Dragon's Honor Page 8

  I’m sure you would, Picard thought. “Actually, I had a different officer in mind. Lieutenant Worf. As head of security, he’d seem the logical choice for—”

  “Nonsense,” the Dragon insisted. “Data is the perfect gift . . . I mean, guard.”

  Obviously, the Dragon was not about to forget his interest in Data anytime soon. Picard decided it was time to address the issue head-on. “Excellence, I must point out that Mr. Data is a fully sentient being, and thus he cannot be considered a potential gift.”

  “But we give sentient beings all the time,” the Dragon said, “if you consider women sentient.”

  “He is also an officer in Starfleet,” Picard said.

  “And Starfleet wants me to be happy, do they not?” the Dragon pointed out.

  Picard felt himself losing ground. “Well, yes, but—”

  “Ahem,” Troi broke in. “Forgive me for interrupting, but this one is compelled to recollect, as she is sure lord and master Captain Picard recalls, that Lieutenant Commander Data is suffering the inconvenience with his positronics.”

  Lord and master? Picard hoped Deanna was not laying it on too thick. “Of course,” he said. “The inconvenience.” What in blazes was she up to?

  “My mandarins will be delighted to take a look at him,” the Dragon offered helpfully.

  Let him in their grip and we’ll never see him again, Picard thought.

  Troi cleared her throat again, while batting her eyes at the Dragon. Observing the skillful way Deanna was manipulating the Emperor, Picard realized that his counselor had learned a trick or two from her mother. “While the Most Excellent and Exalted One’s scientists would no doubt be surpassingly adept at solving just such a problem, still I am confident the Federation would not wish to be responsible for any fatalities so soon before so blessed an event as tomorrow’s wedding.”

  “Fatalities?” the Dragon and his chamberlain said simultaneously. Picard resisted the temptation to join in.

  “A malfunctioning android can be dangerous,” Troi explained. “Still, our own Commander La Forge is well aware of the risks involving in repairing Data. I am quite confident he will survive.”

  The chamberlain gulped audibly, and even the ebullient Dragon looked a little shaken at the prospect of a homicidal android running amok. “Perhaps I have been too hasty about this man Worf,” the Dragon said. “You say he is accustomed to providing security on behalf of Starfleet?”

  “His function would be purely ceremonial,” Picard insisted, “and no reflection on your own honor.” But with an assassin on the loose, I want Worf close at hand. Data can take command of the bridge. Perhaps the Minister of Internal Security was more amenable to reason than his emperor, and would permit Worf to discreetly provide extra protection for the Dragon as well as his gifts.

  “Your magnanimousness is well known,” Troi added, bowing slightly. Now that she had shed most of her cumbersome robes, her movements were as graceful as ever. “Please permit us the honor to at least pretend we can contribute in some small fashion to your security.”

  “Very well,” the Dragon agreed. Picard could not tell whether it was his arguments, or Troi’s flattery, that had persuaded the Emperor. “Have your Worf brought to this hall. Mu, notify Chih-li that a Starfleet guard will be joining our own.”

  At last, Picard thought, I am making some progress. With Deanna’s help, he had extracted Data from an embarrassing situation and managed to have Worf placed in a position to better protect the palace. Now, if I can just get the Dragon to focus on the matter of the treaty, perhaps I can complete my mission without any further complications.

  “I say, Picard,” the Dragon said, “have I told you how much I admire your woman?” The old man’s gaze roamed over the shapely contours of Troi’s single purple gown. “Beautiful, dutiful, and perceptive. She truly is a prize fit for a captain . . . or an Emperor,” he hinted broadly.

  Picard’s eyes rolled heavenward. He could tell it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  “A TOAST! TO THE DRAGON!”

  “To Lord Lu Tung!”

  “Rebel scum!”

  “Son of a cross-eyed concubine!”

  With an inarticulate cry of rage, one young Pai warrior lunged at another. The two men grappled amid a chaotic mass of overstuffed cushions, overturned dishes, overwrought noblemen, and under-dressed serving maids. Will Riker, stretched out on a plush velvet divan between the Heir and his blacksheep younger brother, ducked as the battling pair, locked in hand-to-hand combat, threw themselves over Riker’s head and crashed into the wall behind him. Tangled among the satin wall hangings, the two men continued to struggle, their arms and legs thrashing about. Apparently unconcerned with the outcome of the fight, Kan-hi rescued a bottle of wine from the men’s flailing limbs.

