Man-Kzin Wars V by Larry Niven (people reading books txt) 📕

each of them. We'll call the police patrol back, they can't have gone far."

"Take your hands off me!" Gruederman screamed, as rawhide thongs lashed his wrists behind his back and a hundred hands pushed him through the welded steel bars of the livestock pen. "You can't do this to me!" He spat through the bars, snapping his teeth at an unwary hand and hanging on until a stick broke his nose. "Motherfuckers! Kzinshit eaters!"

He screamed and spat through the strong steel until the square emptied.

"What do we do now, boss?" one of the men asked, from his slumped position on the floor of the cage.

"We fuckin' die," Gruederman shouted, kicking him in the head. His skull bounced back against the metal; it rang, and the bandit fell senseless.

* * *

Neu Friborg seemed deserted in the early evening gloaming, as Jonah and his party rode down the rutted main street. He stood in the saddle—painfully, since riding was not something a singleship pilot really had to study much—and craned his neck about. He could hear music, a slow mournful march, coming from the sidestreet ahead, down by the church.

A little ahead of the riders, Spots lifted his head and sniffed. "They are there," he said flatly. "Also a large crowd of monke—of humans. Many armed. They do not smell of fear, most of them; only the ones we hunt."

"Odd," Jonah said.

He swung down from the saddle. Finagle, but that beast was trying to saw me in half from the crotch up, he thought. It had been downright embarrassing in front of Tyra, who seemed to have been born in the saddle from the way she managed it. She'd said something, about how a spacer must know more real skills than riding, though . . . quite a woman.

"Cautious but polite," Jonah said, leading the way. "Remember that." For Spots's benefit; the kzin seemed to be in a fey mood, bloodthirsty as usual but relieved. Perhaps that his brother hadn't broken an oath entirely under his own power, although Jonah suspected the tall kzin had been a willing victim at the start. The temptation was simply too great. There are times when I think Early is right, he mused. But they never last.

The little laneway opened out into a churchyard, and a field beyond that; the crowd stood in an arc about the outer wall of the graveyard. There, outside the circle of consecrated ground, four men were digging graves. A double file of armed men and women faced them, with Provisional Gendarmerie brassards. Seeing the genuine article, Jonah wondered how he could have been taken in by the bandits, even for a moment. He also decided that the mounted police were decidedly more frightening than the freelance killers had ever been. Beside him, Tyra checked for a moment at the sight of the tall crop-haired blond officer who led the firing party.

Jonah scanned the slab-sided Herrenmann face, and reluctantly conceded the family resemblance. If you subtract all the humor and half the brains, he decided. Aloud, in a whisper:

"Your brother?"

"Ib," she confirmed.

One of the digging men swung his shovel too enthusiastically, and a load of dirt ended up in the middle grave. The man there climbed out and leaned over to swat the culprit with his hat, cursing with imaginative obscenity. Hans shaped a soundless whistle.

"Seems the Provisionals got in before us," he said. "Can't say as I'm sorry."

"Neither am I," Jonah said.

"I am," Spots grinned.

The bandits stood in front of the graves they had dug. The rifles of the squad came up and Ib Nordbo's hand swung down with a blunt finality.

Whack. The bodies fell backward, and dust spurted up from the adobe wall of the churchyard behind. A sighing murmur went over the watching townsfolk, and they began to disperse. The Gendarmerie officer cleaved through them like a walking ramrod, marching up to the little party of pursuers.

"So," he said, with a little inclination of his head. "Sister."

"Brother," she replied, standing a little closer to Jonah. Ib's pale brows rose.

"This is most irregular," he said, and turned to Jonah, ignoring the kzin and Hans as an obvious commoner. "You are the owner of the stolen mule and gold?"

"We are," Jonah said with a nod.

"You understand, everything must be impounded pending final adjudication," he said crisply. "Proper reports must be filed with the relevant—why are you laughing?"

"You wouldn't understand," Jonah wheezed. Beside him, Tyra fought hiccups, and Hans's face vanished into a nest of wrinkles. Even Spots flapped his ears, although his teeth still showed a little as he watched the work-crew shovel the dirt in on the dead bandits.

"Ah, life," Jonah said at last; twin red spots of anger stood out on the young policeman's cheeks. "Tanj. And now, we'd like a line to Herrenmann Claude Montferrat-Palme, and transport to Munchen—if you please, Herrenmann Lieutenant Nordbo."

"Except for me," Hans said, turning his horse's head. He leaned down to shake hands. "Goin' back. These people, they need me. You know where to reach me—always more fried chicken and rum for visitors!"

* * *

Jonah began to laugh again as the old man touched a heel to his horse and the outbackers fell in behind him.

"One happy ending at least," he said.

"Oh, perhaps more," Tyra said.

"Perhaps," Spots murmured.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Buford Early's laughter rolled across the broad veranda of the Montferrat-Palme manor. Evening had fallen, purple and dusky across the formal gardens, still with a trace of crimson on the terraced vineyards and coffee fields in the hills beyond. The ARM general leaned back in his chair puffing at his cigar until it was a red comet in the darkness. The others looked at him silently; Montferrat calm and sardonic as always, Jonah stony-faced, Tyra Nordbo openly hostile. Only Harold Yarthkin and his wife seemed to be amused as well, and they were not so closely involved in this matter. With the human-style food out of the way Spots had joined them, curled in one of the big wicker chairs with