Captain's Table 02_ Dujonian's Hoard - Michael Jan Friedman [6]
The best? Picard considered the inn in a new light. Did that mean there were others?
A moment later, he was deposited in a chair. Looking around, he found himself in the company of Robinson and his friends. The big man introduced them one by one.
The tall, slender being with the green skin and the white tuft atop his head was Flenarrh. The muscular Klingon female was named Hompaq. Bo’tex was the overweight, oily-looking Caxtonian nursing his oversized mug of ale and exuding an unfortunately typical Caxtonian odor. And Dravvin was the heavy-lidded Rythrian with the loose flaps of skin for ears.
“And this is Jean-Luc Picard,” Robinson announced. “Master swordsman and captain extraordinaire.”
Taken aback, Picard turned to the man. “How did you know I was a captain?” he asked.
Robinson laughed and slapped Picard on the back, knocking him forward a step. “Didn’t anyone bother to tell you, lad? We’re all captains here, of one vessel or another.”
Picard looked around the table. “I didn’t know that,” he said. And of course, he hadn’t.
“That was some duel,” Bo’tex remarked, changing the subject a bit. “Best I’ve seen in this place in quite a few years.”
“Admirable,” agreed Flenarrh, placing his hands together as if praying. It gave him an insectlike look.
“Here,” said Hompaq, pouring a glass of dark liquid into an empty glass. “There is only one drink fit for a warrior.”
Picard recalled his tactical officer’s dietary preferences. He couldn’t help wincing as the glass was placed before him.
“Prune juice?” he ventured.
Hompaq’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. It’s bloodwine and you’ll find no better on Qo’Nos herself!”
“Not everyone likes bloodwine,” Dravvin noted, his voice as dry and inflectionless as the other Rythrians of Picard’s acquaintance.
“He will like it,” the Klingon insisted. She thrust her chin in Picard’s direction. “Drink!”
He drank though perhaps not as much or as quickly as Hompaq would have preferred. To be sure, bloodwine was a powerful beverage. The captain didn’t want to be caught at a disadvantage here especially when his comrade was still missing.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but has anyone seen a fellow named Gleason? He’s human, a bit taller and broader than I am, with bright red hair turning gray at the temples.”
His companions looked at one another. Their expressions didn’t give Picard much hope.
“I don’t think so,” Bo’tex replied, speaking for all of them.
“Worry not,” Robinson assured Picard with the utmost confidence. “People have a way of appearing and disappearing in this place. Your friend’ll surface before long.” He sat back in his chair, as if preparing himself for a good meal. “What’s important now is the storytelling contest.”
Picard looked at him. “Contest?”
Robinson nodded. “Indeed. We have one every night, y’see.” He eyed the others with unmitigated glee. “This evening, we’re out to see who can tell the most captivating tale of romance and adventure.”
“Yes,” Bo’tex confirmed. “We were just about to begin when you and Lafitte started flashing steel.”
Picard looked at him. “Lafitte?” he echoed. And now that he thought about it, the bartender had called the man …
“So?” Hompaq rumbled, interrupting Picard’s thoughts. She leaned across the table toward Bo’tex, accentuating an already ample Klingon cleavage. “You have a story for us, fat one?”
The Caxtonian’s complexion darkened. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a storyteller,” he demurred. “The … er, exigencies of command haven’t left me much time to perfect that art.”
“Rubbish and nonsense,” Robinson boomed, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “You always use that excuse. But captains make the best storytellers of anyone, and Caxtonian captains are no exception.”
“If that’s so,” Bo’tex countered in a defensive voice, “why don’t you get the ball rolling for us, Robinson? Or is it possible you haven’t had any romantic experiences?”
Robinson shot the Caxtonian a look of reproach. “As it happens, Captain