“Your denials do not make the danger any less. Senators, think. Only fools would try explaining away all these problems as mere mischance, unrelated mishaps. No! There can be only one explanation, one hard, cruel fact tying together all these shortages”—his finger stabbed at the screen—“all these failures”—stab—“all these so falsely named accidents!”
Dralath froze dramatically over the terminal, hands on either side of it, glaring around the room. “There can be only one explanation, Senators, and I shall be blunt about it: Some among you are in the pay of enemies of our Empire!”
Over the cries of outrage and fury, Dralath shouted, “Yes! I shout with you! I am your praetor, and I am angrier than you can ever be. There is treason among us! And it must be torn from Romulus’ heart!”
One unfortunate senator, a burly young man, made the mistake of continuing his outcry a second after everyone else had fallen silent: “. . . treason torn from the very top!”
He froze, staring at Dralath.
“Senator Erket,” the praetor said very softly. “I wondered. Are you not kinsman to the so recently deceased Senator Tharnek?”
“I am,” grudgingly. “But I am loyal—”
“Are you? Are you indeed?” Dralath got slowly to his feet. “What about the reports from your own district, Senator?”
“Everything was filed properly! And no one can blame me for—”
“For what, Erket?”
“I was assured that the grain was good! I—”
“Checked it yourself? Imported grain from offworld that so coincidentally was tainted. Was that all it was, Erket? Tainted grain from a Romulan colony? There were irregularities in the ship manifests, were there not?”
He is manipulating you, Spock thought, surely as a le’matya stalks its prey. And he, too, enjoys the hunt. Can’t you see that?
He risked a glance at Charvanek: cold eyes, rigid posture, a survivor not about to draw attention to herself. Narviat: the same.
“They were minor points!” Erket protested.
“Were they? Could the grain have met with deliberate tampering? From enemies, perhaps? Maybe even Klingons?”
Erket shot to his feet, whipping out his Honor Blade in a quick blaze of metal, so shocked and outraged he could only choke out, “You dare!”
Dralath’s guards came to instant alert, but the praetor waved them back with a casual hand.
“What’s this?” Dralath purred to Erket. “Would you challenge me?”
The chamber had fallen utterly still. Erket, eyes wild, began, “I never meant—”
“Are you afraid, Erket? A coward, perhaps?”
With an anguished roar, Erket charged. Dralath, teeth bared in a savage smile, waited, poised, his own blade glinting in his steady hand—then twisted aside. Before Erket could recover, Dralath had caught him from behind, pinning the younger man against him. And the edge of Dralath’s blade was against Erket’s throat.
“Drop the knife, Erket. Now.”
Gasping, wild-eyed, the younger man obeyed.
For an agonizing moment, nothing happened. There was no sound save the panting of the two men.
And then, shockingly, Dralath laughed. “Did you think me in earnest, Erket? Did you really think that I would kill you over mere accusations?”
Just as Erket, wild with hope, began to laugh with him, Dralath added, “I would.”
With one quick, efficient movement, he cut Erket’s throat.
TEN
KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 5, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344
Spock leaped to his feet with everyone else in the room, staring in sheer disbelief.
With one quick, efficient movement, Dralath had cut Erket’s throat. In the next moment, the praetor sprang fastidiously back from the thrashing victim so that none of the green blood stained him. As Erket, struggling uselessly for air, slid to the floor and finally moved no more, Dralath stood motionless over his prey, face utterly calm.
“Thus to all traitors,” he said.
As though he’d given a signal, the room erupted into noise, claims of loyalty, shouts of patriotism.
I have just seen murder. The thoughts came slowly to Spock’s stunned mind. I have just watched a man be killed, and I—I did nothing.
He was going to die, Spock realized with the same stunned detachment, he was going to attack Dralath and be torn apart by the Romulans—
No! I will not yield to emotion. I will . . . use it.
“I—I am ill,” Spock murmured to Charvanek in the broken voice of a scholar who has never seen violence. “I must . . . quickly . . .”
