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“The brig. He’ll be fine. Our brig is nicer than most.”

“But the charges, sir? He can be detained only twenty-four hours without logging charges.”

“I’ll think about that. Just lock him up for now. Make him comfortable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Data?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Not too comfortable.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Riker out.”

“He’s late. What has he got to do that makes him late for a meal? He has no assignment, he has no duty, he has no reason to be absent from a Rogue supper.”

Worf listened to Ugulan’s trumpeting with a touch of amusement and said nothing. He sat at the far end of a long table laid out nightly with Klingon food for the Rogues. They were expected to eat together. It was the only way they could interact. Or keep an eye on each other.

But Genzha was breaking the pact. He was not here in time for supper.

According to the agreement between themselves, they could not begin eating until all were accounted for.

And Worf was hungry. Hungry and satisfied. He’d had a chance to kill, and he had found his reserve. He wished Alexander had been there to see it. He wished Picard had been. He wanted somebody to know.

And why not? What good was control unless he could gloat over it a little?

He glanced around at his ready-made audience. In a minute, they would all be afraid of him. He liked that.

“Genzha,” he said, “will not be joining us.”

Ugulan’s eyes widened and he rounded on Worf. “What do you know? Where is he?”

Worf leaned a casual elbow upon the table and picked up a stick of rolled meat. “He will no longer be with us. That is what I know.”

The other Rogues—Mortash, Tyro, all—suddenly turned stiff with realization, stared at Worf, then glanced at each other. None seemed to know what to say.

Also staring at Worf, Ugulan seemed the most shocked of all—Worf had just stolen his job.

Worf punctuated his point by taking a bite of the rolled meat stick.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mortash broke out in a barroom laugh that rolled along the carpet-hung walls. He scooped up his tankard, raised his glass to Worf, and indulged in a deep swig. Tyro and Kev laughed then too, and soon Tyro and the other Rogues nodded in satisfaction and plunged into their food.

Momentary confusion gripped Worf as he tried to figure out what was happening. Why were they laughing?

These were not just guards—they were Klingon guards. Expatriates or not, Klingons needed structure. That was the reason for the supper together ever day, for their pact with Odette Khanty, and their agreements between themselves. Evidently, it was no mystery to them that one of their own had disappeared. Worf expected them to take revenge upon him for his actions against another Klingon, and his legs were tense for the fight he thought had been coming.

Yet they weren’t reacting that way at all.

Suddenly he understood what was going on. What he saw around him, this bizarre cheerfulness—except for Ugulan—was pure relief! They knew one of them was destined to “pay” for the freighter incident, and now that debt had been fulfilled. And each Klingon was glad it wasn’t paid with his blood. He realized with some loss that these were not only not particularly good Klingons, but not particularly good people.

They were cowards! Shameful!

His appetite withered. He put down the meat stick. All he did now was watch the others wolfing down their dinner.

They ate their meal with the joviality of water purging over a dam, gushing merrily past a blockade that had minutes ago seemed insurmountable. They talked and gulped, back-slapped, chewed and laughed in some kind of purging, and even seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.

All but Worf, and Ugulan. The two rivals sat in silence.

And they watched each other.

Chapter Nine

IF WORF HAD NOT BELIEVED in witchcraft, he did now. She had spun a spell of underlying fear that could not be lightly banished.

Worf felt the lingering heat of that spell. He was sustained only by the thought of the starship backing him up and the fact that he did not have to stay here much longer.

Amazing! She had made Klingons afraid!

There