Star Trek: The Next Generation - 050 - Dragon's Honor

by Kij Johnson

Worf sympathized. “It is understood among my people that such a thing could best be atoned for only by death.”

  “Really?” Chih-li cocked an eyebrow. “Are your people truly so similar to our own?”

  “We have lived the way of honor for ten thousand years,” Worf said diplomatically. He took a deep breath before fully confiding in Chih-li. “My captain has asked me to do everything possible to insure the safety of the Dragon between now and the wedding.”

  “We also have lived honorably for generations.” Chih-li sighed wearily. “Yet there is little we can do when the Dragon allows nothing.”

  “What the Dragon does not know about his defender’s actions will neither anger nor dishonor him.”

  “You interest me strangely, Lieutenant,” Chih-li said. “Please clarify.”

  Worf was encouraged by the Pai’s lack of ire. “I would suggest that we protect him without his knowledge, that we establish such forcefields and other barriers as we can without alerting him to their presence.”

  “Yes,” the minister said thoughtfully, stroking his chin. His lip was still swollen where Worf had kicked him. “After all, it may be the honorable thing for the Dragon not to care about his life, but a man dedicated to the Dragon’s welfare can honorably take what measures he deems necessary.” Chih-li gave Worf a serious look. “We cannot inform the Dragon, of course. To do so would infringe upon his honor in an inexcusable fashion. I am curious: what would your people consider such an act?”

  Worf gave the matter some thought before answering. “Treason, most likely, but it could also be seen as refusal to follow the orders of a dangerous commander.’’

  “The Dragon is not dangerous!” Chih-li protested.

  “He is dangerous to himself.”

  “A good point,” the Pai said, apparently mollified. “And the punishment for such treason?”

  “In the Federation there would be a court-martial, which, if the individual in question was convicted, could result in punishment ranging from expulsion from Starfleet to fines and imprisonment.”

  “Soft,” the minister said.

  “It seemed so to me when I first joined Starfleet.”

  “And where you come from?”

  “In the Klingon Empire, an individual committing such an act would, if caught, be forced to run barefoot over k’atha blades.”

  “And if he saves his leader’s life with such disobedience?”

  “He would be permitted a pair of sandals.”

  Chih-li smiled warmly, clearly impressed by the finer nuances of Klingon justice. “On Pai,” he said proudly, “the common punishment for such a thing is to induce the disobedient one to eat a live huang lang shu.”

  Worf scowled. “That seems rather soft, merely eating something.”

  “The huang lang shu is a small animal capable of living for short periods without air. Placed in a suddenly constricted environment, he will attempt to bite his way free.”

  “Eating his way out of the malfeasant,” Worf said. “That is moderately creative.”

  “It has long been thought so,” Chih-li stated. “It was my father’s father’s idea, when he was the Supreme Advisor for Exquisite Punishments to the previous Dragon.”

  “Your grandfather devised this method? Most ingenious.”

  Chih-li bowed as much as his armor permitted. “In my grandfather’s name, I thank you.”

  “It seems rather complicated, though,” Worf said. “You need to have the correct animal present.”

  “The ideal punishment is not always the most convenient,” Chih-li explained. “Treason is an exceptional circumstance, of course. Most ordinary matters are less involved. For instance, if you and I were to attend a dinner together, and I were to accidentally spill your wine and fail to offer my own goblet and my outermost robe in atonement, you would be entitled to remove my second concubine from my harem, keeping her or selling her as befits your preferences.”

  Worf doubted that any Klingon female worthy of the name would allow herself to be bartered in such a transaction. Still, he was intrigued by the intricacy of the Pai’s code of honor. “What form of misdemeanor,” he asked, “would cause the removal of your first concubine?”

  “Really,” the Pai said, blushing beneath the bruises on his face, “I cannot say. It would be most improper to speak of such matters in front of an honored guest.”

  Worf was pleased to note that he had gone from an unwanted intruder to an honored guest in so short a time. Despite their eccentricities, he concluded, the Pai were an honorable people at heart, unlike the despicable G’kkau. More than ever, he recognized the importance of keeping the Dragon Empire safe from the voracious fangs of those treacherous reptiles.

