“Every chance I get.”
“Are you ready to leave now? Have anything to bring?”
Pharh held up his water container. “Just this. Uh, where are we going?”
“To help Martok. Are you willing?”
Pharh rubbed the tip of his finger over the carved exterior of the ring, then said, “He’s the reason I’m out here, you know? And I mean that in the worst possible way.”
“Yes, I know. In every possible way. But are you willing?”
Pharh looked up into the sky and noted that the stars were fading. Yes, definitely sunrise. “One of those stars,” he said, “might actually be Ferenginar.”
The hooded one nodded his head. “Possibly,” he said. “I don’t really know.”
“But probably not,” Pharh concluded.
“Probably not.”
“It’s where I was born.”
“Home, then.”
Pharh looked up at the many stars, then slowly shook his head. “No,” he decided. “Not really. Not anymore.”
“All right then,” the hooded one said. “So … where?”
Pharh hefted the water container so it was under his arm. He patted his clothes and the dust blew away on the slight breeze. “So,” he said. “Martok. Wherever he is.”
“I know.”
“I had a feeling you would.”
Nearby, on the peak of a rocky outcropping, one of the big birds—the lone holdout—gave a short cough, but otherwise did not stir. Any chance of eating that evening had just evaporated, it decided in its practical way, and there was no point in wasting any more energy.
* * *
“Fool. You would have done better to die in the war.”
His wife’s words of comfort greeted Martok when the edges of consciousness went from charcoal to gray threaded through with red and white.
He attempted to nod in agreement, but his head weighed too much and, besides, someone was taking care of it for him. Another voice, this one softer, more amused than the first, agreed. “Yes,” it said. “You are a fool.”
“As usual, you are correct, my wife,” he said, his throat seemingly choked with gravel. The gray shapes developed edges. It was brighter than Martok would have liked, but he was certain that this wouldn’t bother him as much if someone weren’t stabbing him in the brain through his eye. He tried to lift his head and wondered if the voices would leave him alone now. He had aged fifty years since he had closed his eye. Every muscle in his body ached.
“I’m afraid we cannot allow that,” the one with the softer voice said. It was not Sirella speaking. Martok was certain of this. Sirella’s voice put steel in him, even when—especially when—she was speaking seductively. This new voice sapped his strength, his will. He trusted this woman. He would trust her with his life, his family, his …
Wait.
He knew this voice. Martok snapped his head up. He was hanging against the outside of the cage, his wrists in shackles and a chain around his chest. He attempted to stand, but when he put weight on his legs and straightened, a second chain tightened around his throat.
“Don’t, husband,” Sirella warned. “I watched them bind you. You must stay as you are.”
Martok grunted, tried to stand again, and felt his wind cut off. I could take a breath and hold it, he decided, but when he attempted to inhale deeply, a strap around his chest contracted. He choked and gasped and then felt Sirella strike him on the forehead.
“Did you think I was making up a story for my own amusement?” she asked. “Stay still.”
“Yes … wife.” A quick glance told him that they were still in the room where Sirella had been held captive. The black curtain that had covered the door had been pulled aside and there on the narrow stage stood Morjod, tall and broad, and one other, a tiny, small-framed woman wearing long, flowing robes. When she saw his head turn and his eye fix on her, the woman stepped out of the shadows, revealing her face.
“Ah,” Martok said, partly because it was the only sound he could get past his lips and partly because he could think of nothing else to say. “Ah,” he repeated, and then, “Of course.”
“Then you remember?” she said, and smiled. Her teeth caught the low light and he felt, as he always had, that there must be some sort of trick to that. No one’s teeth should shine so brightly in such low light. It would be precisely the sort of thing she would think of.
He chose his next words carefully, aware that his response could spell the difference between death here and now and, well, another death that awaited them in the not very distant future. But Martok did not want to die. He had to know how she could be here. “How could I forget?” he rumbled, putting as much pleasure as he dared into his voice. Caught with this one before him and Sirella behind … Martok shuddered, and not because of cold or shock. Bring the Romulans and the Federation before him. Array the whole of the Dominion and the Cardassian fleets behind and Martok in an old D-5 junker with a clogged disruptor and ion propulsion. Better that than this.
