by G. Howell Text and illustration ©2005 G. Howell

An earlier edition of this story can be read at the author’s website

   I’m a New Yorker, born and bred.
   Well, maybe not born. Jersey’s where I spent the first few years of my life. I was too young to remember anything but vague impressions of that time, and when I was four, there was that accident.
   The friends who adopted me were a young couple living across the waters in New York, in Brooklyn Heights, in an established neighborhood near the old Plymouth Church. That’s a time I remember quite fondly: the house was a big old place, built from old wood, crowned with a steep shingled roof, crestings, and defunct chimneys. Birds roosted in the gables and in the huge old trees around the property. Over the near-century it had been standing, additions and extensions had sprung up, some of them seemingly spontaneous or whimsical. You could walk from a nineteenth-century study into a living room added in the nineteen twenties and furnished in rococo. In some places there were two floors, in others three. I had one friend compare it with the Addams’ place. Still, the place took money to keep and maintain, so with more rooms than we could ever use, it only made sense to take in lodgers.
    Until I could legally change it back to my given name, my surname was Jerald. Not that I had anything against my foster parents, they were as good as any kid could wish for, but I just wanted the name I was born with. They both worked, my father owning a book shop and my mother in a boutique over in Manhattan. Still, even though they were away a lot of the time, the house wasn’t a dull place by a long shot. There were always the lodgers. We were careful who we took in, generally preferring students, artists, trampers, young couples, people who looked like they could be trusted. My parents were pretty good judges of character, and we only had a few incidents. It was a sort of word-of-mouth institution, and believe me, we got some classics through there. It seems strange to say it, but I became closer to some of those people than I did to my own parents. They taught me odds and ends: playing the guitar, harmonica, keyboard, also to draw and paint. From an ex-biker I learned to strip down a Harley blindfolded and I could rewire a house by the time I was fourteen. And they talked; I heard stories of all kinds from all over the country, so eventually I decided to see some of these places for myself. Well, the army gave me a chance to do that. Sort of.
   As something I grew up with, the Manhattan Island skyline was mundane, simply a spectacle I could see every day if I wished. When I did sign up for my time, some of the more rural postings came as a bit of culture shock. Still, I’d had more contact with ‘the great outdoors’ than a lot of New Yorkers. Town or country; either way, it was a lifestyle far removed from anything any Sathe could imagine.
   As far removed as the life I was living now was from anything I could have imagined: On the road with an over-evolved cat, riding a rickety wooden wagon as it crested a final hill and I was looking at Mainport, lying peacefully under leaden afternoon skies.
   There were no towering skyscraper or glass-faced condos—I hadn’t expected any—but still the city was impressive. I guess it’s comparable with the feeling you get when exploring an ancient human city or medieval castle: compared with modern constructs they’re not much, but you can’t help but be impressed with the strength and solidity of these edifices that have endured for generations.
   By Sathe reckoning, Mainport was a large city. Built on the north-western tip of what I knew as Staten Island with the kill to the north, The Narrows to the east. Covering an area of maybe sixteen square klicks, it was a huge, bustling metropolis to them. However to me, faced with what continued to be my prospective home, it was far less glamorous. But I had to admit the Citadel itself was something else again.
   Towering over the city proper, the Citadel was a gigantic mass of battlements, walls, towers, and buttresses lying on the crest of the hill like some massive reptile sunning itself upon a rock.
   Once, long ago—it was only later I would learn just how long ago—I supposed the central keep had stood alone on that hilltop, just a small settlement. As time passed the Citadel had grown, spreading like granite ivy on a gargantuan scale down upon the town below where buildings been razed to make way for the encroaching walls. Against the backdrop of gray skies, the sight was impressive and—strangely—depressing.
   I had lived here in this place that had once been my home and now threatened to be my home again. I thought I recognized various marks in the landscape: Hills, ridges, gullies. Probably my imagination. The geography wasn’t that exact: the Arthur Kill that normally separates Staten Island from the mainland didn’t exist here. Also, New York was built upon a foundation engineered by humans; they removed any part of nature’s design that didn’t fit in with what was on their drawing boards and computer terminals, so the landscape I knew probably wasn’t even natural.
   God—the polluted grandeur of New York! The sky-climbing dreams and schemes of human beings, the sound of traffic, television, music, hot showers, toilet paper, Oreos. All those little things that make life worth living… all those things I’d thought to be inalienable… gone.
   Tahr tapped my shoulder and clambered over the back of the seat to sit beside me. The wooden plank that had weathered so much protested under the extra load. “Why have you stopped?” she asked, then saw my face. “Your eyes… What is wrong?”
   I blinked back tears and muttered, “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
   “That wetness is a sign of grief… is it not?” she inquired with head cocked to one side. “Why? We are safe here. We are home.”
   I stared at her. Home?
   “Oh…” Understanding flashed behind her eyes, subdued her, “I forgot. My home, not yours.”
   I didn’t say anything.
   From there I could see wisps of smoke rising from chimneys, hear gulls’ faint cries. At last Tahr’s voice was a slow, measured rumble: lower than any human woman’s could be. She was trying to be gentle but still businesslike: “I think it would be for the best if I drove the rest of the way.”
   “Are we doing the animal act?”
   “No,” she said. “Not here. Just do not do or say anything until I tell you, yes?”
   “Yes.” Resignedly, I nodded.
   She flicked the reins and the llamas started plodding down the hill, toward the city.
   The fields surrounding the town were many and varied, containing crops and livestock: goats, llama, bison, some even held deer behind high split log fences. From the air the land would have looked like a jigsaw of angular green and brown shapes.
   The fields and the houses held Sathe, living out their lives as they must have done for generations. Some of them saw us and paused at their chores, resting behind their plows or looking up from butter churns and gardens. It was a well-traveled road so they would be accustomed to strangers, but I was a stranger a few notches of strange above the rest.
   I was so busy rubbernecking back at them that the sudden change in the sound of the wagon’s wheels startled me. Tahr hissed at my surprise and proudly pointed out that the road was paved and drained. It was also much wider, in places becoming two lanes!
   Necessary. The nearer we got to the city, the more traffic. It was like every Sathe from miles around decided to tag along with us. Gawking at me.
   “Market day,” Tahr explained.
   The wall surrounding the city was imposing, reaching up five stories and constructed of huge blocks of stone—each about a meter high and two meters in length—set with a precision to turn the Inca green with envy. As we drew up to the barbican a disparity in the age of the blocks became obvious. Some stones looked old; ancient. Edges and corners rounded and weathered from countless years exposure to the elements while other blocks of granite still bore the chisel marks from the stonemasons who shaped them.
   The gatehouse and barbican were built from the newer stonework. The massive supports around the gate were elaborately decorated with Sathe script and carvings. Strange to see aliens as the main theme of a carving; where you expect to see humans, there are bipedal cats instead.
   Sathe guards were everywhere: on the walls, below the walls, around the gates, watching the steady stream of carts and wagons that went past them and looking bored. Occasionally they would stop one that caught their attention and examine the cargo.
   And of course we caught their attention.
   Three Sathe troopers in leather armor trimmed with blue and silver moved out to catch the llamas’ reins and lead us off to one side of the gate; watching us warily. They were young, probably younger than Tahr, but even so, they all carried scars and nicks from past fights. And they all had one hand draped—almost casually—over the pommel of their scimitars.
   “What is your business in Mainport?”
   The one who spoke wore three small gold crescents on his cuirass. If they were badges of rank, he was superior to the others: they had only one apiece.
   “I have business at the Citadel,” replied Tahr, looking perplexed. “What is this? Why all the security?”
   The guard waved his hand in a shrug and continued in a conversational manner. “I am not sure. There have been growlings about trouble with the Gulf Realm. More guard duties have been assigned and we have orders to search all strangers entering the city.” He scratched under his armor, then peered at Tahr again. “The Citadel you say. Is there any reason they should be expecting you? What is your name? Business?”
   Tahr considered for a second before saying, “My name is Tahr ai Shirai. My business is my own.”
   “Tahr ai Shirai? The Tahr ai Shirai?”
   “Is there another?”
   His muzzle wrinkled. “Ahh… Of course, and I am a Clan Lord in my off-shift. Is that intended to be a joke?”
   “No.”
   Uncertain, he hesitated, then his fur began to bristle; standing up as if electrified. “You think that is amusing!? Start laughing, shave you! I could drag you in for a claim like that!”
   Tahr also began to seethe. “And I could have you demoted so fast your head will spin! I am serious!”
   “Then where is your entourage! Where are your guards! You look like a goatherd and you smell like… I wonder the llamas can stand it!” He waved at his subordinates: “All right, check that wagon out from ears to toes! And as for you…” he leveled a finger at Tahr.
   His troops were moving around to start searching the wagon and found themselves staring up at me. “Uh-uh, guys,” I said, then slowly grinned.
   “Ah… Sir?”
   “What!?” he snarled irritably and stepped around to see what their trouble was. He stopped and gaped at me, his ears drooping like wet facecloths.
   “Is…” he swallowed: hard, “Is it dangerous?” he squeaked.
   “Very,” she hissed.
   “Get it out of the wagon. Now!” he yelled at her reluctance. “You too! Down!”
   Snarling furiously she waved for me to get down and dismounted herself. I took up my rifle as I dropped to the ground. She saw me cock the weapon and shook her head in a gesture I could understand. I frowned, but left the safety on.
   The Sathe looked all the more apprehensive when they saw my size and kept a respectful distance as they inspected the cart.
   Three Star watched me, keeping himself at a safe distance holding the llamas’ reins. Tahr cast a glance over her shoulder at the guard searching the wagon bed, then turned back to their commander. “You! I want your name and that of your superior.”
   At that moment, one of the guards chose to point out the fact that we had weapons in the back.
   Holding the sword by pommel and blade, Three Star scrutinized the blade just below the cross guard where Sathe pictographs were engraved. He looked up at Tahr, his ears slowly flattening back on his skull. “Weapons… Gulf weapons. And what were you going to be doing with these?”
   Tahr had just started to open her mouth when a voice bellowed from the ramparts atop the gatehouse:
   “Tahr!”
   Everyone in earshot looked up at a soldier leaning over the wall, in serious danger of teetering over. “You!” he pointed in our direction. “Wait there! Don’t move!” He pulled back out of our sight.
   The guards had their swords drawn. If we had wanted to move it would have become bloody. I think I could have taken them, but the archers on the walls would probably get me. We all waited in a nervous tableau, the Sathe shifting and sniffing at me. There was a racket in the tunnel, a sprinting Sathe—in all likelihood the guy who was on the wall—dodged around the noses of a team of bison, prompting curses from the driver. He slowed as he crossed that sharp line dividing sunlight and shadow, his flapping cloak turning from black to gray and settling around his ankles. He was staring at Tahr.
   “By my Ancestors, Tahr! It is you!”
   “S’sahr?” Tahr squinted in the sunlight and dust, shifting uncertainly, her ears going back. Twitching. She was expecting something. I shifted the rifle uneasily, unsure of what to do.
   The one named S’sahr laughed, that hissing Sathe laugh: “Himself. You can relax, young one. Those days are past.”
