Generosity gives a generous life.

-- Wisdom of the Conservers

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, grey 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 re-emphasized 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 humour. "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.

The Quickwater bent around into their path once more and the trail took them over an ancient bridge of mossy stone. Over the rise beyond it was a vast clearing in the canopy, Hero's Square, the ancient intersection of four great trackways. Once it had been a walled fortress itself, though unlike the Citadel's continually updated defences the walls were now more tradition than protection, breached with walkways over and tunnels through. Workshops crowded tight along the concentric rings of stone, suntiles gleaming on the rooftops to power the machines inside. There was an audible buzz, machines and slaves and kzinti, working and bartering and gossiping among the bustling stalls. Gravcars hummed overhead, bringing goods from all over the plain, from all over the planet, from the edges of the Patriarchy and beyond. If you couldn't find what you wanted in Hero's Square you could always find someone who could get it for you.

Pouncer sniffed the air, licked his chops, delighted at the sight. "Come, I'm hungry. Let's go here." He pointed to a grashi vendor's stall on the less fashionable side of the square.

Guardmaster rippled his lips in distaste. "We can find better than that farther along."

"Hunger has no time or place." Pouncer headed for his chosen booth.

"I serve the Rrit, sire." Guardmaster's tone was smooth, but his annoyed tail flip made his feelings clear.

It was not the poorest stall in the market, but far from the most lavish. Heavy jars of thick, pungent sauces lined a polished stonewood countertop attended by an old kzin, his ears tattered and scarred and his fur faded. Behind the counter were stacked cages of grashi, sniffing and scrabbling behind the bars. Below them larger cages held eights of close-huddled vatach and a handful of some exotic offworld prey that Pouncer didn't recognize, dappled grey fur and long ears, whiffling noses. Pouncer leaned on the counter, inhaling the rich scents of the booth. It may not have been the most refined venue, but if his nose was any measure it served fine food.

The vendor moved to serve them, then made a startled claw rake salute when he recognized the Sigil of the Patriarchy tattooed on Pouncer's ears.

Pouncer acknowledged the salute, waved a paw as the old kzin started to abase himself. "What have you today, Provider?"

"Sire, my humble offerings are surely not worthy of your palate." The vendor continued to abase himself.

"Hunger exalts the simplest food." Pouncer ran his eye over the sauces on display on the counter and the ranks of caged burrowers behind the vendor. "Are your grashi wild?"

"They are sire, my son hunts beyond the Mooncatchers for them." The vendor stood, somewhat hesitantly, and came to the counter.

"What sauce do you think best?"

Provider ladled a dish full of dark red sauce from one of the containers and slid it across the counter. "This is made with tunuska, very tangy but smooth. Please try it." Expertly he fished a wriggling burrower from one of the cages, beheaded it and drained its blood into the bowl. Pouncer took the offered bowl and dipped the still warm body into the sauce, then popped the burrower into this mouth, enjoying the fresh crunch.

"Your sauce is excellent!

"I have new vatach as well Patriarch, also wild-caught, if you care to sample them." He was already pulling another jar of sauce forward. "This one is made with nyalzyari eggs." Serving First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit would bring him more strakh than a whole season of his usual custom. Now that his surprise was gone he was anxious to impress.

"They could not be better than your grashi. Two bowls of this tunuska, and twice-eight of grashi each."

"Of course. You'll have my finest." The aged kzin ran a practiced eye over his stock, choosing carefully. Finally satisfied he expertly fished his quarry from their cages into two wriggling bags and slid them across the counter. He ladled another bowl full for Guardmaster. "I am honored at your patronage, sire."

"I am honored at your hospitality, Provider." Pouncer took the grashi bags and handed one to Guardmaster. They walked in silence for awhile. Towards the center of the square the market plaza opened into a park with low stone tables under widespread tangletrees. Pouncer disdained them, choosing instead to relax on a shaded hillock. He set his bowl down carefully, opened his bag and let a grashi run, pouncing on it like a kitten before dipping it in the bowl. The grashi had the deep, musky flavour that farmed grashi lacked and the sauce accented it perfectly. His companion ate slowly, his eyes far away.

"Something is troubling you, Guardmaster."

Guardmaster looked at Pouncer and concealed his surprise. He had not meant to express his concerns, even non-verbally. The heir is perceptive, more perceptive than I give him credit for. He weighed his answer carefully before speaking. "It is not fitting, sire, for the Patriarch's son to share honor with a street-vendor."

Pouncer made a dismissive gesture. "Are the grashi not fresh enough for you?"

"The grashi are excellent, as are the sauces, but for the First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit to eat from a market stall…" Guardmaster swept a paw to take in the vast expanse of the square. "There are many fine places here eager for the patronage of the Patriarch's line, vendors who have spent years building their reputations, even vendors with half-names. To squander the strahk of Rrit-Pride on a stall merchant, this is not done.

Pouncer rippled his ears. "You would rather spend the day reclining on a padded prrstet being hand fed by trained kzinrette, is that it?"

He knows better than this, thought Guardmaster. He is testing. Why? "The order of things is not lightly defied sire. The Lesser Prides are very traditional and they compete keenly for the honor of the Patriarch. If Rrit strakh is casually dispensed to street rabble there will be talk, and Rrit strakh will be worth less. Your father needs their solid support now more than ever."

"And the support of the kzintzag is not equally important? Provider's grashi are excellent, his sauces rich and finely spiced. Does he not also deserve a measure of the strakh so greedily hoarded by those fortunate enough to be born to a half-name? Today First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit was his customer. By this evening the whole market will know. By tomorrow he will have not a stall but a house, and if his quality remains this high, his strakh will be no more than he deserves."

"Tomorrow your father sits with the Great Pride Circle, and he will be asked why his son gives honor to a stall vendor when he would be a welcome guest at any pride on the Plain of Stgrat. Degrade the honor of Rrit Pride and you degrade the honor of every pride that swears fealty to us."

"And no doubt my father will say that the Patriarchy gives honor to any who deserve it, regardless of station. Perhaps the Lesser Prides will put more effort into earning their positions and less into parading what they already have."

Guardmaster was silent, but he looked at Pouncer with new respect. He is impetuous perhaps but he is growing out of that, and his political sense is already keen. He did not do this casually. He calculated the effect this would have quite finely, and on every level. He is sending a message to his father and the Lesser Prides and the kzintzag as to the sort of leader he will be. And to me. Tomorrow he faces Rrit-Conserver's test. I wonder if he is ready?