Choosing Names: Man-Kzin Wars VIII Larry Niven (fantasy novels to read txt) 📖

And Rritt-Conserver was still so calm, and perhaps he had a right to be. Too many of the ears on his belt sheaf had once belonged to Swift-Son’s playmates. Wild-Son’s challenge hadn’t lasted as long as his leap; their teacher had disemboweled him before he hit the ground.

Swift-Son had reacted without thinking and now had to pay with honor or blood. Sheathe pride and bare honor. Rritt-Conserver had taught him that, too. It was the hardest lesson of all. For many, too hard. With an effort that made his limbs tremble, Swift-Son settled onto his belly from his attack crouch and lowered his head to expose his neck.

“Forgive this one’s insolence, Honored Teacher,” he choked out in humbled tense. “If the Fanged God wills it, I will go west for my Name.” He waited for the symbolic neck bite that would confirm his master’s dominance.

To his surprise it never came. Instead Rritt-Conserver grabbed Swift-Son’s paw and drew him upright. “The Fanged God has marked you for special honor, Swift-Son. You are the krwisatz—the-pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. From today you will have a verse in the pride-ballad.”

A shocked murmur went through the gathered watchers and Swift-Son’s sense of humiliation evaporated. A verse in the pride-ballad! In each generation, only one, the Patriarch, was assured such tribute, and only after he died. In four generations only eight verses had been added, three of them during the Great Migration, when the pride moved west into the heart of the savannah. He groped for words, but a rake of his teacher’s paw through the space that separated them cut him short.

“It is time.”

Swift-Son, still trembling from the confrontation, fought himself under control and turned to Pkrr-Rritt. The other kzin had drawn in closer now—his brothers, his seniors—pridemates and friends, all wanted to share this moment with him. He drew strength from their presence and spoke with confidence. “Sire, I hunt a Name of Honor for Rritt-Pride.” He intoned the traditional formula.

“Clean kill, Swift-Son.” The Patriarch answered with a formality seldom accorded one who had not yet earned a Name.

The young kzin raked his claws across his nose. As the bright drops of blood that affirmed his fealty beaded, he turned and shouldered his hunt pouch. Then, without a backward glance, he disappeared into the long grass of the savannah. When next he entered the pride circle, he would be a stranger to it.

Rritt-Conserver watched him go with a mixture of pride and concern. In all but size Swift-Son was the pride’s best—proud and smart. Rarely did he need to be taught a lesson twice. But though he was a more than promising youngster, even he did not possess the gift that Rritt-Conserver had been born with, a gift he had not realized was a gift until he learned that his pridemates did not share it. That gift had told him long ago that Swift-Son was krwisatz for Rritt-Pride. Now the Fanged God’s portents confirmed it. Swift-Son’s success smelled of fat game for the whole pride; his failure would bring—who knew? All he was certain of was that whatever the Fanged God had in store for Swift-Son in the deep desert meant change, great change that would be shared by all the pride. Of all his pupils, it was well that it was Swift-Son who had to carry that responsibility—but change never came without a price.

* * *

It was a hard day’s lope to the western edge of Rritt-Pride territory where lay Swift-Son’s watch-rock. As a hunting blind the site was ideal: it jutted from a small rise just below the crest and facing the prevailing wind, with a view over the long grass to the game trails by the pool in the rivulet below. Beyond that the golden savannah sprawled to the curtain of the sky, now painted a brilliant red-gold by the burning solar disk that had just touched the western horizon. Behind him the crest dropped away steeply, securing his back. The rock was just the right shape for comfort, and sandy-orange, a fair match for his pelt. When he jumped to its surface he could feel himself donning the land like a cloak.

His watch-rock was not just a favored hunting spot, it was his refuge. Swift-Son felt more need to understand than did most of his peers; many times he had come here to mull over a problem undistracted, or just escape from the rough and tumble of pride life. Today might be the last time.

Many young kzin went numerous seasons wandering the wide savannah before returning with a Name. Many young kzin didn’t return at all. Some found homes with other prides. Some became nomads who’d been able to claim a Name at the pride-circle but not a place within it. Still, far fewer returned to pledge fealty than left to seek a Name, and Swift-Son knew how his Patriarch and the other adults dealt with the hapless vagrants they caught on Rritt-Pride territory. Pride-kin or not, he knew how they’d deal with him.

A Namequest didn’t have to take that long. Last year Eldest Brother had left on his Namequest, and by the next Hunter’s Moon had brought back a tuskvor herd-mother eight times his weight, with tusks as long as his arm and razor-sharp horns. That he had killed it was amazing enough; that he had survived the deed bordered on mystery. On his return he’d dumped the huge skin triumphantly into the pride-circle and claimed the name Iron-Claw, following the legend of Graff-Trrul, who had challenged the Fanged God and nearly won. Iron-Claw now carried an iron wtsai, the symbol of adulthood and his fealty to Rritt-Pride. Eldest Brother was strong and cunning and his name proclaimed his ambition. One day he would be Graff-Iron-Claw, and one day after that he would challenge the Patriarch for leadership of the pride. If Pkrr-Rritt was wise, he would yield with only a token fight.

Not yet though. Pkrr-Rritt was strong himself, and what age had taken from him