   Tahr relaxed only a little, and the cloaked Sathe came nearer.
   I stared. The scar ran from where S’sahr’s right ear used to be, down between his eyes, and ending up on the left side of his mouth. A three centimeter wide strip of puckered, furless skin. None of the others seemed startled by it.
   However the officer was thunder-struck, more by his words than appearance.
   “You… You are Tahr ai Shirai..? I did not know…” If he could have blanched he would have gone whiter than typing paper. He looked back and forth from S’sahr to Tahr, the captured Gulf sword forgotten in his hands, visualizing his career slipping down the tubes.
   S’sahr strode forward until he was eye to eye with the hapless guard. “Yes, saf! Tahr ai Shirai.” He whispered this, then bellowed, “You did not know!?”
   “Sir,” the guard squeaked, cringing before the scarred veteran’s fury.
   “S’sahr,” Tahr held out a hand to forestall his anger. “Leave him. I am too tired for that now.”
   The grizzled Sathe dismissed the guard with a disgusted hiss and a swat across the ears that tore the fragile membrane. Blood welled and the guard yelped and scurried back a few steps. One of his subordinates was tactless enough to hiss amusement and he in turn had his ears slashed.
   “Young one,” S’sahr reached out to clap Tahr on the shoulder. “Or would High One be more appropriate?”
   As if she was about to embrace him, Tahr stepped forward, but stopped and hugged her arms about herself. “No, no. You have known me too long for that.” She looked around at the watching Sathe. We were beginning to attract attention. “Perhaps we should continue this later,” Tahr suggested, then glared at the guard: “May I pass now?”
   The guard hastily backed away, bleeding ears twitching nervously. “Saaa… yes, of course.”
   “May I have the honor of escorting you?” S’sahr asked. Coming from the torn old Sathe, the courtesy was a little out of place.
   Tahr smiled: “I think that I will be able to tolerate that.”
   She climbed up onto the driver’s bench. S’sahr leapt up and settled beside her. He turned and stared at me in surprise when I vaulted up onto the bed of the cart. “What is that…” he started to say.
   “Hai!” Tahr barked and cracked the reins, getting the llamas moving.
   Through the main gate was a broad plaza, paved, surrounded by buildings and shops. A wide avenue followed a winding path up to where a switchback road climbed the steep hillside up to the Citadel. I was surprised to see ancient trees overhanging the road, their roots buckling the cobbles in some places. I hadn’t expected a fortress city to waste space on extraneous objects like trees. Still, they looked good.
   If Baytown had been busy, this place exceeded it by a factor of ten. Shops and stalls lined both sides of the main street while vendors roamed, hawking their wares, selling everything from adzes and abaci to zinc ore and zaxes. The buildings the shops were in were usually two stories high; a ground floor store and the first floor a living area. A few buildings were only one floor and I didn’t see anything above three. Lines crisscrossed the street from the first floors. Not power lines: washing. Alien laundry drying in the cool sea breeze above the streets.
   Despite the small size of the buildings, Mainport was an unbelievably busy place. Close to one hundred thousand Sathe lived there and they all seemed to be on the streets at the same time, all of them as varied as those I’d seen elsewhere in the Realm. As I ogled at them, many stared back at me and excited chatter started up behind us.
   “If you wanted to be unobtrusive then bringing your pet along was not such a wise move. What is it anyway?” S’sahr was staring at me in bemusement. “I thought I was quite knowledgeable when it came to wildlife, but this thing… Some kind of freak bear?”
   Tahr looked back at me—a warning glance—then told S’sahr, “Ah… There are a few things I will have to explain, at the Citadel. My… pet is one of them.”
   Yeah, you wouldn’t want him falling out of the cart in shock. Being a freak to every new Sathe I met was getting pretty tiresome. It was something I was going to have to get used to, no matter how it irked me.
   As the Citadel drew closer, Tahr hung a right, taking us down a side street that wasn’t half as spacious as the main avenue, but was still every bit as busy.
   “You have business at the docks?” S’sahr asked.
   “Yes. There is a ship I have to find. I have some cargo due me.”
   On the docks she stopped to study a large board with dozens of smaller painted tags hanging from it. Some kind of directory. She quickly scanned it.
   “Captain Hafair… building five.”
   Of course the docks were bigger and busier than Baytown’s wooden wharves. These were solid stone, with an artificial breakwater surrounding the harbor. The dock had slipways cut into it, for hauling boats into and out of the water. Above it all, the walls of the Citadel had vantages commanding the whole bay.
   During the storms of winter ships in the harbor were drydocked for repairs and refitting. Already there were six vessels sitting high and dry on the quayside. Many more were still waiting at anchor out in the harbor, sheltered by the embrace of the harbor walls. I thought I recognized Hafair’s command out in the forest of masts. No, perhaps not.
   Tahr was reading what had to be numbers painted in faded black paint on boards on the fronts of waterside buildings. Finally she reined in the llamas outside one particular structure. “This is it.”
   “Here?” S’sahr wrinkled his nose. “What kind of cargo?”
   “Just something I have to collect for a friend,” Tahr said. “This should not take long. Wait here.”
   “Hold,” S’sahr stalled her. “Tahr, this thing,” he jabbed a finger in my direction, “Is it dangerous?”
   Tahr flashed a scintillating grin and smile at the same time and replied, “Only when provoked.” Then she pushed her way through a knot of Sathe outside the front door of the warehouse and was gone.
   “‘Only when provoked’,” S’sahr muttered staring after her, then rubbed absently at the remains of his right ear. “Ah, she has changed… dragging pets around.” He sighed and turned to face me. “You have got to be the weirdest thing I have ever seen! Where did she dig up something like you from?”
   I took it to be a rhetorical question.
   He noticed the bulky tarpaulin behind the drivers bench and picked up a corner, then threw it aside revealing the pile of Gulf weaponry: scimitars, daggers, crossbows, and bolts.
   “One sword I could understand, but all this…” His eyes lit upon the M-16 and he reached out a furry paw to pick it up. I also grabbed at it and a brief tug-of-war ensued, ending when I deliberately bared my teeth and gave him a low growl. He hastily released the rifle and went for his sword. I sat still and he hesitated with the sword half-drawn, then looked around at the pedestrians who’d stopped and were in turn watching him. He blinked, then sheathed the weapon and sat studying me.
   It’s amazing. Even when faced with something that walks like a Sathe, wears clothes and has hands, he didn’t even consider the possibility that it might be more than a dumb animal. Most Sathe wouldn’t consider it intelligent unless it could actually persuade them it is. They had never explored the possibility of other intelligences in the universe.
   Well… give them some more time and someone would’ve hit upon the concept. Until after the industrial revolution and men had more leisure time, humans never considered it. All they had was themselves and the Gods. The Sathe did not even have those, they only really lived for the present, and each clan was fiercely proud of being self sufficient.
   We both waited for Tahr to return. She took her time.

   The gates of the Citadel were even more impressive close up. Three sets of huge wooden doors—each reinforced with iron and covered with bronze sheets beaten onto astonishingly detailed mosaics—hung beneath the barbican that had been hewn from large blocks of solid granite. It’s hard to describe just how massive the whole place was. Built to last for a thousand generations.
   The Citadel guards moved toward us, but took one look at S’sahr and waved us on. There were two more gatehouses inside. The Citadel was built like an onion, layer within layer, each with its own guard posts.
   Tahr had collected my pack. While the wagon rolled through the streets I’d sorted through it, making sure that nothing was missing. Everything seemed to be in order and even my customized cloak was still there. I wish I could have seen Hafair’s expression when she walked in on him.
   We couldn’t take the wagon all the way into the Citadel. I guess they also had their security, or perhaps just problems with traffic. Nothing went through but wagons carrying trade goods. S’sahr pointed out to Tahr that she had the right to take the wagon all the way to the Keep, but she declined, saying she was just as capable of walking as any other. After the third barbican, we had to leave the cart in a dark stable that reeked of animals and rotting hay. A stable hand—still a cub—had the monotony of his day broken. Tahr, still chatting away with S’sahr, tossed the reins to the cub who was staring at me. They slapped across his chest; his reflexive grab missed. I stooped, picked them up and handed them to him with a smile. He stared at me, then at the straps in my hand, but didn’t move to take them. I sighed, pressed them into his hand and patted his shoulder, then took off after the others.
   I gawked like a country rube fresh to the big city as I crossed the yard to where S’sahr led the way up a narrow staircase into a postern gate. We walked through narrow passages and dark corridors, occasionally being stopped by guards. S’sahr got us past these. An old veteran supervising three younger guards at a gateway recognized Tahr and bowed to her. After a moment’s hesitation, the others followed suit.
   “Excuse me highness, but should you be taking that,” he eyed me, “into the Keep?”
   “It is all right,” she reassured him. “He goes where I go.”
   The old ‘sergeant’ bowed his head again, then muttered something to one of the soldiers who took off ahead of us with a spattering of claws on worn stone.
   “You may pass, High Ones.” That was a change, being addressed with respect instead of scorn. From rags to riches. Ah, the whims of fortune.
   Tahr and S’sahr led, chatting amicably between themselves, swapping tidbits of news. I trailed after them, occasionally lagging behind to crane my head around an open doorway or peer into a cavernous gallery. This place was humongous!
   But as we went deeper into the Citadel I began to stick closer to the Sathes’ heels. Hunters’ vision had an effect on Sathe architecture. No windows, not this far inside the walls of the Citadel, but the Sathe didn’t compensate with artificial lighting. They didn’t need to. What lamps existed were dim, widely spaced oil lamps that left most of the corridors in near-blackness. Tahr and S’sahr had no trouble: their night vision was superb. However in the worst of these places I could hardly see my hand in front of my face, and I sure as hell couldn’t see those steps going down.
   While Tahr collected the M-16, I leaned against the wall and tested my right wrist that had take the brunt of my fall. Thankfully it didn’t seem broken, just damn sore.
   I jumped as something patted my shoulder. “K’hy, it is me,” Tahr’s voice spoke into my ears. “Are you all right?”
   I nodded. All I could really see of them were vague solid shapes in the dark, their eyes catching and reflecting what little light there was.
   “What?” That was S’sahr. “Who are you… You are not talking to that..?”
   Tahr ignored him. “What happened?” she asked me.
   “My fault,” I said. “I cannot see my hand in front of my face.”
   There was a hissing sound as S’sahr sucked air.
   “Oh, I keep forgetting.” There was a rustling sound, then a small metal cylinder was pushed into my hand. I gratefully flicked the anglehead on.
   Tahr squinted and threw up her hand to shield her eyes when the white light lit upon her. I moved the beam and spotlighted S’sahr standing plastered against the far wall of the corridor, his single ear down hard against his skull and eyes wide. “It can… talk?” he sputtered.
   “Amazing,” I muttered with a shake of my head, “what powers of observation.”
   “K’hy, hush!” Tahr warned me.
   “Tahr,” S’sahr almost growled. “Enough is enough. What is that thing!?”
   “His name is K’hy, something-unpronounceable, and he is a male H’man. That is the nearest I can pronounce his titles. Do not worry, he will not hurt you.”