Her sharp glance told him she understood this must be a ploy. A swift gesture said, Go! That way.
As Spock staggered across the room, hand over mouth in imitation of a spacesick yeoman he had once seen, not a few harsh laughs followed him.
I care not what they think of the academician too weak to watch their praetor kill.
But his mind was working logically again. And logic insisted that he must, as the humans said, risk all on a fall of the dice.
This will be my only chance to approach Ruanek.
On Obsidian, the younger Ruanek had become entranced, courtesy of the then-hostage Dr. Leonard McCoy, by the subject of Terran horses, “those swift, exotic war-beasts.” The Romulan’s fascination had continued over the years; Spock had once, bemused by this oddity, even managed to send Ruanek an image of a racing horse, and received almost wistful thanks.
Now, Spock deliberately stumbled against him and, before Ruanek could react with a Romulan warrior’s automatic anger, whispered in his ear, in Federation Standard, “Horses.”
Ruanek’s quick glance was nothing short of wild. His thoughts were clear enough: No one but Spock could possibly know of his fascination with those exotic Terran beasts! But with amazing self-control, he turned his startled yelp into a convincing snarl. “What do you think—”
“No insult,” Spock gasped out, like a man at the edge of collapse. “Academician Symakhos . . . Bardat . . . please, need help . . . have to find the—the facilities. Can you . . .”
Kharik, predictably, snickered, muttering something about “baby-sitting” and “fitting role.” Avrak merely gave an impatient, over-the-shoulder wave of dismissal: Yes, go on, what happens here is too important.
Once they were safely out of the Council Chamber and down one of the hallways, momentarily out of sight of the guards, Ruanek whispered, “I don’t suppose you really do need—”
“Merely a moment to sit and catch my breath,” Spock said, which was true enough. “An academician rarely sees such sights.” He sank to a bench as though badly shaken—which also was not too far from the truth—and Ruanek perched nervously beside him, waiting as tensely as a hunter not sure if the prey will turn on him.
“Guards will certainly be patrolling,” Spock murmured. “I am a very boring pedant, and you will be doing your best to get away from me.”
“Understood.”
As the first of the expected guards passed them, frowning warily, Spock said in a dry, scholarly voice, “I am recovering. You do understand—the shock? But let us not waste this moment. I am doing some research on the pastimes of the military.” He whipped out the small recording tablet that Charvanek had insisted was part of an academician’s outfit. “I would consider it an honor, Subcommander, if you would spare me a few seconds more.”
The guards glanced at each other, shrugged, and moved on.
“It’s been a long time,” Ruanek burst out. “Damn, no, that sounds stupid. Of course it’s been a long time! It’s just that—Light and Darkness, I never expected to see you here!”
“And so,” Spock said calmly, pretending to write, “you are often a part of these gatherings.” Very softly, he added, “The need was great, or I would not have come. My life is in your keeping, Ruanek. Can I, on your honor, trust you?”
“Of course!” That was said from the heart. “First, though,” Ruanek continued, “first we mus
t have the rules set straight in front of us. I have not forgotten Obsidian, or what happened there. I have not forgotten that you saved my life and honor. But . . .” He shook his head. “All bets are canceled here and now unless you can swear to me on your honor, yes, and that of your Federation, that you mean no harm to the emperor.”
Spock raised a brow, startled at Ruanek’s vehemence. “To the emperor? Not to . . . others?”
A shudder shook the Romulan. “I am not a traitor,” he murmured. “But I hold faith first to my emperor and my people above all else. Let that be understood.”
“It is, and no dishonor to you or them. And I do swear as well that I mean no harm to Emperor Shiarkiek. I pledge this as well,” Spock added softly, “as least as much as it is logical for one to speak for many: The Federation has no quarrel with your emperor or, indeed, with the common people.”
Ruanek stared straight into Spock’s eyes, as though hunting for even the slightest hint of falsehood. “I have heard that Vulcans never lie,” he said at last. “And . . . I cannot believe treachery would ever come from you. Not after the honor I saw displayed on Obsidian.”