  “Have another drink, my dear Riker,” the Second Son said.

  The Penultimate Bestowing of the Undomesticated Seeds of the Dragon-Heir reminded Riker of some of the wilder celebrations he’d attended on the pleasure planet Risa. Over a dozen young men had crammed themselves into a suite of rooms apparently belonging to Chuan-chi himself. The rooms were broken up by paper screens draped with translucent fabrics of varied colors. The celebrants sprawled on large cushions scattered throughout the suite while smiling handmaidens, clad in wispy strips of diaphanous gauze that left Riker convinced that the Pai were humanoid in every way that mattered, wended sinuously through the party, refilling goblets of wine, serving tasty treats on small china plates, and dodging, sometimes unsuccessfully, the groping hands of the raucous young bachelors. After the voluminous robes displayed at the banquet, including the discreet costumes of the musicians, this generous display of exposed female flesh came as something of a pleasant surprise to Riker, as well as a potentially dangerous distraction. He’d have to make sure all this enticing Pai pulchritude did not divert him from his primary duty: protecting the Dragon’s sons from the assassin—and each other.

  He accepted more wine from Kan-hi, thankful for the immunity to intoxication that Beverly’s hypospray had provided him with. The wine was emerald green in color, gently heated, and strong to the taste. He could feel the potent brew burn its way down his throat. Fumes from the goblet seared his nostrils and made his eyes water. Given the rate at which the wine was flowing, Riker guessed that he was already the only sober man at the party. Blinking away tears, Riker grinned at the Second Son and gestured toward the brawling warriors kicking and punching each other on the floor only a few feet away. “Shouldn’t we break them up?”

  Kan-hi shrugged. “Why bother? They’ll settle the matter, one way or another, soon enough. And then there’ll be another fight.”

  Riker had to concur. Despite his luxurious surroundings, the situation struck him as a very volatile one. These aristocratic young warriors were prickly and quick to fight, and the recent civil wars seemed to have left plenty of hard feelings—and long-simmering grievances—lurking behind the riotous good cheer. Add copious quantities of wine to the equation and Riker saw trouble on the horizon. Under the circumstances, you didn’t need a premeditated assassin to provoke violence; the party alone might be enough to kill an heir or two.

  “It’s a barbaric tradition, really,” Chuan-chi said disdainfully. Riker turned his head to look at the Heir. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done but endure it all, Commander Riker. My first such celebration, many years ago, was just as tiresome.”

  “This is your second wedding, sir?” Riker asked Chuan-chi.

  “My honorable first wife succumbed to a fever several years ago,” the Heir explained. “It was quite irresponsible of her, but then one can seldom depend on a woman.”

  Riker was unsure how to respond. Luckily, the arrival of another serving maid interrupted the discussion, sparing him the necessity of an immediate reply. Wearing only a narrow strip of saffron gauze wound around her hips, the woman knelt before the three men and offered them fresh slices of a turquoise fruit unfamiliar
to Riker. Her hair, bound in a single long ponytail that fell past her knees, was dark and lustrous, and her lips, fingertips, and toenails had been painted the same color as the fruit. Beneath lush, black lashes, her sapphire eyes cast curious looks in Riker’s direction. He returned her gaze with frank admiration.

  “You find her pleasant to view?” Kan-hi asked. Riker detected no jealousy or resentment in his tone.

  “Very much so,” he said honestly, accepting a greenish blue slice from the woman’s slender fingers. “The women of your world are quite attractive.”

  “Oh, this is but my brother’s outer harem, and these women mere servants. You should see his private concubines,” Kan-hi said, “except, of course, that no other man can ever see them. Only my father’s women are said to be more lovely.” The Second Son paused for a second, and an uncharacteristically solemn expression came over his face. “No other woman, however, can compare to the Green Pearl herself. Her grace and beauty have no rivals, and her heart . . .” Here the prince’s voice dropped to a whisper. A faraway look entered his eyes. “. . . her heart is a greater treasure than the very throne of the Dragon.”