   “That would be difficult, he has the teeth and claws.” I held up my fingers and wiggled them: longer than a Sathe’s, but of course without the claws. It did little to reassure the veteran. When we made it to a better lit section I saw that he did indeed have his own claws out.
   The passage traveled up and down more flights of stairs and along corridors flanked on either side by open doorways. The rooms beyond were obviously living quarters; equally obviously deserted for a long time. Judging by what I’d seen so far they looked plush, with tapestries, carved wood and stone panels, and furniture—all crumbling, mildewed, and generally dilapidated.
   “Why is this place so empty?” I finally asked. “All these empty rooms. You redecorating?”
   Both S’sahr and Tahr looked around as though noticing the abandoned chambers for the first time.
   “These were once servants’ quarters,” Tahr explained. “As the Citadel is expanded they move to the new areas, where they are needed. These are abandoned. They might be used again as the population grows.”
   “How long will that take?”
   She didn’t answer immediately. “A long time.”
   “Then why build all this if you have no real use for it?”
   S’sahr answered that. “There is always work being done on the Citadel. There are plans for a sixth wall outside the town…” he wound down as though suddenly realizing what he was talking to.
    “K’hy, h’mans also build all the time, do they not? You have told me about your cities. Is that not the same?”
   “Ah… well, I do not think it is exactly the same thing.” I replied.
   “Cities?” S’sahr stopped in his tracks, then hurried to catch up. “Do you mean there are more of these? They have cities!?”
   “Yes, it is difficult to explain, but there is a whole world of them.”
   S’sahr went quiet, his ear wilting.
   We passed another guard post, the sentries there expecting us. They stiffened to attention as we passed, but I felt eyes on my back. A small postern beyond the guard room opened into bright sunlight and a vast expanse of cobbled court. I stepped out into the glare, blinking. The Sathes’ slit pupils snapped to pinpricks. Despite the pervading odor of animal shit, the air was nowhere near as oppressive as the dark, heavy atmosphere of the corridors beneath the walls.
   My first glimpse of the Citadel’s Keep: I was rubbernecking like a tourist.
   It was big. Really big: The equivalent of three or four football fields at least, encircled by three-story-high walls on the outside, the mountain of the Keep offset at the northern end. A large gate stood open in the easternmost wall, admitting the heavy traffic. To get into this courtyard the llama drawn vehicles would have had to have entered the main gates, then gone right, following the curve of the wall around, then through another set of gates, followed the wall further—uphill all the way—then that final gate. Any hostile forces trying the same maneuver would have found themselves under fire from the battlements all the way.
   As we started across the cobbled space I saw that it was already dotted with Sathe: in groups and alone, carrying barrels or boxes, cutting wood. There were buildings up against the outer wall; small wooden structures with tile roofs. Smoke trickled from the chimney of what looked like a blacksmith’s shop, other places must have stables and sheds for wagons. Anything you wouldn’t want to keep inside. Off to my right were clusters of Sathe in armor, standing, watching a pair sparring. Swords flashed and the noises rang off the walls. A row of archers fired a volley at straw buttes strung up against a wall; I didn’t see any miss.
   The doors to the central Keep—The Circle, the guard had called it—were hanging open. I got a sudden insight as to the scale of the place when a small group emerged, a central individual surrounded by others. They were dwarfed by the portals. What were the hinges made of!?
   “Rehr is waiting,” S’sahr informed Tahr. All I could see was an indistinct individual in rust red robes. “You remember him?”
   “Of course. How could I forget? Has he changed much?”
   “About as much as the Circle.”
   Tahr smiled at that, then spoke to me. “K’hy, stay behind us and whatever you do, make no sudden moves. I think you will make them nervous.” I slowed down so that she and S’sahr were a few paces ahead of me as we approached the entrance.
   The huge metal-bound doors hung open at the top of a short flight of steps. All around the portal were carvings of Sathe in various poses and activities. Above these towered the walls, leaning slightly away from us. That must be Rehr waiting at the top of the steps.
   He was an old Sathe. His fawn pelt was peppered with white and gray, especially around his nose and ears, and he was wearing a red outfit something like a monk’s cassock. Escorting him were over a dozen armed Sathe in blue and silver leather armor, their crossbows not quite aimed at us, but too many of them were eying me and flexing their grips on their weapons.
   The elder said, “Thank you, S’sahr.”
   S’sahr ducked his head and stepped back into the small ring of curious Sathe who had gathered to watch.
   “Tahr, your arrival was… unexpected.”
   She bowed before answering, “I wished to keep it that way. There were… complications.”
   Rehr looked her up and down for a second, taking in her worn and soiled kilt, her matted and tangled mane.
   “Please, this way.” He turned and swept through the gates
   “Follow,” she hissed to me, following him.
   Totally lost, I followed orders… only to freeze in my tracks when about twenty crossbows suddenly came to bear on me.
   “Let him pass!” Tahr snapped.
   The soldiers hesitated, then lowered their bows, and we were inside.
   The interior of the Keep was dimly lit, but enough light came in through the open doors and from oil lamps to let me see.
   A lacquered wooden floor—the polish marred by scratches from careless claws—gleamed in the light. Columns supporting the roof were inlaid with elaborate, seemingly aimless designs; tantalizingly intricate, almost gaudy. Balconies with carved railings looked out over the floor. Tapestries the size of swimming pools covered bare stone walls. There were stained-glass panels concealed above the door, throwing a rose of tinted light across the hall. I followed the Sathe on automatic, staring at everything as Rehr led us up a staircase and along passages that twisted and turned, through chambers and galleries where fires and torches blazed, illuminating mind-twisting frescoes and carvings of Sathe: playing instruments, dancing, fighting, mating…
   I did a double take. Mating: those were quite explicit. So that’s how they do it! Like a cat. Figures.
   There was no doubting this section of the Citadel was occupied. Sathe bustled everywhere: guards, others carrying bundles of cloth or wood, others dressed in expensive finery. They all stood aside as we approached. I could feel their eyes on my back—but there was too much else to look at. The corridors were well-lit and clean, with sculptures every few meters. One that caught my eye seemed to be a mass of bubbles in blown glass. I wasn’t quite sure whether it was meant to be abstract or representational. Other artifacts were made out of boned wood, polished stone, and dark metal.
   Down a cul de sac a guard opened an inconspicuous door and stepped aside as Rehr entered. Tahr and I followed. The guards behind us started to follow, but he waved them back.
   “No, wait outside.”
   “But, Sir,” one protested. “What of that?” she nodded at me.
   Rehr glanced at Tahr who made an obscure little gesture with her hands. The red-robed elder studied me, then dismissed the guards. They bowed and stepped back, closing the door behind them.
   He led the way down a short hall that terminated in a room full of what had to be a lifetime of assorted knickknacks. A massive desk of dark wood sat in front of a pair of large mullioned windows. The tinted glass let the light in, but the view through them was rather distorted. Shelves and racks along the walls held dozens of scrolls, leather bound books, polished rocks, small carvings, combs and brushes, small widgets made of sticks and string and other things I couldn’t name. Beside the desk stood a crude spyglass made out of brass and decorated with elaborate scrollwork. A polished copper oil lamp with three wicks hung from the ceiling above the desk and, astonishingly, a globe on carved wooden stand stood nearby although only a fraction of the surface had been charted, the rest decorated with fanciful images. Dark-red carpets were soft underfoot and several small tables and chairs were scattered around.
   A faint but distinct cloying scent hung in the air. I rubbed my nose. Staleness? No, not quite. Over by the windows a pair of globe-shaped ceramic bowls with perforated lids smoked gently: some kind of incense. Whatever it was it smelled sickly sweet, something like pot. A whiff gave me a lightheaded feeling: I snorted softly to try and clear the smell. Neither of the Sathe seemed to notice.
   Settling into the chair behind the desk, Rehr linked his fingers together on the desk in front of him and stared at Tahr out of impassive green eyes while I waited quietly in the background.
   “Tahr, you look terrible.”
   Indeed, in contrast to Rehr—clean and well groomed—sitting in his study, Tahr did look terrible. Her once gleaming coat was matted, torn, and smeared with the dirt of days on the road. The scar across her ribs was very visible. I probably wasn’t any better off.
   “Yes, High One,” Tahr ducked her head.
   Rehr snorted. “Enough of that, young one. I have known you since you were a cub and you may soon be my superior. There is no need for the formalities.” He leaned back in the chair.” Did you know that you are only the third heir to arrive.”
   Tahr was startled. “But I left the manor months ago! I was sure I would be among the last to arrive.”
   “Saaa, we will continue to wait, but there is not much time left,” he said, then gestured at me. “I take it you had a good reason for bringing this along. Tell me, why is it wearing clothing. Is it cold?”
   “Rehr, he is intelligent.”
   He blinked. “Intelligent? You did say ‘intelligent’?”
   “Yes, Rehr. It is quite a story. We have been traveling together for some time and been through a lot. He has kept my hide intact several times.”
   “She has been able to return the favor,” I added.
   Rehr stared.
   “Rehr, this is K’hy, a h’man. K’hy, this is Rehr, Adviser to the Born-To-Rule, to the Shirai.”
   I bowed: “I am honored to meet you.” Straightening, pink floaters flashed in my eyes. I was feeling strange. The atmosphere seemed stifling, the sweet, sickly smell in the air was unbearable. I blinked and took a deep breath. It didn’t help.
   “Tahr, where did you find such a… person?”
   I listened as well as I could while Tahr once again went over the story of how we had met. As she went on it got harder to concentrate. Her voice, a low, steady susurrus that began to merge with the pulse of blood in my ears. Listening, but not hearing, not feeling anything. As though through a heavy sheet I heard my voice.
   “Tahr..? I think I am…”
   And the room reeled. I felt myself hit the floor. No pain, just pressure, a dull thud through my bones. Then I was sprawled on cold wood, Sathe feet—all toes—in front of my face. I was rolled over and Sathe, ten kilometers high, loomed over me. I was choking in that smell, smothered in pollen.
   If someone was trying to speak to me, I didn’t hear it. I wasn’t even aware when it went dark.

   I opened my eyes.
   It was still dark and there was a heavy metal drum solo rattling behind my eyes. For a while I just lay quietly, breathing lightly to stop my head exploding and it was a few minutes before I felt like taking stock. I was lying in my shorts in the dark on a bed, a real one: bowl-shaped, but with a real mattress and soft sheets. Sitting up made my head pound. I groaned and clutched my throbbing skull. Something had died on my tongue.
   There was moonlight enough to let me see as I lurched to my feet and half-walked, half-staggered across the wooden floor to the open window, almost tripping on the edge of a rug in the process.
   I clung to the windowsill and breathed deeply of the cool, clear night air. That helped to clear my spinning head a bit. I could see that I was in one of the highest points of the Citadel, looking down on all of Mainport.
   The clouds that had blocked the sun during the day had dissipated, scattered by the winds to reveal the stars sprawled in all their glory across the sky. Beneath me, bathed in a bluish moonlight, lay the dark streets of Mainport. The harbor was still, the waters reflecting the moon in the heavens and the occasional lantern on the dockside.