  “Are we agreed then,” he asked, “to discreetly protect the Dragon from any further assassination attempts?”

  Chih-li glanced around hastily to assure himself that no one was listening to their conversation. “We are agreed,” he said in hushed tones, “provided our methods are unobtrusive and inconspicuous. I have the usual forcefields built into much of the palace’s structure. It is a simple matter to bring them up to full power. Sensors for darts and other projectiles are in most of the major chambers, but I can do nothing about the Dragon’s private rooms.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Worf said, “but unavoidable.” Captain Picard was accompanying the Dragon, he recalled; he would have to rely on the captain to guard the Emperor directly. “What of attacks from the air?” he asked.

  “Protective shields are in place, along with long-range sensors and antiaircraft weaponry installed in the upper towers. Perhaps you would care to inspect their deployment?”

  Worf bowed his head in the manner of the Pai. “I would be honored,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Chih-li said genially. “Come. We can work out the details of our duel as we walk.”

  Chapter Nine

  “THESE ARE THE PALACE KITCHENS,” the Dragon said. A pair of huge bronze doors slid apart, disappearing into hidden recesses in the adjoining walls. A gust of hot air emerged from the kitchen, carrying the aroma of exotic spices and flavors. Along with the ever-present incense, Picard found the odor slightly overwhelming.

  “A privilege,” he murmured, none too sincerely. His stomach was still recovering from the rich and unappetizing dishes he’d been subjected to during the wedding banquet. The gamy, greasy taste of the rahgid eyes lingered on his tongue. He heard Deanna, walking two paces behind Picard and the Dragon, smother a laugh. Mu, the Dragon’s faithful chamberlain, had disappeared on some errand or another.

  The doors opened into an enormous space. Even here, everything was ornamented, although the materials employed were less overtly expensive—no gilt, no jewels, no bioluminescence. In the kitchen, the decorators had relied instead on pure color, and they had used it lavishly, in sweeping expanses of green, purple, and puce. The long tables all through the center of the room, and the open hearths, ovens, and stoves that lined the walls, were brightly colored, albeit dusted with white flour and fresh green salad leavings, and splattered with the sticky spills inevitable in any kitchen of whatever size. Small dogs, resembling a cross between a bulldog and a Pekingese, ambled freely through the kitchen, munching on table scraps.

  Years ago, during a brief sabbatical on Earth, Picard had visited Hampton Court, the summer palace of King Henry VIII, and toured the enormous kitchens that had once provided for the British monarch’s many lavish feasts. The Dragon’s kitchens reminded him of those cavernous ancient kitchens, or at least a multicolored, phaser-bright replica of the same. How can such an impressive kitchen produce such noxious food? he wondered.

  Most of the people in the room—the chefs and their assistants, Picard guessed—had clustered around one table near the center of the room, conversing in loud voices. “That is where we are going,” the Dragon said, gesturing toward the site of the activity.

  One of the chefs, an elderly man with a stringy white mustache, glanced up as they approached. “I am
so sorry, masters, but no one is allowed—” He paused, jaw dropping. “Your Excellence!”

  As he fell to his stomach on the flagged stone floor, he managed to jab his neighbor with his elbow. The neighbor went through the same motions—the gasp, the sagging jaw, the jab, the fall. In an instant, Picard, the Dragon, and Deanna found themselves the only upright people in a room suddenly filled with the slight haze of flour puffed from everyone’s aprons.

  The Dragon picked his way through the kowtowing chefs to the table they had been gathered around. “This is what I brought you down to see.” He pointed a foot-long fingernail at a object resting on the table: it seemed to be some sort of tentacled rabbit with large horny growths springing from its forehead. The animal was still, lifeless, and partially skinned.

  “Oh!” Deanna exclaimed, apparently taken aback by the grisly sight. The Dragon turned his face toward her. “I’m so sorry, Your Excellence. I forgot myself.”

  The old man’s cherubic face beamed at her. “That is quite all right, my dear. It’s good to see a little life in a young woman, not to mention such delicate sensibilities. Your captain must find you very refreshing, eh?” He poked Picard in the ribs.