The next patrol was passing them.
“Yes,” Ruanek said in the voice of someone utterly bored, “that is, honestly, truly, how we entertain ourselves at court. Do you finally have that all down, Academician? Good. Now I must return to my patron!”
“A moment, more, please. This detail, here . . .”
The guards moved on, one of them with an audible snicker, and Ruanek’s face hardened. “There is no dishonor in what we say,” Spock murmured. “Ruanek, was that slain senator a traitor?”
Ruanek snorted. “Corrupt, maybe. But he was far too stupid for anything more. As Dralath knew. That was a lesson to the rest of us: Behave or die.” He muttered something sharp and ugly under his voice. “There is glory in war, but not in slaughter.”
“Then the praetor is, indeed, planning war?”
“War,” bitterly. “War for profit. For . . . prestige. His prestige. And no, I do not know his planned target. Yet.” Ruanek paused, pursing his lips, plainly fighting a fierce inner battle. “I will tell you this,” he said in a rush, “and will deny having said it: Many of us, those raised on tales of honor, of how it was and still should be—many of us do not want lives, any lives, to be thrown away just for the praetor’s glory.”
His voice was rising perilously. At Spock’s warning raise of an eyebrow, the Romulan hastily fell silent. As the next patrol passed them, Spock asked, as though making a casual note, “And how is that spelled? T-r-a-y-t-i-k?”
“T-r-a-y-a-t-i-k,” Ruanek corrected absently, “a dice-throwing game.” His voice sank to a murmur. “We are, some of us, trying our best to change our world. But it is slow work, so slow that I—I sometimes despair of our ever succeeding. And yet—but you would not understand something so illogical as ‘hope.’ ”
I understand, Spock thought, that you are your own best argument for the need for reform. That the Empire should blindly waste so promising a one as you is the height of illogic. But he could not tell Ruanek that.
“Hope,” he murmured, “may not be truly logical, but it is never useless.” In the academician’s precise voice he added, “Thank you, Subcommander. You have been very helpful. I will, with your patron’s permission, gladly send you a copy of my finished paper.”
Ruanek got brusquely to his feet. “Papers are for scholars. You may stay here, Academician. I must return to my patron.”
They reentered the Council Chamber together. The body, Spock saw with the faintest shiver of distaste, had already been removed, and every trace of blood had been wiped from the smooth table and floor. Dralath was back in his high-backed chair, calm and unrumpled, revealing not the slightest sign that he’d just killed someone. And the uproar in the chamber had died down to murmurs.
Spock heard Kharik snicker as Ruanek took his place, and saw Ruanek’s angry flush. But the subcommander clearly was too used to his cousin’s barbs to react. A ripple of harsh amusement at the scholar’s weakness followed Spock back to Charvanek’s side; he ignored it utterly.
“Have I missed anything?” he asked Charvanek in a totally innocent tone.
She ignored him, staring at Dralath, who was clearly in the middle of a spate of rhetoric, saying, “. . . regrettable. But there shall be worse, Senators. Prepare yourselves, prepare your people. There shall be no more sly attacks on Romulan men, women, and children. There shall be no more poisoned grain or faulty equipment, all those incidents meant to wear us down, make us quarrel among ourselves—when we now know the truth! The enemy is not here, not on Romulus—the enemy is out there! And if we must fight to guard our own, then fight we shall!”
And, “Fight!” the Romulans echoed, pounding the table with their fights. “Fight!”
“If there must be war,” Dralath trumpeted over the din, “then let there be war!”
“Let there be war!”
But then the fierce shouts turned to horrified gasps. Emperor Shiarkiek, ignored all this while, slowly and without drama, toppled forward to lie sprawled across the table. Spock, on his feet with the others, caught a glimpse of Dralath’s face, torn between triumph and fury that Shiarkiek should spoil his moment.
Then Dralath shouted, “Evaste! Here! Hurry!”