    I didn’t hear the latch lift, nor the door swing open. It was the pool of light spilling through from the other room that startled me. Turning too quickly and the room wallowed like a ship’s deck. I just managed to catch myself on the window sill before I hit the floor again.
   “K’hy!” Tahr hissed. She moved to help me off my knees and back to the bed where I sagged down. She sat down beside me and stroked my brow. “I am glad to see you are up. You are feeling better?”
   “Uhnn,” I croaked. My throat hurt. I worked my jaw to get some saliva flowing. “W… What the fuck happened?”
   She pressed a damp cloth to my forehead, wiped my face with it. “I am not sure. We think it was the thamil.”
   “Huh? Hamil?”
   “Thamil,” she enunciated. “Rehr was burning it in his study. It is just a scent… usually.” I could see her eyes glowing in the starlight. “It seemed to have a more adverse effect on you.”
   I groaned and rubbed my face. My head felt as though it was full of guncotton. “You can say that again. Please, is there any water?”
   Tahr lifted the cloth away and padded across to a chest beside the door. There was the gurgling of liquid being poured. She returned and pressed the mug into my hands: “Here.” It was water: cool and wet.
   A minute later I felt ready to make another effort to stand upright. “No, I am all right,” I protested, shrugging off Tahr’s hands. I made it back to the window on my own. “Where am I?”
   “Safe now.” Tahr stood beside me at the window, ready to catch me if I collapsed again. “These are your chambers now. You are officially my guest here.”
   I didn’t know what to say. I hedged around it: “It is beautiful out there.”
   Her head moved to look, a slight breeze ruffling the fur of her mane.
   “Thank you for everything, Tahr, but I do not know how long I will be able to stay.”
   There was a second’s silence.
   “You want to find other H’mans.”
   I nodded, aware of how hopeless that sounded. “If possible.” I turned back to the window. “They must be out there. They’ve got to be.”
   There was more silence, then needle sharp claws caught my shoulder, squeezed gently. When they released me I slipped my arm around the warm figure beside me.
   We stayed like that for about a minute, then she disengaged from my arm and silently padded over to the door.
   “Will you be all right?”
   I nodded.
   “Then you should sleep now. Good night, K’hy.”
   As the door closed behind her, I smiled slightly. ‘Good night’. She’d picked that off me. I stared at the mug in my hand, then tossed back the final mouthful of water and clambered back onto the bed.

   I ignored the hand that was gently shaking me until claws started to dig into my shoulder. “Ouch! Christ!” I rolled and squinted into the sunlight streaming in through the window.
   “Good morning,” Tahr smiled down at me. “Are you feeling better?”
   I began to answer, then squinted at the Sathe, not quite so sure. “Tahr?”
   It was her. The bedraggled young Sathe from Rehr’s study had washed and brushed her fur until it shone with a glossy sheen I’d never seen before, turned to a silver nimbus by a sunbeam that touched her. Her breeches were immaculate: green with intricate gold trim. In the months I had known her I’d never seen her looking like this. She looked like… royalty.
   She preened, pretending to examine a claw. “You like?” she asked.
   “I like,” I confirmed.
   She batted a hand against my cheek, then stood and went to stare out the window, her back to me. From the slant of the sun I guessed it was about nine o’clock. I glanced at my wrist; my watch was gone. “You were talking in your sleep last night,” Tahr said. “Your noises.”
   “Oh,” I said. I didn’t remember anything.
   She turned to lean against the window sill. “Do you feel like walking?” she asked. “There is someone who wants to see us.”
   Again: “Oh? Who?”
   She smiled then, blinking peacefully in happy reminiscence, “Someone special. Someone I have not seen in a long time.”
   “Ah, for you I think I can manage that.” I unfolded myself from the bowl-shaped bed, muscles unused to sleeping on such a shape and softness protesting.
   The room was not as small as it had seemed the previous night. The bed was the largest piece of furniture in the room and stood against the south wall, opposite the door. The window in the east wall admitted both light and cold air. Woolen rugs in subdued earthy shades lay across the wooden floor. A large metal-bound chest stood near the door.
   “Where are my clothes?”
   Tahr opened the chest and drew out a pair of blue Sathe breeches and my customized cloak. “Wear these.”
   That didn’t really answer my question. The breeches were too short in the legs and the crotch and the cloak hung open, exposing my scarred chest. I had to hold it shut with one hand.
   “I feel ridiculous,” I muttered.
   Tahr looked me up and down. “You will need some more clothes made for you. Those do not exactly flatter you.”
   “Understatement of the year.”
   She smiled. “Hurry, or we will be late.”
   Through the door was another room; a study. A desk stood in front of a window in the east wall and there were empty shelves along the far wall. A fireplace with a stone slab hearth stood in the northeast corner, a small pile of wood beside it. A door in the west wall led to the corridor. I walked beside Tahr as she stalked along the passage with feline grace. She pointed out another door down the hall. “My chambers,” she told me.
   We moved deeper into the maze of the Keep’s corridors, meeting Sathe everywhere. Most greeted Tahr and gave me dubious looks. Carved slabs of stone, reaching from floor to ceiling, decorated the halls. Like the passages in the outer walls, some stones looked new while others were obviously ancient. In one particularly ancient carving, something seemed strange about the worn Sathe figures etched into it, but we passed before I could make out exactly what.
   There were more stairs, then a guardroom. A Sathe was there waiting for us; a servant decked out in simple brown breeches. “High One,” he greeted Tahr. “Please, follow me.”
   Weird. He hardly gave me a second glance.
   Beyond that the halls changed. The walls were paneled in wood, the floor covered in carpets decorated with curlicues to rival any Persian rug. Heavy, metal-reinforced doors stood every few meters, with guards posted alternately, like statues in blue and silver armor, sheathed swords in hand, their heads turning to follow us as we passed by. Halfway down our guide stopped us, directing us through a doorway.
   “Here?” Tahr sounded surprised. “What about the royal chambers?”
   The servant ducked his head. “They have not been used for some time.”
   “Why?”
   “The Lord has not had need of them.”
   I saw the wrinkles across Tahr’s brow. Something was puzzling her.
   These might not have been the royal chambers, but they were plush enough, and big. Paintings hung from the walls and blown glass sculptures decorated shelves. A large map of the eastern States—the Eastern Realm I should say—hung from a wall behind a desk. The entire floor was covered by a huge rug woven in complex geometric patterns and curtains partitioned off other areas of the chambers. Something made from moving metal parts, wood, and water dripped away in a corner. A clock? I whistled softly. Whoever lived here would have to be a real bigwig. The Lord, the servant had called him.
   “Please, wait,” the servant bowed, then disappeared through the curtains.
   “The Lord?” I whispered to Tahr.
   “The Born Ruler.” She smiled. “My Ancestors, it has been a long time…”
   The curtains rustled and Rehr stood there, still wearing the red robes. Tahr bowed to him, and I imitated her.
   “High One.” He bowed to Tahr, then studied me, up and down. “I hope you are feeling better. I never thought thamil would have such an effect on anyone.” He turned and parted the drapes. “Please, he is waiting for both of you.”
   I followed Tahr through the curtains. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Some light filtered through the drapes that had been pulled across the window and I saw the room was dominated by the typical bowl-bed favored by Sathe.
   “That would be Tahr.”
   I heard her hiss of breath, then she was kneeling by the bed, clasping the hand of the shriveled and gray-furred Sathe lying there, her ears canted sideways and a mournful expression on her face. With his free hand, the old Sathe on the bed reached out and gently felt her face; the sides of her muzzle, her ears and the silver ring there. I realized with a start that he was blind.
   “Father..! I did not… When did this happen to you?”
   Father!?
   The torn ears twitched in a smile.
   “Months ago. An attempt on my life.”
   She hung her head. “I never heard.”
   “I did not want you to know.” He sank back on the cushions with a sigh that seemed to come from his bones. “I was afraid it might affect your studies.”
   She lifted one hand and oh so softly batted the side of his face. He smiled up at her. “You are well?”
   “I am fine.”
   “How is Saerae?”
   Pushing the subject away from himself, trying to spare her thinking about it. But of all the things on the face of the planet, why did he have to ask about Saerae?
   Tahr flinched back; in shock, perhaps in memory. “You knew?”
   “Saaa, daughter. You think I would not know when you chose the one to sire your young?”
   I slowly shook my head. Oh, Tahr…
   “But you did not know that he is dead.”
   The Shirai was silent, his milk-white eyes closed. “No… I did not know. I am so, so sorry. How…”
   “On our way here, Gulf mercenaries… They knew, Father! They knew. It was only through coincidence that I escaped.”
   “Yes, I have heard about your ‘coincidence’,” he murmured.
   Tahr laid her head on his shoulder and was silent. I felt like an interloper. As quietly as I could, I pushed back through the heavy draperies.
   Rehr was at his desk, scratching away with a quill pen. He looked up as I left the room, but said nothing.
   God, she was daughter to the old king or whatever he was. She had never told me. That word they used to describe her position; ‘candidates’. I thought she was just a nominee running for the position of Shirai.
   Shirai: not just a title but a name. I hadn’t known that either. I had a recollection of the dark-furred Hymath, and the questions she asked me about Tahr, about her clan name. I hadn’t realized.
   And for a homecoming, to find her father dying. Christ! How many of those closest to her had she already lost? How many more? Why? There were circumstances beyond my control, and they’d already drawn me in out of my depth. How much further could I go?
   We’d had an agreement, Tahr and I. There was that afternoon on the hill above Traders Meet when I’d agreed to help her get to Mainport. Now my part of that agreement had been fulfilled and things were still changing. There was something happening here I didn’t understand. Someone was trying to kill her, had tried to kill her father, had perhaps killed the other Candidates.
   Would she still need me?
   In my mind I recalled what we’d been through, how we met, some of those early summer days when it had almost seemed a game to learn about one another. It had changed. We had grown from that simple childhood state. My life back home—if I could call it home—now seemed like something far removed. It had been real, I had lived it, but somehow it was starting to feel like nothing more than an elaborate memory. And this… this craziness, this was reality.
   Shit. You could drive yourself mad thinking like that.
   I wandered across to the room to stand and study that tapestry covering a wall: an ornate, pictorial representation of the Eastern Realm. The brilliant colors, ideographic text, and seemingly abstract designs that meandered their way across the fabric never obscured the actual land that was being portrayed.
   And I knew that land. I’d been staring at pictorial renditions of that land throughout high school and college. Perhaps I’d had some doubts when Tahr scratched her crude map in the dirt, but now… I couldn’t doubt any longer.
   There was the east coastline, Florida, and the area around the Gulf of Mexico. There were graphics representing cities and towns, mostly scattered up and down the east coast, around the northern area of the Gulf, and around the Gulf of Saint Lawrence where Canada should be; There were hardly any settlements in Florida.
   That was all there was—the east seaboard of the states and Canada, the Florida peninsula, and the Gulf of Mexico—the rest of the map was a blank. Terra Incognito.
   Exactly what had happened to me was a mystery I was sure I was never going to unravel. This was earth, but it wasn’t. This was America, yet, again, it wasn’t. An alternate earth where the big cats of the Americas had ascended well beyond the threshold of simple animal awareness.
