laughed. “They like roses. I feed them roses but it makes them sick.” And he got up and staggered around for Trainer like a petal-picker drunk on the alien essence of rose.

“Do you have petal-pickers on Kzin?” asked the child curiously.

“Never … been … Kzin-home,” Trainer struggled with the language.

“I go to Kzin,” Ib pointed at himself. “I will tell the Patriarch to be nice.”

Peter Nordbo had been licking his lips. He hastily picked up his son who was as much of a chatterbox as his young wife Hulda. “Maman wishes you for nap time.”

“No!” The boy struggled.

“Sir,” apologized Nordbo, “he is young yet to learn the proper forms of respect.”

Kzinti have a soft spot in their liver for sons who struggle. Yiao-Captain nodded his mane. “If ever I reach Kzin-home, I will deliver the katzchen’s message with great respect to the Patriarch.”

Only days later Yiao-Captain appeared at the lodge with his Nordbo Herrenmann, violating all protocol. Kzin and beast came there to play some sort of man-game. Bored with fleet gossip, Trainer-of-Slaves tried to follow the moves and the logic of the game. It was played out on an octal by octal board, with stationary combat pieces. There seemed to be no action, no attack. The pieces stood there, sometimes without moving for minutes. One piece was moved at a time, to some trivial advantage. Sometimes, very gently, a piece would be set aside.

Yiao-Captain seemed fascinated by the game; his eyes never left the pieces. He asked questions roughly, and would cuff Herrenmann Nordbo as if he were a son, and he would purr happily when he captured a piece. But the stationary nature of the game obviously took its toll. When beast-Nordbo spent too much time on his moves, the Captain would pace restlessly, and if his opponent, even then, had not moved, he would stand towering over the small slave and impatiently suggest what the next move should be.

“Ach, that would give me too much trouble with your bishop when you jumped your knight. I think I’ll move my pawn. I see advantage there.”

“How do monkeys ever win a war? You’d be slashed to pieces before you decide which trench to sit in!” He turned to Trainer-of-Slaves. “You’ve been watching. Do you understand this ponderous wargame?”

“It is much too slow for me. I’m looking for fast action around Man-sun.”

“You have a conventional mind. Five and a half years in hibernation is action?” Yiao-Captain roared in good humor. “Do you have a ship yet? Chuut-Riit is always looking for Heroes who want to get their tails singed.”

“I have a ship, but the Admiralty is being slow with my rating.”

“Hr-r, that’s easy to fix. I’ll tell you who to go to.”

Yiao-Captain seemed to be at ease anywhere. When Traat-Admiral arrived for an inspection, Yiao took him hunting and entertained him without the slightest hint of propitiation. He appeared to be very well connected. Ssis-Captain hid in the bushes so that when Traat-Admiral came for his aircar on the day of departure, he could step out along the path and pass the Admiral with a sharp salute.

It was a glorious day. A chill wind blew in from the sea that ruffled the fur and took away the heat of exertion. Ssis was in a mood for celebration. He chatted excitedly about what Yiao-Captain could do for them, counting sons before they were born. Trainer guided him north to the creek where they wandered upstream on the boulders. Ssis leaped very carefully not to get wet—stone by stone—but Trainer didn’t mind wading when he had to.

“Shissss!” the Captain whispered, freezing. “I’ve caught a scent.”

They skulked downwind over a lightning-felled tree silently on pads. Bent underbrush led around-hill. A splash of white through the leaves. There he was. They had a man-beast. A youngling with a spear. He saw them and started to run. In a flowing gait Ssis-Captain cut him off, drove him back toward Trainer. He fled in a perpendicular dash, away from them both. Ssis flanked him, around a gray outcropping, grinning. The boy-beast turned. Futilely. The natural carnivorous leap of the kzin was awesome in the low gravity. Ssis was blocking his way again, not hurting him, not coming close. Toying with his prey.

Trainer-of-Slaves had flashes of the poor monkeys he had tried to save back on Hssin during that fatal man-hunt. He stood, frozen with fear, not