  Picard suppressed an urge to flinch. “I take it there is something exceptional about this animal?”

  “Fresh p’u tzu,” the Dragon declared proudly. “It has a gland about here—” He poked the rabbit-thing’s abdomen. “—where it stores all the toxins it would ordinarily release into its urine. What we like to do is to remove the gland, and braise it lightly with peppers. It’s very piquant; I think you’ll appreciate the maturity of its flavor.”

  Picard swallowed. “I am sure it will be as delightful as everything you have offered.”How many Pai delicacies must I eat, he wondered, before I get an opportunity to discuss the treaty with the Dragon? “Perhaps we might retire and let the cooks resume their work?”

  “What?” the Dragon said, momentarily confused. Then he glanced down at prostrate kitchen staff. “Oh, yes. Up, up, everyone! We mustn’t keep Captain Picard waiting.” The Dragon took Picard by the arm and led him over to a long wooden bench next to a open fireplace full of smoldering coals. The various cooks jumped up the minute the Dragon’s back was turned and hastily gathered around the p’u tzu. Picard noted that their formerly heated discussion was now much more subdued.

  The Dragon sat astride the bench and gestured for Picard to do the same. Lifting one leg over the low bench, Picard sat down facing the Emperor. Deanna quietly placed herself on a stone ledge in front of the fireplace.

  “It won’t be long now,” the Dragon promised. “They are extracting the gland even as we speak. It should be eaten instantly so we will dine on it here, in the kitchen like peasants. Amusing, no?”

  “Yes, quite,” Picard murmured. “While we wait, now might be a good time to discuss the treaty a bit further.”

  “Are you still on about that?” the Dragon exclaimed in amazement. “Take some time off, Picard! Treat yourself to a holiday.”

  “You are most generous, Excellence, but I fear I cannot fully relax until I have discharged my duty to both the Federation and the Dragon Empire.”

  “You are a persistent man, Picard,” the Dragon said. “I admire that—up to a point.” Perhaps he would have said more, but Mu suddenly burst into the kitchen. The chamberlain was breathing heavily, as though he had run a long way, and beads of sweat dotted his brow. Picard noticed that Mu held on to a small black box as though his life depended on it.

  “Ah, there you are, Most Excellent and Exalted One!” Mu gasped. “I have been looking everywhere for you.” His wide eyes took in the messy, busy appearance of the kitchen, as well as the simple hardwood bench upon which the Dragon and Picard now sat. “Exalted One, you need not rest your sacred frame upon so humble a seat. I will summon the Imperial bearers to fetch a throne immediately.”

  “Never mind that,” the Dragon said, dismissing the chamberlain’s concerns with a wave of his pudgy hand. “Did you bring it as I commanded?”

  “Yes, Exalted One,” Mu said quickly. He proffered the black box to the Emperor, who snatched it out of his trembling hands.

  “Excellent,” the Dragon chortled. He turned his attention back to Picard. “Do you play ch’i, Captain?”

  “Ch’i, Excellence?”

  “A marvelous game, Picard, a most civilized game. You must learn it.” The Dragon snapped open the polished wooden carrying case, revealing a design not unlike a chessboard, along with several sculpted figurines carved from ivory and obsidian. The Dragon laid the board flat upon the bench between him and Picard. The Starfleet captain did not recognize any of the playing pieces. “We shall play here,” the Dragon proposed, “while my chefs exert themselves for the delight of our palates. Your young lady may stay and watch our match. Unless, that is, there is somewhere else you must be?”

  “Not at all,” Picard insisted. While the assassin remained at large, he did not dare leave the Emperor alone. He resigned himself to a long and possibly tedious evening. “Perhaps we might even touch upon the treaty as we play?”

  “If you insist,” the Dragon allowed, with a great show of tolerant bemusement. A pungent odor wafted through the kitchen; the scent was redolent of hot blacktop submerged in cod liver oil. Picard almost gagged at the smell alone. “Ah, grand, it is ready.” The Dragon clapped his hands together. His fingernails clattered like chopsticks. “The first bite is all yours, my dear captain.”