   They were easily the equal of any evolved ape.
   On that subject, what had happened to the apes over in Africa? What had they been doing while the Sathe were busy evolving?
   I didn’t have the answer to that either. Well, the Sathe would definitely be interested in sending ships east across the Atlantic. A whole new world over there to explore, with new produces, animals, and deposits of precious metals. That would be bait enough to tempt the most skeptical soul.
   An alternate earth, as if every time a choice, a decision, was made, a new reality was created. If I were to flip a coin, would that create universes in which it landed heads, tails, perhaps even a universe where it landed on edge?
   Could an action as frivolous, as inconsequential, as tossing a coin create worlds?
   Or perhaps it took an event that could change a world, such as a pseudo-cat overcoming its fear of a lightning-struck fire, using it for warmth on a cold night, learning to feed the flames to keep it alive.
   “You are not going to collapse again?”
   I wheeled at the voice. Rehr was hovering beside his desk, dithering between perhaps helping me or making for the door. He gestured towards me: “You do not need help?”
   “No,” I shook my head. “Thank you, but I will be all right.”
   “You have been standing there for some time… You are familiar with maps?”
   “Yes,” I nodded and gestured at the illuminated tapestry. “My people use them. Same things. Ah… How old is this one?”
   “That particular one,” Rehr nodded at the illuminated tapestry, “was woven by Methres ai Ch’athr, not four years ago.”
   “I can see you have still got a lot to explore.”
   “What do you mean?”
   I shrugged. “I have seen maps that are more… complete.”
   “Of our lands? Tahr told me you said you came from another world. ‘One that is ours but not ours’. I cannot quite comprehend that. You mean your world’s geography is identical to ours?”
   “Very similar,” I said. “I can look out the window in my room and see the area where I was raised, but it is not the same place at all.”
   “A strange idea.”
   “Yes.”
   Rehr was quiet for a second, ears twitching in thought.
   “Is there anything out there?” he finally asked me.
   I looked at where his claw had jabbed the map, about where England would be.
   “Well, if it is consistent, there should be lands to the south of this one, below the Gulf Realm, a continent bigger than this one over to the east, and another one down here somewhere. Also on the top and bottom of the word.” I pointed them out as I spoke. “The world is a big place.”
   Some time later Rehr was still staring at the map when Tahr laid a hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard her come out.
   “He wishes to… see you,” she said.
   “Why did you not tell me he was your father.”
   She gave me a small, sad smile. “You never asked. Go now, quickly.”
   I pushed the drapes aside as I stepped back into the dim room and stood for a second, blinking.
   “You must be Ka… K’hy,” said the gruff voice.
   “Yes, High One.”
   There was a slight pause.
   “She said you are not Sathe. You sound different.”
   He was sitting propped up against his cushions. His rheumy eyes were wandering sightlessly, but his ears were locked on me and twitching.
   “I am… different. Quite different.”
   “Please, come here.” A hand patted the left side of the bed. I went and knelt down beside him.
   He reached to touch me and I pulled back a little, forestalling him. “Sir, you are sure that you want to do that?” I asked, for some reason worried he might have a heart condition. “I am not Sathe. You may be… startled.”
   “Tahr told me what to expect,” he assured me.
   He touched my hand and in that instant his pads touched me, I saw him flinch, then relax again. For a while he just touched my skin, then he began mapping the shape of my hand, examining the fingertips and nails, which way my fingers bent. He ran his fingers up my arm, feeling the light hair that grew there, the pads on the undersides of his fingers cool and dry and slightly rough against my skin.
   I managed not to flinch when he reached my face and explored that; feeling the bone structure, my nose and lips. He followed the contours of my ears and felt the bristles of my beard. He finally ran his fingers through my hair, feeling the shape of my skull.
   “I would never have believed it,” he murmured and sank back against the cushions.
   “I suppose I do take some getting used to,” I said.
   “Huh! Hearing about you is one thing. Actually seeing you…” he smiled then, “So to speak, it is something else altogether. You are truly from another world?”
   “In a way; yes I am.”
   “Yes, Tahr did try to explain,” the old Shirai sighed and turned those blank eyes my way. “I wish I could see you. She told me so much… For what you have done for my daughter I will be forever grateful.”
   “High One…” I started but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
   “I know the sacrifices that you have made for her, willingly and otherwise. I do not care what you look like; you have the heart of a Sathe.”
   “I…” Shit! I didn’t know how to put it into words. “I thank you, High One.”
   “You have known Tahr for several months; have traveled with her, fought with her. You would know, better than I…”
   “Know what?”
   He gave a small smile. “I am not going to deny I am dying, but it would make it easier if I knew… Would Tahr make a good successor?”
   Dumbstruck, I floundered for a response. “I… ah… I do not think that I can be the judge of that. I am not sure that I know what abilities a Sathe ruler must have, High One.”
   He snorted faintly. “Just tell me what you know of her, what you have seen in her.”
   “Sir… I can honestly say that I have never known anybody like her. Being able to call her a friend is something I can take pride in. She is warm, caring, loyal, intelligent, and brave. If those are qualities you value, I think that she would be a worthy heir.”
   “Thank you,” he murmured and was still for a time. Then: “Do you feel the same way about her as she does about you?”
   “I do not understand,” I said, although I already had a glimmering of what he was getting at.
   “She has told me about her Time and I am curious to know how you found it.”
   “Uh… You…” I stammered to halt and swallowed hard.
   The Shirai’s blind eyes closed and he hissed in amusement. “My Ancestors! She was right: you are shy!”
   I felt the flush crawling up my neck.
   “No,” he calmed down again. “Do not worry about that. Tell me: what do you think her feelings for you are?”
   I floundered for words: embarrassed. “I… I know that she does not hate or fear the way I look, but as for what happened… she could not help herself then… could she? There is no way that she can think of me as a Sathe.”
   “She cares for you a great deal, Strange One,” the old Shirai was staring sightlessly at the low ceilings with its massive rafters. “She knows that she can never have you as a mate, but still she cares for you. You have her friendship, and her love.”
   I shook my head. I had believed that night in the cave was… more hormones than anything else. I tossed things over in my head; The times I had woken up from dreams and she was there, the times she cared for me when I was ill and no-one else would, the time in the sun-warmed grass when she had bitten me.
   “Well?” he asked. “Am I wrong?”
   “No.” I bit my lip; unable to deny it. “I think not.”
   He smiled: “Good.”
   “Good?”
   “Yes.” Those blind eyes turned in my direction. “Sometimes a bitter looking fruit hides a sweet center. She cares for you, a great deal, no matter what you look like on the outside. I know my daughter and she is no fool. I do not know you as well, but from what I have heard she judged correctly. If she can continue to do so well, I think she will make a worthy successor. No?”

    I sank back in the hot water with a grateful sigh and closed my eyes as the tendrils of steam wound their way across the surface of the pool. The water I disturbed slapped lazily against the sides before settling back to quiescence.
   Whether by luck or design, the Citadel had been built over natural hot springs and the Sathe were not reluctant to make use of them. Several rooms in the lower levels of the Keep had been built as baths, with receptacles the size of small swimming pools cut into the stone floors and filled with deliciously hot water. Benches hewn into the sides of the pools were worn smooth and clean by water and Sathe behinds. In the center of each of these pools stood a large, dark stone like a Sathe’s fang with the edges chiseled sharp, a half-meter poking above the water. Decoration? It reminded me of a shark’s fin.
   The water was clean, with no algae or detritus. Light came from oil fires burning in niches in the walls. I had one of the rooms for myself and that probably wasn’t normal. Had it been cleared for my benefit, or the Sathes’?
   Whatever. This was the first hot bath I’d had a shot at in half a year, and I wasn’t going to pass it up. I dunked my head and held my breath as long as I could while giving my head a good scrubbing, hoping to kill or dislodge any passengers I might have picked up over the last couple of weeks. When I surfaced, Tahr was sitting on the edge of the pool, her feet trailing in the water. Beside her sat my boots.
   “They were not happy to give them up,” she said.
   “Who and what?” I asked.
   “Scholars.” She stood up and began shucking her breeches, still talking. “Engineers, smiths. They are examining your possessions… They have not made much progress.”
   Her clothes lying in a pile behind her, she slowly descended the steps into the pool. I watched the water slowly climbing her body—her fur billowed out in a ruff at the waterline—until it stopped at her neck. She hissed in pleasure and sank onto one of the benches.
   “But do they have to examine my clothes? They are just cloth.”
   She snorted. “Just cloth! Some of the cloth is recognizable, but most of it is an enigma. The tightness of the weave, the strength… They have never seen anything like it.”
   I slouched lower into the water, staring at the worn stonework on the far side of the pool. In the center of the bath there was that large piece of jagged rock sticking up out of the water, roughly triangular in shape. Sathe have strange artwork, but still it didn’t resemble that.
   “What is that?” I asked, staring at it.
   For an answer, she stood and waded out to the stone. There was an underwater dais around it, bringing the water up to her shoulders. She leant her back against one of the chiseled edges of the monolith and started rubbing against it like a housecat, her eyes closed and her ears back in a smile.
   A backscratcher.
   “Come, join me.” She grinned at me.
   I grinned back and waded across the pool and leaned against the rock. The surface was rough behind my back, like sharp-edged pumice. Not unpleasant. I laughed at the sensation.
   “Nice. But is this all they’re for? Backscratchers?”
   “Nice?” Tahr moved around in front of me, mane plastered across her shoulders, bemusement wrinkling her brow. “Is that all it is to you?”
   “Huh? What do you mean?” I asked, not understanding
   She kicked my feet out from under me and when I got my head above water again and sneezed the water out of my nose, she was sitting against the side of the pool.
   “What was that for?” I implored.
   “You are impossible. You are just so different. I try to treat you as though you are a normal male,” she raised her hands and rubbed the side of her muzzle, wetting the fine fur there, “but you do not act like a normal male.” She dropped her hand and it splashed into the water.
   I pushed my way through the pool to sit beside her, silent.
   “What did you and my father talk about?” she asked.
   “Uh… you.”
   “I thought as much. What about me?”
   “He wanted to know if I thought you would make a good successor.”
   “Do you?”
   “Definitely.”
   She smiled and cocked her head delicately to one side: “I am pleased someone has faith in me. What else did you talk about?”
   I felt the corners of my mouth twitch. “I think that you already have an idea.”
   “Ah,” she nodded slowly. “And what did you say about us?”
   I leaned my head back against the edge of the pool and stared up at the ceiling. There were things her father had said… I wanted to know if they were true. Were her feelings towards me something I could understand, or were they a drive so alien that they could mean the world to her but nothing to me?
   “You know,” I finally said, “your father cares a great deal for you.”
   “I know,” she said. “And I for him.”
   “After what you told him about us, he wanted to know how I felt about you: did I feel the same for you as you do for me.”
   “And do you?”
   I lowered my head and spoke to the water’s surface: “I… cannot say. I do not know… what you feel.”
   Tahr’s eyes widened, then her ears danced. “Did that night in the cave not tell you?”