Spock saw a straight, slim, figure rush forward, dark hair caught in a multitude of beaded braids, a flash of flowing robes, russet, bronze, and deep red, startlingly vivid among the somberly dressed Romulans. She bent over the stricken emperor, murmuring to him, then treated him with what Spock presumed was a medkit. The woman straightened, signaling to the guards to carefully help the emperor to his feet. She followed them out, braids swirling about her face. Whoever this Evaste was, Spock thought, she must either be a fool or a skilled player of a very deadly game.
As if sensing his scrutiny, the woman glanced sharply at the crowd, her dark eyes searching the sea of faces. Spock saw a fierce, sharply planed face framed by dark, barbaric braids. A face as familiar to him as his own.
Saavik!
Dralath, his moment utterly gone, was doing his best to recover, proclaiming, “Tomorrow, the Lady Evaste of House Minor Anat-Vorian will be presenting a medical paper at the Ministry of Science, one that I assure you will prove of immense interest to us all. You will all wish to attend.”
It was not a request.
Yes, Spock repeated silently. Ah, yes. I will, indeed. But only tolearn how my betrothed has come to be here in this nest of vipers.
ELEVEN
KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 6, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, 2344
Kharik had begun grumbling complaints almost from the moment of Praetor Dralath’s proclamation yesterday. “Ministry of Science . . . boring, incomprehensible yammer . . . no place for a soldier.” He had not stopped for most of that day and well into the night—save for those moments when he’d gotten in yet another gibe at Ruanek for “wiping the scholar’s chin—or anything else.”
Thank whatever Powers there be, Ruanek thought, with a final tug of his tunic into rigid order before his less-than-perfect mirror on this new day, that my rank entitles me to private quarters. Cramped the room might be, barely more than the space allotted a soldier’s bunk and locker in the barracks, and hardly truly private, but it was, at least, his! Were I still sharing with Kharik and the others, I would have murdered him long ago.
A cynical corner of his mind whispered that then he’d merely be following in Dralath’s footsteps.
I am not, Ruanek told himself dourly, Dralath.
He glanced about the room once more. Allowed so little space, Ruanek had been forced into scrupulous neatness even beyond a soldier’s necessity. That wasn’t such a bad thing, since it also meant that whichever of Avrak’s agents came nosing about in here had less chance of hiding any more of those tiny surveillance eyes. Ruanek gave his reflection a wry grin. He had a few gambits planned just in case Avrak felt like testing the quickness of his wits again.
Ruanek let out his breath in a silent sigh. Unlike Kharik, he did not expect to be bored by today’s presentation. And there was something wonderfully ironic about being ordered to attend a science lecture.
On their way to the Ministry of Science as part of Avrak’s entourage, Kharik, predictably, began his angry mutterings all over again, but softly, so that their patron wouldn’t be disturbed. “What are we doing going to the Ministry of Science?”
Ruanek glanced sharply sideways. “Obeying orders. And who knows? You might actually learn something.”
“Such as what? Better ways to guard? To kill? I’m not a scholar’s nursemaid, cousin.”
Ruanek raised an eyebrow at Kharik and quite deliberately glanced down at his insignia. Remember your rank, Kharik. Your lower rank. “The academician turned out to be quite . . . interesting,” Ruanek countered, deliberately vague. “Quite interesting, indeed.”
That, he thought, had to be the most ridiculous of understatements. He had very nearly shouted out “Spock!” back there in the Council Chamber, confronted with the last being in all the universe he’d expected to see. There could have been no secret Federation invasion. Ruanek knew he was hardly in the front line of information, but even the best of Romulan Security could never have kept that quiet! Spock really was only one Vulcan, alone on this world. The raw courage of it, the sheer, Romulan-war-tale arrogance of walking alone into a nest of enemies . . .
What does he hope to achieve? Hope, as he’d said to Spock, wasn’t logical, and yet . . .
But there’d been too many disappointments down through the years. I wonder, Ruanek thought bitterly. Can Vulcans go insane?
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