Captain's Table 02_ Dujonian's Hoard - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
“Captain Picard?” said Torlith, his eyes gleaming darkly in the light of three full moons, the shadowy foliage an eerie backdrop behind him.
“I’m Picard,” I confirmed. I indicated my security chief with a tilt of my head. “And this is Lieutenant Worf.”
The Ethnasian regarded the Klingon and nodded. Then he turned back to me. “You know,” he said, “as long as I’ve worked with Starfleet, I’ve never met a starship captain.”
“Well,” I replied, not much interested in his assessment, “you’ve met one now. Shall we go?”
Torlith chuckled at my eagerness. “Of course. I’ve got a hovercar parked less than a kilometer away. And I’ve booked some lodgings for you, as I was instructed. If they’re not to your liking”
“They’ll be fine,” I assured him. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to go straight to the tavern.”
The Ethnasian dismissed the notion with a wave of his pudgy hand. “The one I spoke of won’t be there until later. A couple of hours, at least.”
“That’s all right,” I told him. “I want to get the feel of the place before she arrives.”
Torlith may not have thought that was necessary, but he acquiesced quickly enough. “The tavern it is,” he said, and led Worf and myself in the direction of his hovercar.
The Ethnasian was true to his word. His vehicle was less than a kilometer’s walk from our beam-down site, concealed from the casual observer by a thicket of leafy branches.
Looking around, however, I saw no freshly cut stumps, no sign of phaser burns on the surrounding flora. By that sign, I decided Torlith had used this place for his business dealings before and I didn’t imagine all of them had been on behalf of Starfleet.
His hovercar was efficient, if noisy. It took us out of the forest and into the city if one could call it a city. More accurately, it was a maze of haphazardly erected edifices, altogether without reason or focus. None of the buildings was remarkable in any way, either by virtue of its size, its shape, or its appearance.
My first officer would no doubt have called the place “a dive.” However, it was the logical and seemingly unavoidable starting point of our search for Richard Brant and, if the legends were true, for a good deal more.
Landing his vehicle in an open lot designated for such a use, the Ethnasian led us through the city’s winding streets. They started out deserted but became increasingly more populated as we went on.
Most of the faces we encountered were those of the native Milassoi, a towering but pale and ultimately fragile-looking species who wore dark robes and hoods. However, there were at least half a dozen other spacefaring races present as well, humans sprinkled among them.
Finally, we came to the tavern in question. Torlith led us inside, making his way through the crowd until he found an empty table in the back. Then he sat and gestured for Worf and myself to do the same.
It was nothing like the Captain’s Table. The place was dark, rough-hewn, almost cavelike in its appearance, with vials full of Veridian glow-beetles providing the only real illumination.
On the other hand, none of its patrons seemed daunted by the lack of artifice. In fact, they seemed to like it just fine.
A moment after we sat down, a serving maid approached us and asked for our preferences in libations. It took only a couple of minutes for her to bring the order to the bar and return with our drinks.
As I sampled my synthehol, I took quick stock of those around us. The crowd was what one might find in a great many other “watering holes” I had encountered noisy and full of furtive glances, but basically harmless.
“I see no particular danger,” Worf confirmed.
“Nor do I,” I returned. “Still, the evening is young.”
Suddenly, Torlith grabbed my arm. “It’s her,” he said. And he jerked his spiny head in the direction of the bar.
I peered at the crowd, but didn’t see whom he was talking about. “Where is