   I shrugged, sending ripples right across the pool. “Tahr, you do not understand me and often I cannot understand you. That night… I do not know if you made love to me through want or need. You did not seem to be… yourself.”
   She was quiet for a while then she said softly, “Times are difficult for us, but I knew what I wanted. I like that term you used, ‘making love’. For me that is what it was.”
   That deep? Oh Jesus! Damnation, couldn’t she see it wouldn’t work! How could she have feelings like that for me? We were different species! How could she love me!?
   And why was I so hurt by the realization it was impossible?
   “K’hy,” she touched my arm. “I know that you cannot be everything a Sathe male is: I know that you cannot replace Saerae. But there are other paths of friendship: you are my companion, you have saved my life and you have lived with me and loved with me. K’hy, I love you as a friend.”
   She leaned against me and I could feel her fur moving in the gentle currents in the water. I felt her breath against the side of my face a split second before she touched her mouth to my cheek in her version of a human kiss.
   When she pulled her lithe and dripping form out of the bath, the temperature of the liquid seemed to drop slightly. She dried herself by shaking and rubbing down with a piece of cloth off a pile by the door. I got out soon after she left the room. It’s not so much fun by yourself.
   That evening I waited for my food to arrive as it had at lunch, delivered by a wide eyed cub who practically dropped the food and ran.
   I was sitting on the desk staring out the window at the lights of Mainport and humming disjointed snatches of dimly remembered songs. What Tahr had told me earlier echoed in my head, but the warm feeling that conjured shared rent with a nagging foreboding: could friendship be stretched too far?
   When the scratch at the door pulled me from my reverie I went to answer it, getting ready in case he dropped the tray as he had earlier. It wasn’t room service.
   “Tahr…” I broke off and stared.
   She was dressed in bright red breeches tied with a cord inlaid with silver thread. Her tan fur had been brushed until it glowed and her mane was strung around her shoulders in artful disarrangement. Around her neck, she wore a necklace of fine silver wire twisted and woven into fine designs. On her right wrist she wore a light bracelet of a similar design, but this had a large blue stone embedded in it: a single bluebottle trapped in a silver filigree web. Hanging from her left hip was a scabbard made of laminated walnut and inlaid with silver. The protruding scimitar handle was bound with some kind of dark twine with a dark stone mounted on the pommel, set in silver.
   I swallowed. “You have outdone yourself.”
   “Thank you,” she smiled and pushed past me into the room. Tucked under her arm was a bundle of green cloth with what looked like a scabbard rolled up in it; she spread the lot out on the desk.
   “I am sorry that I have not had time to find a tailor to make you some proper clothes, so these will have to do in their stead.” She waved a hand at the undersized breeches I was wearing and said, “Get rid of those and put these on, we have a dinner to attend.”
   My fatigue pants were there, as well as my shirt, belt, and sheath knife. I was right about the scabbard: it was wood, coated with black lacquer, and definitely contained a sword.
   I stripped off the five-sizes-too-small pair of breeches I was wearing and pulled on the trousers. They’d been washed and ironed or pressed, but not starched, so the seams were not as crisp as they could have been; likewise with the shirt. Also, the cleaning couldn’t do anything about the faded and worn cloth, nor the repaired tear, but it was a great relief to get into clean, comfortable clothes again.
   I buckled on the belt and clipped the knife to it, then hefted the sword gingerly.
   “Do I wear this?”
   “Yes. Here, on your belt. That is right.”
   After that came my boots—cleaning them up with a bit of spit and polish. Not exactly parade ground standard, but better than nothing.
   Tahr eyed me critically.
   “Not too bad… sit down.” I did so.
   She stood behind the chair and began to rake her claws through my hair, straightening it, pulling it back. Another advantage of claws: built in combs.
   Sitting with another person combing your hair is strangely relaxing; built-in social grooming habits I guess. I could have easily dozed off, but she finished quickly, and with a final flick of hair, she stood back to examine her work.
   “Much better. You look presentable. Come on.”
   “Where are we going?”
   “Dinner.”
   “And for that I need a sword?”
   “Oh, bring your knife also.”
   I grabbed the knife and slipped it into a pocket, snuffed out the oil lamp, and followed her out the door, slamming it behind me.
   As we marched down the corridor, I patted the scabbard banging against my leg. “What am I supposed to do with this? I do not even know how to use the thing. Would not my rifle be better?”
   Tahr waved a ‘no’. “There should be no need to use it. The sword is purely ceremonial, in any case. Offer it at the door, but keep your knife. Stand against the wall, directly behind my chair. Do not speak unless spoken to directly, and always be courteous.”
   “Tahr, why am I doing this?”
   “I need an escort. You are the only one that I trust enough. The others will have escorts from their personal staff. You are all I have.”
   “Sorry to disappoint you.”
   “I did not mean it like that.”
   “Who are these ‘others’?”
   She smoothed down a bit of fur on her chest. “Why, the returned heirs, of course.”
   We stopped in a small antechamber, opposite a set of heavy wood doors with guards posted. They opened the doors for us.
   The room wasn’t the grand hall with huge banquet table I’d been half-expecting. A low ceiling was supported by massive wooden beams. Through twin archways in the far wall a balcony commanded a view over the outer Citadel walls towards the forest and farmland to the west. There was a table and at least it wasn’t too different from what I’d imagined.
   Massively built. Dark wood, polished to a high sheen anchored upon a strangely carved central pedestal. Out of a possible fourteen places, five had been set; two on each side and one at the far end. A conical brass candelabra with three tiers of candles sat in the center of the table, providing illumination. Two seats at the table were occupied.
   The two Sathe—one male, one female—sitting opposite each other at the table turned to face us as we came in. The looks they gave Tahr were definitely not friendly, and the one she gave in return told me there was no love lost between them. When their eyes turned to me, it was obvious that they forgot about Tahr on the spot. Nostrils and eyes flared wide as neurological hardwiring tensed them against possible threat.
   Following Tahr’s example, I left my sword on a side table covered with a red velvet cloth beside the door. Tahr leisurely selected a place on the right side of the table, opposite the other female. I pulled her chair out and held it while she seated herself, then stepped back into a shadowed niche in the wall, settling into an at-ease stance. Behind each of the other heirs, in similar niches, were two more Sathe: escorts. All I could see of them in the shadows and dimness was that they were large.
   “I am surprised to see you here, Tahr,” one of the heirs—the male—said.
   “Really? Is there any reason you thought I might not make it?” Tahr asked. “Perhaps you thought I may have an accident.”
   “Perhaps,” the other agreed with the merest twitch of a lip. “There have been a lot of them going around.”
   Tahr hissed. The male smiled and said, “Control yourself.”
   “I think you speak too lightly of others’ misfortune,” Tahr retorted acidly.
   “I am afraid she is right, Schai,” the female said. “But Tahr, I am curious about your… companion. Have you taken to traveling with animals now? It will not foul the floor?”
   “He is not…” Tahr began, but her retort was interrupted when the door opened and the final heir entered. That was one Sathe I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing in a crowd: his fur was a shocking, almost-metallic silver. His escort was also different from the others… Well, perhaps not as different as Tahr’s escort, but for a bodyguard she was extremely small. Her eyes would perhaps be level with my chest.
   Behind them Rehr flowed in like a red bishop and turned to close the heavy doors.
   The Advisor wasn’t surprised to see me. He hardly spared me a glance as he swept past on his way to the seat at the head of the table. The other two seemed more startled: they stared for a second before Silver Fur removed his sword and laid it on the table, closely followed by his diminutive escort.
   As he took his seat opposite Tahr, he gave her a cordial nod, “Tahr, it has been too long.”
   “R’rrhaesh.” She returned the nod. “You have not changed much.”
   The other female chose that moment to add her two cents worth. “True. He still refuses to dye his fur!”
   Tahr turned and hissed at her with ears down, but R’rrhaesh stopped her.
   “Do not trouble yourself, I am quite used to it.”
   I felt a twinge of sympathy for him, of course I know what it’s like being a misfit, but surely the color of his fur didn’t matter that much? Huh! A human should talk! Across the room the glow of candlelight reflected from a pair of eyes caught my attention. The small female who’d had come in with R’rrhaesh was looking at me. No… not looking, staring. She was eying me from head to foot as though weighing me up. For R’rrhaesh to have chosen her for an escort, he must have had a good reason. Looking at the heavies the other two had brought, she was a striking contrast.
   She must have been only about four foot eight. A pleated leather skirt with suspender-like straps crisscrossing her chest was her only clothing, her fur like chocolate with swirls of milk through it. She carried herself with poise—inherent in Sathe—but I got an impression of exceptional grace about her. When our eyes met and locked she huffed, fur bristling, and gave me a stare I could almost feel, daring me to look away first.
   I wasn’t about to try outstare a Sathe. I flashed her a wink and turned my attention back to the table.
   Rehr waited until everyone was settled before standing again. There was no need to call for attention; all eyes went to him.
   “Four. Only four.” Rehr looked at each of the heirs in turn. “This should be a time for rejoicing. The youth, the offspring of the realm’s Lords, the best of their Clans, returning to demonstrate their prowess and ability in the final Challenge, choosing from among the best the one who is to rule our lands. Instead, there are too many Clans who have been mourning the loss of prized youth.”
   He sighed and sank back into the chair, looking old.
   “To those who are here tonight. Old friends, young friends, I greet you. The Shirai clan greets you. Their food is yours, their drink is yours, their roof is yours.”
   As if this was a signal, servants seemed to materialize from the shadows. Platters of veal, spare ribs, corn, bread, and goblets of ale were set on the table and the Sathe set in with a will.
   Watching a Sathe dinner party isn’t a sight you forget in a hurry. I’d become somewhat immunized to the spectacle of Sathe eating over the past months, but mealtimes made sure that I would never overlook the differences in physiology.
   The meat was usually done rare, at best. Large bones were never wasted; powerful jaws and sharp teeth splintered them, then the marrow was fastidiously picked out. Sathe do not have the molars that humans use for masticating their food and it is impossible for them to keep their mouths shut while chewing. Any Sathe meal is accompanied by the sounds of loud chewing, swallowing, and bone crunching. They were eating things they probably considered delicacies, but to me looked suspiciously like internal organs of various animals. One taste treat I found particularly distressing were the rabbits brought in, pinned down on boards, still alive. They actually screamed when the Sathe slit them open for the steaming organs. I saw Tahr use her jaws to crack open a skull and scoop out the brains.
   Shit! You think you know someone…
   Fighting a roiling stomach, I stood there and suffered the twofold punishment of watching them eat, and smelling the aroma of cooked food that filled the room. When Tahr had said that we were going to dinner, for some strange reason I got the impression that I might be eating as well. Still, watching them eat pretty much did for my appetite.
   As the meal progressed I could see their attitudes toward one another. They all seemed to be mutually distrustful of each other, although Tahr and R’rrhaesh did not seem to be as cautious towards each other as they were towards the others. The other two, the male and the female were called, respectively, Schai and Eaher.
   Throughout Rehr stayed neutral. In conversation he took care not to become involved with either side, and of course the obvious subject came up; Me.
   “Tahr,” said R’rrhaesh, “I am curious, where did you find your escort.”