“I would say that you must have forgotten many, many years ago,” she said. “Or you would never have allowed yourself to be in so precarious a situation.” She smiled again and the light danced again. Martok looked in her eyes and almost felt himself shrink back. They were flat ebony pools, like tiny singularities. They took everything in, but nothing escaped their pull: not light, not warmth or life or hope. “Why don’t you introduce me to your wife?” she said, and there was such venom in the word that Martok thought that this must be the end.
But Martok still needed to live so that he could find out what had happened, and how, so with as much courtly deference as he could summon, knowing that she would enjoy his discomfort, he said, “May I have the pleasure of presenting my wife, the Lady Sirella, daughter of Linkasa.”
On the narrow shelf, the tiny woman inclined her head. “It is my pleasure to greet the Lady Sirella,” she said, her voice light. “We met previously and enjoyed a stimulating conversation. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady?”
Behind him, Martok heard Sirella shift her feet.
“And now introduce me, Martok,” she said, fully facing him.
Martok cleared his throat and tried to inhale. “Sirella,” he began, but had to stop. Suddenly, he remembered that Shen and Lazhna were dead, killed if not at the hand then surely at the command of this woman. And there, beside her, stood her ally, Morjod, the Usurper. One good breath, he thought. One good breath and I could break these chains. My bat’leth must be in the water where I dropped it. They wouldn’t have bothered to move it. I’m a toothless old targ now. Nothing to fear. Ha! One swing; one, and I could have both of their heads. … But not yet. Not yet. There may be a chance, but I must stay alive. I must stay alive so I can kill. … He made a choking sound to cover the pause, then continued. “Pardon me. My throat is dry. Sirella, please allow me the pleasure of presenting to you Gothmara, of the House of Kultan. I don’t believe I have ever mentioned her to you, but we were acquainted back in the days before you and I knew one another. I served under her father’s command.”
Sirella said only, “Gothmara,” as if she were etching the name in her mind. On her stage, Gothmara bowed.
“‘Acquainted’?” she asked, her voice tight. “This is a euphemism I have never heard before, Martok.” Unexpectedly, Gothmara began to laugh, a breathless cackle that bordered on hysteria and seemed to cause her as much pain as pleasure. The laugh rolled on and on, growing weaker as she ran out of wind, until Gothmara was literally doubled over. At first, Morjod tried to laugh with her, but the longer she went on the more nervous and confused he became. Even more frightening, Martok saw, this was not the first time the whelp had seen her break down this way.
This is worse than I could have imagined, Martok thought. She isn’t merely mad, but fundamentally damaged. Finally, she reached out a delicate hand toward Morjod, who took it cautiously, as if afraid that he might break it. Reaching up with the other hand, she brushed the hair away from her eyes and still
, Martok saw, there was no light in them. Gothmara smiled brightly at Martok and he found himself wondering at her unlined, youthful face. There were no lines there, no signs at all that time had passed since he had last seen her … how long ago now? Decades?
Inhaling deeply, Gothmara took control of herself and grinned, her merriment almost bubbling up out of her. “Speak freely, Martok. Your delicacy in choosing words exhibits manners I don’t recall you having, but those manners are best saved for strangers. There are no strangers here,” she said, and almost broke down in laughter again. “Please have no fear about that.” She took Morjod’s hands in both of hers and pressed them. “But where are my manners?” Morjod seemed about ready to melt with pleasure. In that moment, Martok saw something in his eyes, something about the way his forehead swept up and behind him, he heard Sirella come to the same insight and heard her whisper, “No.”
“And please allow me to present to you,” Gothmara continued, “our son. Morjod, say hello to your father.”
