Locklear doubled back and retrieved the heavy weapon, chuckling at the sharp stones that lay atop the turf. Brickshitter must have expended a few curses as those stones rained down. The faint orange light near the scope was next to a legend in Kzinti that translated as “insufficient charge.” He thought about that a moment, then smeared his own blood over the light until its gleam was hidden. Shouldering the rifle, he set off again, circling high above the ravine so that he could come in from its upper end. Somehow the weapon seemed lighter now, or perhaps it was just his second wind. Locklear did not pause to reflect that his decision for immediate action brought optimism, and that optimism is another word for accumulated energy.
The sun was at his back when he stretched prone behind low cover and paused for breath. The zoom scope of the rifle showed that someone had ripped the thatches from the manor’s window bulges, no doubt to give Scarface a better view. Works both ways, hotshot, he mused; but though he could see through the windows, he saw nothing move. Presently he began to crawl forward and down, holding the heavy rifle in the crooks of his arms, abrading his elbows as he went from brush to outcrop to declivity. His shadow stretched before him. Good; the sun would be in a watcher’s eyes and he was dry-mouthed with awareness that Scarface must carry his own arsenal.
The vines they had planted already hid the shaft of their escape tunnel but Locklear paused for long moments at its mouth, listening, waiting until his breath was quiet and regular. What if Scarface were waiting in the tunnel? He ducked into the rifle sling, put his w’tsai in his teeth, and eased down feet-first using remembered hand and footholds, his heart hammering his ribs. Then he scuffed earth with his knee and knew that his entry would no longer be a surprise if Scarface was waiting. He dropped the final two meters to soft dirt, squatting, hopping aside as he’d seen Brickshitter do.
Nothing but darkness. He waited for his panting to subside and then moved forward with great caution. It took him five minutes to stalk twenty meters of curving tunnel, feeling his way until he saw faint light filtering from above. By then, he could hear the fitz-rowr of kzin voices. He eased himself up to the opening and peered through long slits of shamboo matting that Boots had woven to cover the rough walls.
“Am learning, milady, that even the most potent Word loses its strength when used too often,” a male voice was saying. Scarface, in tones Locklear had never expected to hear. “As soon as this operation is complete, rest assured I shall be the most gallant of suitors.”
Locklear’s view showed only their legs as modern warrior and ancient courtesan faced each other, seated on benches at the rough-hewn dining table. Kit, with a sulk in her voice, said, “I begin to wonder if your truthfulness extends to my attractions, milord.”
Scarface, fervently: “The truth is that you are a warrior’s wildest fantasies in fur. I cannot say how often I have wished for a mate I could actually talk to! Yet I am first Grraf-Commander, and second a kzintosh. Excuse me,” he added, stood up, and strode to the main doorway, now in full view of Locklear. His belt held ceremonial w’tsai, a sidearm and God knew what else in those pockets. His beam rifle lay propped beside the doorway. Taking a brick-sized device from his broad belt, he muttered, “I wonder if this crude hut is interfering with our signals.”
A click and then, in gruff tones of frustrated command, he said, “Hunt leader to all units: report! If you cannot report, use a signal bomb from your beltpacs, dammit! If you cannot do that, return to the hut at triple time or I will hang your hides from a pennant pole.”
Locklear grinned as Scarface moved back to the table with an almost human sigh. Too bad I didn’t know about those signal bombs. Warm this place up a little. Maybe I should go back for those beltpacs. But he abandoned the notion as Scarface resumed his courtship.
“I have hinted, and you have evaded, milady. I must ask you now, bluntly: will you return with me when this operation is over?”
“I shall do as the commander wishes,” she said demurely, and Locklear grinned again. She hadn’t said “Grraf-Commander”; and even if Locklear didn’t survive, she might very well wind up in command. Oh sure, she’d do whatever the commander liked.
“Another point on which you have been evasive,” Scarface went on, “your assessment of the monkey, and what relationship he had to either of you.” Locklear did not miss this nuance; Scarface knew of two kzinrett, presumably an initial report from one of the pair who’d found Puss. He did not know of Boots, then.
“The manbeast ruled us with strange magic forces, milord. He made us fearful at times. At any time he might be anywhere. Even now.” Enough of that crap, Locklear thought at her, even though he felt she was only trying to put the wind up Scarface’s backside. Fat chance! Lull the bastard, put him to sleep.
Scarface went to the heart of his question. “Did he act honorably toward you both?”
After a long pause: “I suppose he did, as a manbeast saw honor. He did not ch’rowl me, if that is—”
“Milady! You will rob the Word of its meaning, or drive me mad.”
“I have an idea. Let me dance for you while you lie at your ease. I will avoid the term and drive you only a little crazy.”
“For the eighth-squared time, I do not need to lie down. I need to complete this hunt; duty first, pleasure after. I—what?”
Locklear’s nose had brushed the matting. The noise was faint, but Scarface was on his feet and at the doorway, rifle in hand, in two seconds. Locklear’s nose itched, and he pinched his nostrils painfully. It seemed that the damned tabby was never completely off-guard, made edgy as a w’tsai by his failure to contact his crew. Locklear felt a sneeze coming, sank down on his heels, rubbed furiously at his nose. When he stood up again, Scarface stood a pace outside, demanding a response with his comm set while Kit stood at the doorway. Locklear scratched carefully at the mat, willing Kit alone to hear it. No such luck.
Scarface began to pace back and forth outside, and Locklear scratched louder. Kit’s ear-umbrellas flicked, lifted. Another scratch. She turned, and saw him move the matting. Her mouth opened slightly. She’s going to warn him, Locklear thought wildly.
“Perhaps we could stroll down the ravine, milord,” she said easily, taking a few steps outside.
Locklear saw the big kzin commander pass the doorway once, twice, muttering furiously about indecision. He caught the words, “…Return to the lifeboat with you now if I have not heard from them very soon,” and knew that he could never regain an advantage if that happened. He paced his advance past the matting to coincide with Scarface’s movements, easing the beam rifle into plain sight on the floor, now with his head and shoulders out above the dusty floor, now his waist, now his—his—his sneeze came without warning.
Scarface leaped for the entrance, snatching his sidearm as he came into view, and Locklear gave himself up then even though he was aiming the heavy beam rifle from a prone position, an empty threat. But a bushy tail flashed between the warrior’s ankles, and his next bound sent him skidding forward on his face, the sidearm still in his hand but pointed away from Locklear. And the muzzle of Locklear’s beam rifle poked so near the commander’s nose that he could only focus on it cross-eyed. Locklear said it almost pleasantly: “Could even a monkey miss such a target?”
“Perhaps,” Scarface said, and swallowed hard. “But I think that rifle is exhausted.”
“The one your nervous brickshitting navigator used? It probably was,” said Locklear, brazening it out, adding the necessary lie with, “I broiled him with this one, which doesn’t have that cute little light glowing, does it? Now then: skate that little shooter of yours across the floor. Your crew is all bugbait, Scarface, and the only thing between you and kitty heaven is my good humor.”