   “Actually it was he who found me,” she replied. “He saved my life after I lost my staff.”
   I think she said more than she had meant to then.
   “So,” Eaher put in thoughtfully, “That is your entire staff?”
   Tahr’s ears twitched in annoyance.
   “He is quite adequate.”
   “Exactly what is it?” asked Schai.
   “He calls himself a ‘h’man’,” Tahr replied.
   “Really?” Eaher asked in what had to be a sarcastic tone. “Of course, how foolish of me, I should have realized it talks.” She snorted the word.
   Tahr’s jaw muscles twitched in a barely restrained hostile grin. “Oh yes, he talks.”
   Eaher looked at me. “You talk, do you? Say something.”
   I remembered Tahr’s warning to be polite, so I bowed my head before saying. “Is there something you would like to hear me say, High One?”
   Tahr’s ears twitched in a smile as everyone but Rehr expressed various degrees of surprise then rapidly tried to hide it.
   “I did tell you he spoke Sathe,” she said.
   “Why is it… he wearing such strange clothing?” R’rrhaesh asked. “Looks like a walking bush.”
   “That is his own clothing,” Tahr replied.
   R’rrhaesh, sitting opposite Tahr, lifted his spouted goblet to his mouth and took a swallow, staring at me over the rim.
   “Do you know where he is from?”
   “No,” Tahr plucked something out of the rabbit carcass in front of her and popped it into her mouth, “not really.”
   “‘Not really’,” Schai echoed, “Has he not told you?”
   “He has told me, but it is difficult to comprehend. Imagine a world that is ours, but not ours.”
   “You talk in riddles, Tahr,” said R’rrhaesh. “How can that possibly be?”
   Tahr attempted to explain my theory of what had happened. A theory that was only a patchy framework built from what I had seen and experienced. Her audience listened skeptically, taking occasional draughts from their cups. When she finished, there was silence for a few seconds.
   “Huh… you expect us to believe that,” Schai snorted into his ale.
   “Believe what you will.” Tahr picked a bone off her plate. “He is here, and I have heard no better way of explaining his presence.” She bit into it with a loud crunch.
   “Have you not thought of the fact that he may have come from across the sea?” Eaher asked.
   “Yes… and I prefer the other explanation. You have not seen some of the devices he has with him; they are far in advance of anything we can produce. He says his people are warlike, and I, for one, would far rather have them on another world than on the other side of a stretch of water,” Tahr replied smoothly. She used her tongue to lick the marrow out of the bone.
   After the last bone had been split, Rehr leaned back in his chair surrounded by his red robes. He must have been hot in them, even though for me it was a cold night.
   “You have all been summoned here as the guests of Shirai. He knows that he does not have long to live and so he has ordered that the Ceremony be held whilst he lives. Now, as in ages past, on the eve of the winter [solstice], you shall meet for your final trial, the Challenge to determine who shall rule.”
   On the delivery of this cheerful note, Rehr rose and brushed out of the room.

   Walking alone down the dim corridors was a strange experience. The only light came from the occasional torch in its sconce or the dim glow from under closed doors. My footfalls echoed loudly. Occasionally I would see a Sathe who would hurry past me. I started whistling softly, then hastily stopped as the sound was amplified eerily in the stone halls.
    I found what I hoped was the right spiral staircase and came out on what I recognized as my floor. When I arrived at my door I put my hand on the latch, then hesitated.
   “Ah… what the hell…” I sighed.
   I knocked on the door just a few steps down the corridor.
   “Come in K’hy,” Tahr said, her voice muffled by the wood.
   Her room must have been one of the first class guest rooms. Wooden furnishings that fairly glowed with age and polish, ample lighting, colorful rugs on the floor.
   She sat at her desk, a quill pen in one hand and sheaves of parchment on the desktop in front of her. The jewelry had been removed and her fur was ruffled, as though she had been running her hand through it. She cocked her head to one side as I stuck my head in.
   “I will leave if you are busy. It was not important,” I said.
   She leaned back in her chair. “No. Please, come in. I could use a distraction.”
   I closed the door behind me and went over and perched on the side of her desk. The parchments were covered with the streamlined scratches of Sathe script.
   “Sometime I will have to learn to read,” I said.
   She looked surprised for a second. “I had forgotten that you cannot. Do you have a written language?”
   “Of course.”
   “Could you show me some of your script?” she asked, and handed me the quill and pushed an inkwell across the desk.
   I took up the quill awkwardly. Tahr had to show me the proper way to hold it and dip it in the ink. As neatly as I could, I wrote on a scrap of parchment
   ‘KILROY WAS HERE’
   Tahr eyed the text curiously, but didn’t ask what it meant.
   “Can you spell my name in your language?”
   I spelled her name as well as I could: phonetically. Alongside it, she scratched something in Sathe.
   “That is my name.”
   It looked vaguely like a Pi symbol preceding a trident.
   “Tahr, Rehr said that only four heirs have made it. How many were there supposed to be?”
   Tahr glanced at me, then gave a body wracking shudder. “K’hy… there should have been twelve heirs tonight.”
   “What do you think happened to them?”
   “What nearly happened to us.”
   “Dead? Eight of them?”
   She waved an affirmative miserably. “Eight plus their staffs.”
   I was silent for a while.
   “But they were your rivals. I saw how you did not get along with the others tonight.”
   “True. They are my rivals, but I grew up with them. I get… got along with some of them better than I did with those fools Schai and Eaher… K’hy, some were my friends.”
   I didn’t understand it. “But why kill them?” I asked. “Why try to kill you? The Gulf Realm again? What does the Gulf Realm have to gain from that?”
   “Confusion,” Tahr began to explain. “Perhaps more land. All the heirs hail from the most affluent Clans, the Clan Lords’ offspring. On the night of the Choosing only the best will be the High Lord of the Eastern Realm, and their Clan name shall be their title—as Shirai is my Father’s.” Tahr dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote a few characters then began absently tapping the nib on the paper.
   “Should the Gulf realm succeed in killing us all, the hierarchy that the Eastern Realm is built upon will be undermined for a time. Other Clans, less-reputable clans—undoubtedly some of the southern families sympathetic to Gulf causes—will squabble for the opportunity to send Candidates to Mainport. There would be clashes between clans and the possibility of the Realm itself being fractured, the center of power being dislodged from Mainport.”
   Tahr dipped the pen again. “If the Gulf wanted to invade, they could not pick a better time. For a long time the Realm would be staggering around like a headless bird…” she left that scenario for me to finish off.
   “But they have not killed you all,” I said. “What happens now? You know the Gulf Realm is behind what has happened.”
   “At the best?” her ears drooped. “I do not know… At the best I see the Gulf Realm being sanctioned by other Realms until there is a reduction in military forces, and then as a goodwill gesture handing us the disputed territories along the Borderline River. Temporary.
   “At worst they deny the accusations. They continue to stockpile troops and weapons along the Borderline River while playing for time. When they are ready they will fabricate some excuse and invade anyway, ‘to reclaim lands snatched from their ancestors’!” Tahr snorted in disgust and jabbed viciously at the paper. A wonder the quill didn’t break.
   “What about your army?” I asked. “Allies?”
   “Our army cannot compare with theirs!” she spat. “We could perhaps match the numbers with conscripts, but the number of well trained and equipped personnel would be on their side.
   “As for allies… Perhaps the Lake Trader coalition. They are an unknown, but as things stand now the Eastern Realm is a warm coat of fur between them and the chill of the Gulf Realm. They would be reluctant to lose us, but how reluctant I do not know.” She slammed her hand down on the paper. Now the quill snapped, the feather fluttering to the floor. Tahr’s nose wrinkled at the mess of ink-blots she’d made on the paper. “Now look: I have ruined a perfectly good piece of parchment,” she said with a strained smile that rapidly vanished. Her head dropped into her hands. “My Ancestors, K’hy! All I see is war! Do I want to be High Lord?”
   I didn’t know what to say. I got up and stood behind her, putting my hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were bunched up like steel knots under her fur.
   “Hey, whatever happens I believe in you.”
   She leaned forward and moaned softly. I could sympathize. She had come home to find her father blind and dying and most of her childhood friends dead. I couldn’t advise her. I felt useless.
   “Tahr,” I stroked her shoulder, the fur, “there is something my people do to relax. Relieve some tension. And it feels good. I am not sure if it would work on you, but do you want to try?”
   She reached up and softly batted my face. “Why not.”
   “Can we use your bed?”
   Her eyes widened. “K’hy…”
   “No, no,” I hastened. “It is not that.”
   “I should have guessed,” she smiled. Sadly?
   We moved through to the bedchamber, Tahr starting to light the lamp.
   I caught her hand. “I do not think we need that. Just lie down, on your front.”
   She did so, leaning on her elbows, and I knelt over her, making myself comfortable. I didn’t have any oil, besides, her fur would make that messily impractical.
   She twitched and yipped in surprise when I took hold of her shoulders and started kneading the muscles.
   “Hai! What are you doing?” she yelped at the first pinching.
   “Just relax,” I reassured her. “It is supposed to hurt a little.”
   She was tense. Hah! Understatement. Under her fur her muscles were like knots in steel cable. She didn’t work out and still had musculature like an athlete. I really had to work at it, but as I continued I could feel the tightness slipping out. She sighed like a deflating balloon, put her arms to her side, and fell lax.
   Rubbing steadily, kneading, slowly squeezing muscles between my knuckles, running my fingers along the vertebrae and shoulder blades, pushing folds of skin with the heel of my hand.
   Her furry back felt really strange under my hands, the muscles not where I expected them to be. As she relaxed, her skin softened, rolling under my hands in loose folds. I was no professional masseur, but a girl I had once known back home had shown me the basics. No, I was no pro, but I learned as I worked. Her muscles were strange and it took me time, reading the ridges and hollows, making a map in my mind.
   Tahr lay there, eyes closed, breathing softly and steadily with a deep burring sounding faintly in her chest. After about twenty minutes or so she stirred herself to say, “I thought you said that this was not to be sexual.”
   I hesitated. “It is not,” I said, confused. Only then did I remember how she had acted in the pool. Rubbing her back got her…
   “No, don’t stop,” she murmured in a dozy, slurred voice as I faltered in indecision. A rumbling purr escaped her. “Don’ worry, not in the mood…” her voice drifted off.
   “I think I am glad to hear it,” I whispered.
   I kept up the massage for another half-hour, at the end of which her closed eyes, steady breathing, and gentle purrs told me she was asleep. She stirred slightly as I eased off her expensive breeches, folded them carefully, and covered her with a thin sheet. Calm again, she didn’t stir.
   I tiptoed out of her room, pausing in the doorway to look back and wonder what her dreams were like.

   A light but steady snow was drifting down outside, covering Mainport and the Citadel in a chill white blanket.
   Inside the keep, for the past week or so, it had not seemed any warmer than the air outside. I had taken to wearing my cloak inside and was not pleased when Tahr assured me that it would be getting colder.
   We walked down a passage, our breath visible in the chill air as we talked. Central heating was something this place could really use.