16
MARTOK HUNG, his wrists in chains, on the outside of Sirella’s cage until the executioners made all ready outside in the crater. He could not see her, could not even know if she was conscious, but since all he could do was talk, he talked until his mouth grew dry and his tongue thick. Sirella did not reply. “What is it, woman?” he shouted, even long after his lips were chapped and cracked. “Say something! Is it because I touched a woman before I knew you? Because it was before I knew you! When I saw you the first time, I knew I could never gaze upon another with desire in my heart.” Only the nearness of an almost certain death could have prompted Martok to attempt to discuss interpersonal affairs outside the privacy of their home. Sirella maintained strict rules about outsiders knowing their business.
It didn’t help that the two guards Gothmara had left behind were seemingly enjoying his distress so avidly. By the hand of Kahless, Martok thought. Even if I was not the most popular chancellor who ever walked the planet, how has she turned them so quickly? He had noticed that when she issued the guards their orders, they hung on her every word. A peculiar sensation prickled at the back of his neck when she spoke, but Martok had attributed it to being an aftereffect of being electrocuted or drugged or whatever they had done to bring him down. Then he remembered the way the crew of the Negh’Var had acted when they heard Morjod speaking, first on the bridge, then later in the ruins of Ketha. A device? Martok thought. Or more likely, knowing the source, something biological. That would explain much. Considering his circumstances, Gothmara’s tricks were irrelevant, but it was easier to ponder such a puzzle than to worry about what Sirella thought of him.
In the face of Sirella’s silence, Martok dozed off. The strain of the past three days had taken a toll and, despite the pain in his limbs and his heart, he slept for he knew not how long. When a guard jostled him awake, he recalled only that he had been dreaming of a young woman and decided it had been his daughter Shen. He felt guilty, knowing he would never keep the promise Sirella had demanded from him. His lady would go to Sto-Vo-Kor and Gothmara would live on.
When the two guards unbound his limbs, they had to hold Martok up by his arms or he would have tumbled forward and drowned in the shallow water. His arms and legs were numb, and it was several minutes before blood began to flow again and agonizing sensation returned. Just in time to be torn limb from limb. As soon as he could, Martok turned to see how Sirella fared and was, as ever, impressed by her regal carriage as she stepped stiff-legged, but unbowed, from her cell. Then, almost faster than he could follow, Sirella found a secure placement for her left leg and whipped her right up in a perfect arc that caught one of his guards in the jaw. Martok heard a crunch of shattered bone and felt himself tumble. He tried to fall so that he took the other man with him, but his arms and legs were still unresponsive. The best he could do was trip one of the men with his body, but it was too little, too late, and, judging from the way the room filled with more guards, Martok knew they had planned on this attempt. So Gothmara may be insane, he thought as he gagged on the fetid water, but she’s not overconfident.
He heard rather than saw the struggle end. When they dragged Martok to his feet, Sirella hung limp by her arms between two of the guards. Two others lay in the water. One was against the wall holding his broken jaw and slurring curses. The second was flat on his back, bubbles bursting the surface near his head and a thin stream of blood welling up around a knife in his chest. As Martok watched, the bubbles stopped coming and the two who were holding Sirella both glanced at her appreciatively. As I thought. Gothmara may be able to control their minds, but she cannot completely cloud their judgment.
Consciousness dimmed and flared as they dragged Martok up the many flights of stairs. Rounding a bend, he tried to yank his arms free from their grasp—it wouldn’t do to let them have the last blow—but his struggle barely registered. He only fully awakened when they reached the outer security door and the crowd caught sight of them. A deep-throated roar went up and for a moment, Martok thought that this might be the turning point. His people would return to their senses, but then he looked up and realized, no, this was not the sound of approbation, but of a mob hungry for blood. The sun stood at midmorning and already he could see that the stands around the pit were overflowing—twenty, maybe thirty thousand people squeezed into a space that might precariously have held five. The structure swayed back and forth as the crowd stood, everyone jostling for better positions to see either Sirella or Martok emerge from the palace. Pushing and shoving against the barriers, they roared when the prisoners appeared.