  A heavy thud announced the outcome of the drunken struggle behind them. One eye blackened, blood streaming from his nose, the victorious Pai rose and adjusted his robes, leaving his unconscious opponent stretched out on the floor. With a great show of dignity, he regained his seat among some empty cushions opposite Riker while a delectable trio of near-naked serving girls hastened to tend to his injuries with soft, heated cloths and tender caresses. Another woman quietly tiptoed over on small, bare feet to check on the fallen warrior, while the lady of the turquoise fruit slipped away, casting one final sidelong glance at Riker as she departed. Riker had to remind himself that, effectively, he was still on duty.

  This flurry of activity roused Kan-hi from his apparent reverie. He shook his head, as if to rid his mind of some clinging, unwelcome vision. “Forgive me, Commander. I have had too much wine. I forget myself.” His voice regained its usual, lighthearted tone. “So tell me, how do the women of the Federation compare to our own?”

  “Call me Will,” he insisted. “If ever a question called for a diplomatic answer, that one’s probably it. Let’s just say that, throughout the many worlds that make up the Federation, I’ve always found much to admire with regard to the opposite sex.”

  Kan-hi laughed. “I suspected as much. After the treaty is signed, perhaps I will have to opportunity to meet many more of your women, and to see for myself just how diplomatic you’re being.”

  “If the treaty is signed,” the Heir said brusquely. It was impossible to ignore the scorn in his voice, so Riker didn’t bother.

  “I take it, sir,” Riker said, “that you disapprove of your father’s intention to link the Dragon Empire to the Federation?” Perhaps it was still possible, he thought, to allay the Heir’s concerns ver the treaty and win him over to the Federation’s side. Certainly, it couldn’t hurt to try; after all, Chuan-chi would someday be the Dragon himself, provided the G’kkau didn’t annihilate the Empire first.

  “I would not be so sure of the Emperor’s intentions,” Chuan-chi said. “My foolish young brother is doubtless eager to be corrupted by foreign women and other influences, but the Dragon is beyond such insidious temptations. He will see that the sacred destiny of the Dragon Empire is not snared in a web of outside entanglements.”

  “So instead we must hide behind our borders like a tortoise afraid to stick its head out from its shell?” Kan-hi challenged his brother. “There’s an entire universe out there, full of new ideas and opportunities! Are we supposed to just pretend all those other worlds don’t exist? Do you expect that they will always be content to pretend we’re not here?”

  The G’kkau certainly won’t, Riker thought. It was ironic, and more than a little troubling, that the treaty depended on the marriage of the Pai noble who seemed most opposed to it. Too bad Kan-hi, who was obviously more open to the prospect, was only the Second Son. I know how the Romulans would handle this, he mused ruefully. They’d assassinate both the Dragon and the Heir and set up a puppet government under Kan-hi. That’s not how the Federation operated, of course, but he wondered whether the G’kkau were capable of that kind of subtlety. Could Kan-hi be in cahoots with the G’kkau? He hoped not; he liked the roguish young prince much better than the Heir, who had a much more sour disposition.

  “As you, my dear brother, pointed out mere minutes ago,” Chuan-chi said with a smirk, “there is no treasure in the heavens that can compare with the Green Pearl, so why should I wish to sample the unwholesome pleasures of the Federation? Then again, brother, under the circumstances, I suppose you have nothing better to do.”

  Murder flashed in Kan-hi’s eyes. He clenched his fists against his sides. Riker noted that the Second Son’s fingernails were shorter and of a more practical length than those of many of the other Pai nobles, including the Heir. He guessed that Kan-hi led a more active life than most of the palace’s residents. Right now, however, he seemed on the verge of becoming too active. Kan-hi struck Riker as being only moments away from slamming his manicured fists into the Heir’s face. “Why, you vile excuse for a Pai!” he fumed. “If you weren’t my brother . . . !”

  “Then I would be spared at least one embarrassing relation,” Chuan-chi finished the sentence for him. “As well as a disgrace to the honor of our line.” He crossed his arms over his chest, apparently unafraid of any violent reaction from his brother. His fingernails, Riker observed, were each over six centimeters long. Ten golden rings, each holding a different precious jewel, adorned his fingers. He held his chin up high, as if inviting an attack. Where Kan-hi seemed boiling over with red-hot fury, Chuan-chi’s haughty manner and frozen posture were cold as ice.