   Tahr was trying to describe the layout of the Keep and not having a great deal of success. It seemed like the place had been designed by a hundred different architects, all of them having something different in mind and quite possibly more than a few not knowing what they were doing at all. A lot of the place was actually built into the hill itself, like they took a granite crag and chipped away at it to turn the whole thing into the Citadel. Actually, that wasn’t too far from the truth; and if you think that would’ve taken a while, you’d be right.
   I myself couldn’t quite grasp how old the place was. Now Tahr was taking me to a section where some of the original construction remained. It was a place I’d been through before, but now she took me down a side corridor. “Look.”
   “At what?”
   “The carvings. Take a good look.”
   I did. There was something funny about the Sathe in them… Goddamn!
   “They’ve got tails!”
   Well, stubby, short ones, but they were unmistakably tails. There were other differences as well. The posture, the shape of the head, there were probably more, but the granite was too worn to tell.
   “You see now?” she spread her hands. “This was an early part of the Citadel, walled up and only recently uncovered. We do not really know exactly how old it is.”
   “But… but how can the…” I was so flustered, I found myself speaking in English. I tried again. “But this is carved into the wall! Sathe must have had tails thousands of years ago. Uh-uh. No way. I do not believe the Citadel is that old.”
   She hissed in exasperation, then caught my arm. “Come on.”
   I followed her through the dim corridors deeper in to the Citadel. Deeper than I had ever been before. Tracks had been worn in solid stone by the passage of millions of pairs of feet. The walls were covered with script, some looking fresh, others just faint impressions in the rock. The rooms were smaller and not as well constructed as the ones in the outer areas of the Citadel, more primitive.
   We emerged from a doorway into a cloister surrounding a huge open field. The snow had formed a hard crust over the grass that lay underneath. As we walked across it, we left two different sorts of tracks: my bootprints, and Tahr’s strange four-toed prints.
   The snow drifted down, losing the Citadel walls on the far side of the circle in swirling whiteness. At first the objects in the center of the circle were similarly masked, slowly becoming clearer as we approached. I felt my jaw begin to sag.
   A circle of huge stones stood out in the middle of the white carpet, snow-iced granite slabs about fifteen feet tall and six thick, standing on end and joined together, edge to edge, at the very core of the Citadel. Time had worn down edges, leaving the stones ragged, uneven. It would have been like Stonehenge or one of those places, but for the stones being joined together, making a nearly solid ring, or perhaps a wall. With snow, the silence, there was an air of dreamlike silence—timelessness—about the place.
   Tahr touched my hand, beckoning me to follow. Through a gap between the monoliths: a gate. Inside, snow was backed around the inside of the wall, hiding a rampart. There were lumps in the snow: squares and rectangles. Ancient stubs of walls buried, the remains of buildings. A small village, houses gathered around a central gathering place.
   I followed Tahr to the center of the circle. She brushed snow from a buried stone and sat down, flakes settling on her fur. She wore no cloak yet seemed unaffected by the still, cold air.
   No sound made it through the curtain of snow. I stood there in the silence, turning around on the spot, my cloak wrapped around me against the cold. The stones were huge, ghostly shapes in the whiteness. It was a cold, timeless place. A circle of memories and ghosts, none of them human.
   “What is this place?” I finally whispered.
   “This is the Circle,” she replied quietly. “This is the heart of the Citadel, of Mainport, of the Eastern realm.”
   I cleared the rock beside her. Lichen grew there, hidden under the snow. Beneath that there were indentations in the rock that at one time may have been carvings. I sat, turning to watch her. She continued.
   “No one knows just how long ago it was… certainly it was before any records were kept, before written language even, when Sathe still had tails. The stones you see here are old, but not as old as the Clan ground we stand on. We were born here, birthed from the womb of time, here we grew and learned. From the forgetfulness of the past to today. Sathe pass, but the land endures.
   “Across the Realms, in ages past, Sathe came together to grow. Where they succeeded there are the ancient Clan grounds. Where they failed: nothing but dust and a few fallen stones.”
   She waved her arm in a gesture encompassing what lay beyond the white wall surrounding us.
   “As you can see, the Eastern Realm succeeded. We have kept building the Citadel, our heritage, each Born Ruler adding to it so their descendants will always know their Clan was standing over the Realm. It has pushed the town out as the walls moved outwards. Only recently have we started building new settlements.”
   “How recent is ‘recently’?” I asked.
   “About three or four hundred years ago.” Tahr replied.
   I looked around at the time worn rocks.
   “Sometimes we find caves,” she continued in quiet tones, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “Sometimes tools, sometimes skeletons of… Sathe, we think, but they have no hands.
   “Now do you believe?”
   I nodded slowly. “I do not have much choice. You can be very convincing.”
   She hissed and swatted me on the arm.
   “Hang on… If you have been building this place for those thousands of years, then why are there not enough Sathe to fill all those empty rooms in the Citadel?”
   She looked away from, then back at me as though trying to make a decision about something.
   “Many families have left for the frontier towns. There are not nearly as many Sathe in Mainport as there were fifty years ago. I am starting to get cold, so you must be frozen… yes, you are shivering. I think we should go back now.”
   It was true I was starting to shiver, but for some reason her story about families emigrating grated. Why would whole families up and move out? I was sure that there weren’t television ads and glossy sales brochures advertising a life of easy riches in the small towns. This is not the kind of culture where people just move on a whim: where they live is all they know. Adventure is a risk.
   She had something she didn’t want to tell me. Well, that was her prerogative, I wouldn’t push her… but I was curious as hell.
   Behind us, the stone circle disappeared in the drifting snow.
   Back in my room, I banked up the fire until I had a roaring blaze going. Then I pulled the drapes on the evening snowscape outside, stripped, wrapped myself up in a sheet and flopped down before the warm hearth. Standing around in the snow had gotten me soaked. The cloak was not—of course—water resistant, and the melting snow had seeped right through the fabric.
   I huddled in front of the fire and prayed that the stuffy feeling in my sinuses wasn’t another cold coming on. I could foresee that they would be a irritation all too common here.

   I could pay my way in this world, I discovered. I didn’t have any particular skill, but a little knowledge can go a long way—far better than American Express. Accepted in more places as well.
   Those long months ago Tahr had tolerated me because I seemed to be an intelligent animal of some kind—a novelty. As time passed she realized there was more to me than met the eye, had come to understand what I could mean for her people. She had so nearly betrayed the Eastern Realm to protect not only me, but the learning I carried.
   Now her gambling could bear some fruit.
   Textiles, both linen and llama-wool based cloth, were a major trade item in the Sathe culture, especially in the Eastern Realm where the climate was ideal for cotton plants.
   Collected by hand, the wool would be laboriously cleaned then wound by hand onto spindles: a slow, tedious process that produced yarn with patches that were sometimes too thin, sometimes too coarse.
   It was only a matter of a week to build spinning wheels and improve on the looms.
   With these the weavers and draperers could not only greatly increase their productivity, the yarn and cloth would be of a much higher quality and able to fetch a higher price from the merchants of other Realms.
   The success of those projects boosted my confidence and the faith of the Sathe. I asked for—and received—some tools to help me: A drafting board, T-squares, quills and ink, a plentiful supply of paper. Some of the stuff like protractors and compasses I had to design from scratch and I worried about how inaccurate they were.
   It’s a paradox: How did you build precision machinery without precise measuring equipment? And how do you make precise measuring equipment without precision machinery?
   I had trouble with that one when I had to come up with a solution to the problem of putting a regular thread on a lathe to be used for making the threads on screws, bolts, drill-bits, etc. The answer I came up with had to do with heavy weights turning a mechanism that etched a spiral line up a rotating steel rod…
   But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
   There are any number of inventions that can claim to have had a significant effect on my own history: the wheel, gunpowder, the aircraft, television, the microchip—to name a few. And they all did.
   They weren’t quite what I was after. A couple the Sathe were already familiar with, others were impossible with the materials I had to work with, or I didn’t want them. Aircraft: now I thought about balloons for a while, but decided there was something that was perhaps not as impressive, but was simpler, safer, and could have just as much of an impact in the long run.
   Invented in my world by Johannes Gutenberg, the letterpress printing press made mass communication possible, suddenly presenting a way to print thousands of pamphlets, documents, or books in a fraction of the time it took scribes to write it out by hand. It meant that classical works and teachings—previously only available to the clergy or wealthy—could become available to the man on the street.
   It took longer than the spinning wheel, but eventually I had a working printing press based on one of those old mimeograph machines. It was bulky, and the letterheads gave me a headache. I started with a batch made from copper, but they were not an outstanding success: ink just doesn’t adhere well to copper and the metal fluctuates too severely under temperature changes. Another batch made from a softer, coarser tin-lead-antimony mixture finally worked.
   Some of the other things I came up with were even simpler, but they had their place.
   My hair had grown ridiculously long over the past weeks, and I was not entertained by the idea of hacking it off with a knife: it gives a lousy cut and hurts into the bargain. I had taken to wearing it tied back with a headband, but now I was starting to look like a damn hippy.
   Well, necessity is the mother of invention.
   I did a trade with one of the blacksmiths in the Keep’s smithy: I gave him several tips on producing higher-grade steel and sword blades and in return he helped me make a pair of scissors out of a couple of daggers. He profited all the way in that one, being so impressed by the simplicity of the idea that I had no doubts he would probably start to sell a few on the side.
   There was no way that I could cut my hair myself, even if I did have a good mirror, which I didn’t. Sathe don’t cut their fur—they shed.
   So, I asked myself, where the hell am I going to find a barber?
   Tahr was astonished when I knocked on her door and told her what I needed.
   “You would like me to what!?”
   I repeated myself: “I need some help cutting my hair, if you could.”
   She stared at me as though I was crazy.
   “But why would you want to cut it?”
   I sighed. “My hair does not stop growing while it is short, like your fur. It grows. It becomes uncomfortable.” I untied the headband to demonstrate.
   “Ah… I see what you mean,” she said, obviously amused, then gave an overly-dramatic sigh. “I, the Shirai, grooming animals…”
   “Well, if you don’t want to, I could always go down to the stables and ask a groom…” I gave her an expectant look.
   “Oh, very well,” she hissed. “I will cut your fur.”
   I bowed deeply. “Thank you, High One. I will be forever in your…”
   “Ah, stop the noise,” she playfully cuffed me over the ears, grinning. “Now, sit down. How do you use these things?”
   She worked slowly and carefully at first, then picked up speed, using her claws to rake the hair into position, then trimming it with rapid snips of the scissors. I watched red clumps falling onto my lap.
   “Do all h’mans have to do this?” Tahr asked.
   “Most of them,” I said. “There are humans who specialize in… ah… cutting hair. That is their job.”
   She came around front and looked at my face to see if I was joking. “You are serious. They actually make money just shaving each other?”
   “Someone has to do it.”
   She snorted. “I have said it before, and I will say it again: your world sounds strange.”
   “Yours is rather weird,” I retorted, then yelped as she yanked out a few strands of hair with one pull.
   “Oh, I am so sorry,” she said smugly.
   “Sure you are.”
   She didn’t answer, but I could imagine her smirking to herself as she returned to the business of cropping back my