Martok decided that he would look into the eyes of as many of the spectators—his “people”—as he could. They expect us to be slaughtered like animals, but we will show them how true warriors die. A phalanx of guards surrounded them and, every man armed with a painstick, shoved through the horde. Martok tried to study individual faces, tried to read what he saw there, but all he could see was teeth bared with anger, eyes filled with hatred. Small children who had crawled between adults’ legs popped up out of nowhere and threw sharp stones at Martok’s head. Men and women alike spat on them both.
Such rage! Martok wondered. But at what, truly? At the losses we endured during the Dominion War? At the alliance with the Federation and the Romulans? At the erosion of our power? He wondered at his own thoughts at such a time, but he could not stop his mind from tracing the route it was now following. He saw that everything that had happened over the past several days, the past months and years, had brought him to this moment and to the verge of this insight. Could this fury be somethingolder and deeper? Is this wrath for me or is it more truly for themselves? Is this the face of a people that has come to despise itself?
And then they reached the lip of the pit. Martok’s mind emptied. Staring down, he saw the cha’ta’rok and its circle of black-robed attendants. The tips of the four poles swayed in the slight breeze that always swept in from the Ka’Toth plains, and as Martok and Sirella were brought forth, as if it had been rehearsed, four of the attendants began to crank four winches that pulled the binding cords toward the slab erected in the center. A narrow path led down through the stands, and as they were half carried, half dragged to the center, the former chancellor and his lady were pelted with moldy bread, rotten fruit, lumps of desiccated meat, and what could only be pieces of stone torn up from the plaza outside.
Martok tensed the muscles in his arms and legs again and felt his strength returning. She must have drugged me, he decided. And I am beginning to come out of it. He couldn’t be certain of this, but chose to accept it as truth. Otherwise, he would not be able to bear the shame of the darker thoughts that had haunted him.
Morjod and his mother waited for them on the platform. Gothmara gave Sirella the merest glance, then turned her gaze on him and asked, “Have you told her?”
“Told her what?”
“Told her how you took advantage of my youth, abused me, tossed me aside? How you treated my poor father and then le
ft me with child?”
Martok narrowed his eye, then gathered whatever moisture he had in his mouth and hocked a pitiful ball of spit at her feet. Around them, the mob snarled its disapproval. “All I remember is escaping the clutches of a madwoman. And as for your father …”
Before he could finish his sentence, Morjod stepped forward and backhanded Martok’s face. The throng cheered as the spikes on his glove rent Martok’s left cheek. The blow almost made him pass out, but Martok gathered his anger, held on to the light, and focused his rage at his bastard son. Grinning, he gathered together the blood in his mouth and deposited it on the front of the boy’s tunic. “You can’t be any son of mine,” Martok said, “if that’s the best you can do.” Around him on the stage, several of the guards and attendants gave each other surprised looks: Son?
Morjod wound up for another blow, but Gothmara stepped between them before he could deliver it. “Enough,” she said. “This is unseemly. You will comport yourself like a chancellor.”
“Don’t you mean like an emperor?” Martok asked, speaking loudly enough that all could hear.
Leaning in close enough to whisper in his ear, Gothmara said, “One step at a time.” She indicated the crowd. “How much longer do you think it will be before they beg for him to ascend the throne?”
“Don’t deceive yourself, witch. Look into their eyes. They are not cheering you any more than they are condemning us. There are older forces at work here.”
Gothmara did not like being defied—she never had, as Martok recalled—but she would not turn sour before the crowd. “Really, Chancellor?” she asked. “I had no idea you were such an historian. An interest you acquired from your Starfleet associates, I’d wager. Then please feel free to expound on your theories while you struggle with the cha’ta’rok. The crowd will no doubt hang on your every word.” She turned back to Morjod, and this seemed to be a prearranged sign. Morjod stepped forward and pointed at Sirella.
The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Page 21