  Riker was not the only one to note the mounting tension between the two princes. All around the suite, the scattered guests turned their heads in the direction of the confrontation, the abundant wine and women temporarily forgotten. The mood of the chamber suddenly became hushed and expectant, poised to explode at any minute. Riker had been in enough barroom brawls, not to mention any number of Klingon get-togethers, to know that trouble was brewing. He had no idea which of the assembled warriors supported the Heir and which were sympathetic to Kan-hi, but he sensed that a potentially lethal free-for-all was only heartbeats away. His right hand drifted toward his phaser, then hesitated. Were any of the Pai carrying energy weapons? He didn’t want to start a firefight in these close quarters, not if he didn’t have to.

  “How dare you to malign my honor!” Kan-hi roared.

  “Honor? What honor?” Chuan-chi said. Cold disdain dripped from every syllable he uttered. “Your disobedience and disrespect dishonors our father, your emperor. And your fondness for foreign alliances smacks of treason to the very idea of the Dragon Empire.”

  “I’ll show you treason!” Kan-hi said, lunging to his feet. Too much wine had impaired his balance, however, and the sudden movement left him swaying where he stood. “I’ll kill you,” he vowed while he tried to focus his eyes on his hated half-brother. Riker took advantage of his momentary disorientation to intervene. He stood up between Kan-hi and the Heir.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice so that all present could hear him. “Let’s not waste time debating politics. This is supposed to be a party, in honor of the Dragon-Heir and his coming marriage.” To his right, he heard Kan-hi mutter something angrily beneath his breath. The young prince stepped toward his brother, only to be calmly but firmly blocked by Riker. Interesting, Riker thought. Kan-hi is touchy about the wedding. I wonder why? “Anyway, why spoil a happy occasion? Especially with all these lovely ladies around? Where I come from, there’s an ancient saying: ‘Make love, not war.’” Riker’s gaze swept the room. He had everyone’s attention. The scene still felt tense, but at least no one was making any threatening moves just yet. There was still time to turn things around. Keeping one eye on Kan-hi, he bent long enough to lif
t his goblet from the floor. “More wine!” he cried, and, like a genie summoned from a lamp, a fetching young woman wearing only two strategically placed strings of beads appeared to replenish his cup. As soon as she was finished, he raised the goblet up high. “A toast,” he declared, “to love.”

  You can’t get less political than that, he thought. Who is going to object to love?

  Except maybe a Vulcan, that is.

  For a long, drawn-out moment, nobody joined his toast. Then, to Riker’s relief and surprise, Kan-hi lifted his cup as well. “To love,” the Second Son said glumly. The edge of his anger apparently dulled for the moment, he slowly lowered himself down to his waiting cushion, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. Riker turned his attention to Chuan-chi. The Dragon-Heir remained as stiff, and about as cheerful, as a marble statue at first. His face was a frozen mask of utter contempt directed at his brother. After it became obvious, however, that Kan-hi was not going to launch an attack upon his brother’s person, Chuan-chi’s posture gradually relaxed beneath his robes. Is it just my imagination, Riker thought, or does he look slightly disappointed? Perhaps the Heir was looking for an excuse to sic his men upon the Second Son? Riker wasn’t sure, even as he watched the Heir reach languidly for his own gold-encrusted goblet. “To love,” he said, yawning conspicuously.

  As unenthusiastic as the Heir’s toast sounded, it served to signal the end of the current standoff. Throughout the prince’s outer harem, voices and cups were raised in praise of love, even though the bellicose expressions of many faces belied the gentle sentiment. There was no question, Riker saw, that many of the hot-blooded warriors reclining in sybaritic comfort felt themselves cheated out of a good fight. He had delayed an explosion, not defused it. Even now, only a few yards away, the black-eyed victor of the previous skirmish was glaring at Riker with obvious animosity. His foot-long fingernails, now tipped with traces of drying blood, clacked together ominously. Riker deliberately avoided making eye contact with the warrior, suspecting that it might be considered a challenge. We’re here to win friends and influence people, he reminded himself, not to knock sense into anyone’s head.