Captain's Table 02_ Dujonian's Hoard - Michael Jan Friedman [4]
He’d simply give his friend a chance to turn up, which he would no doubt do in the fullness of time. And in the meantime, Picard would take a closer look at the bottled ship.
As he did this, Picard found himself marveling at the model at both the care that had gone into its construction and the choices that had been made. For instance, the method used to put the metal hull joints together.
They weren’t glued, as one might have expected. They were fused just the way he had done it. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected the thing had been taken from his ready room and placed here only a few hours ago.
An unlikely event, the captain conceded. A ridiculously unlikely event. Still, the resemblance was
Suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something shiny. And it was flying in his direction.
Whirling, he snatched at it and found himself holding a foil by its leather-wrapped pommel. For a moment, he stared at it, for it was clearly an antique six hundred years old if it was a day. Then he looked up to see how it had come hurtling his way.
There was a man standing not twenty paces away, carving the air between them with a twin to the foil. He was human, about Picard’s height, with a roguish mustache and the fine, worn clothes of a swashbuckler. No doubt, one of those who fancied period styles.
The man smiled. “En garde, mon ami.”
The captain held a hand up for peace. “Excuse me,” he said with the utmost diplomacy, “but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I didn’t come here to duel with you.”
“Ah,” said the man with the mustache, “but I believe you have.”
“Jean!” came a deep, commanding voice.
Picard whirled. Unless he was mistaken, the summons had come from the direction of the bar. Sure enough, the bartender seemed to be looking in the captain’s direction.
He was a tall, heavyset human-looking fellow with long, silver hair and a starched white apron. His gaze looked sharp enough to cut glass. Not unlike his tone of voice, it carried something of a warning.
“Are you speaking to me?” Picard asked, wondering how it was the man knew his name.
“I’ll have no bloodshed here,” the bartender insisted. “Not like the last time, Jean.”
The last time? the captain wondered. There hadn’t been any last time. Not for him, at least.
“You needn’t worry,” the swashbuckler said. He inclined his head to the bartender even as he pointed his blade at Picard. “There will be no dire injuries tonight. Only a few welts in the name of fun.”
Abruptly, Picard realized the swashbuckler was called Jean, as well. And with narrowed eyes and rippling jaw muscles, the man was advancing on him, his point extended.
The assembled patrons pushed a couple of tables aside and scurried out of the way. They seemed eager for a little entertainment, and the swashbuckler seemed only too happy to give it to them.
Under most circumstances, the captain would have declined. After all, he stood a chance of getting hurt, and in a strange milieu at that and he still didn’t know what had become of his friend Gleason.
However, the challenge, delivered so recklessly, had stirred in him an emotion he thought he’d suppressed long ago the bravado of a young cadet. Besides, the swordsman had said he intended no serious violence. And if it were welts he was eager for, as he had announced … Picard smiled. He would do his humble best to oblige the man.
“Well?” asked the other Jean, stopping a couple of strides from the captain. “Will you fight me?” He tilted his head slyly. “In the name of good fellowship if for no other reason?”
Picard chuckled. “In the name of good fellowship … why not? The game is one touch. Agreed?”
His adversary grinned broadly. “Let us make it first blood.”
The captain frowned. He was somewhat less comfortable with that approach, but he agreed to it.
“First blood, then,” he said.
They raised their swords and advanced on one another. Before