  “You honor me too much,” Picard said.

  “A full house,” the Heir said, and laid out a king, two queens, and a five and three of diamonds.

  “Not exactly,” Riker said, trying not to sigh. Good thing the Enterprise had been able to beam down a deck of cards so promptly. After all, one never knew when one would end up having to amuse a harem full of feuding warriors during a drunken bachelor party.

  “It looks full to me,” Chuan-chi protested. “A man, a woman, and some jewels.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riker said. “I have two pair, and I’m afraid I win again.”

  Poker had not been an unmitigated success. True, the novelty of the game had intrigued the Pai nobles, and no one had tried to murder him recently, but cardplaying did not come easily to the Heir and his guests. Riker had explained three times now the combinations possible, and the odds of each, yet the Pai seemed no closer to understanding the game.

  Pillows and cushions had been cleared away to provide a flat square of floor on which to play. Riker, the Heir, the Second Son, and a bookish-looking young man named Meng Chiao squatted around the square, cards in hand, while the rest of the bachelors leaned over their shoulders, watching the games with varying degrees of interest and befuddlement. Coins of gold, silver, and bronze were piled upon the floor. Riker’s stake came from a replicator on board the Enterprise; Geordi had beamed them down to the party after Riker sent him a few sample coins. Serving girls continued to glide through the outer harem, refilling goblets and fetching refreshments.

  “I do not see the sense of it,” the Second Son complained as he handed over a pile of the golden coins they were using in the place of real poker chips. Riker hoped the coins were not too valuable; he had little sense of Pai currency or of the stakes they were playing for. “You give me cards on which I bet. And then you give me more cards, and then you win. There must be more to it than that.”

  “There is,” Riker said. “It’s all a matter of odds.” This was a familiar speech by now; having given it three times, he felt he could recite it in his sleep or in any language throughout the galaxy. “Different combinations of cards have varying degrees of likelihood that they will show up.”

  “Oh, I understand that,” Chuan-chi said sourly. “The Admirable Tutor of Advanced Mathematics explained probability to me when my younger brother still required a nursemaid. No, what puzzles me is the notion that the odds will change anything.”

  They will if you bear them in mind and bid thinking of the likelihood of drawing a specif
ic card from the pack to fill out your hand.”

  There was shocked silence. “You mean,” Kan-hi said, “cheat?”

  “It is not considered cheating to compute odds in poker and use them to your advantage,” Riker explained.

  “It can hardly be honorable,” the Heir said. “It would be taking unfair advantage of the other players.”

  “As the stars fall from the sky, so does the lilac entice the bee,” Meng Chiao intoned. “Silver spurs outweigh the ostrich.” Riker had learned that the scrawny youth’s official title was Speaker of Aphorisms, and Meng Chiao seemed to be doing his best to live up to his title. So far, none of Meng Chiao’s sayings had made a bit of sense to Riker, but the assembled warriors always nodded as though the Speaker had said something profound. Must get lost in translation, Riker guessed, even the Universal kind.

  “Indeed,” Kan-hi said, agreeing with his brother for the first time that evening. “No one else has seen my hand, so they don’t know what my chances are. Should I be showing everyone my cards?”

  “No!” Riker said. “I mean, that’s not necessary, Excellence. You know your hands, which no one else does, but they know their hand, which you do not. It is fair because it is mutual.”

  “I suppose,” Kan-hi said, “but it still doesn’t seem honorable.”

  “I would think that would appeal to you, brother,” the Heir said. “Certainly you have no talent for games of honor.”

  Kan-hi jumped angrily to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, the victim of too much wine in too short a time. “Take that back!” he demanded.

  Damn, Riker thought. Just when he thought he had calmed the party down. His muscles tensed, ready to throw his body between the Dragon’s sons if necessary. He hoped Kan-hi would not try anything drastic.

  “I think not,” Chuan-chi responded. “Your gambling debts alone testify to your incompetence in matters of sport, along with your many other failures at war and love.”

  Kan-hi’s eyes filled with open hatred. “I challenge you to a duel,” he cried out. “Now, tonight, before the wedding!”