Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [17]
He and Riker exchanged greetings with Lord Lu Tung, who was polite but stiff in his replies. Then Riker attempted, with some difficulty, to engage the Heir in small talk while Picard turned his attention to the Dragon. Given Chuan-chi’s evident distrust of the Federation, Picard was glad he would be otherwise occupied when Picard attempted to bring up the subject of the treaty. He didn’t envy Riker, though; Chuan-chi struck Picard as a singularly stuffy and humorless individual. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the unlucky bride.
It felt odd, in fact, to be attending a wedding banquet at which the bride was not present. And yet, he recalled, even societies less male-centered than the Pai often kept the bride and the groom separated until the moment they took their vows. Picard wondered if Chuan-chi had ever laid eyes upon the Green Pearl of Lu Tung.
“Excellence,” Picard said to the Dragon, speaking softly in hopes that the Heir would not hear their conversation. “I fully believe that the signing of the treaty will be just the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership between the Dragon Empire and—”
“At last! Food!” the Dragon bellowed. “I thought Mu was trying to starve me to death.” Two more servants approached the dais, bringing the first of what seemed an endless series of tiny lacquered trays to the small tables beside each of the men.
Picard looked down at his tray, which was crowded with dozens of miniature plates and bowls. The foods were all charmingly presented, garnished with flower blossoms and small fish no larger than minnows. There were no utensils, so, following the example set by the Dragon, Picard used his fingers to pick up a tiny piece of what looked like cake and brought it to his mouth. The Dragon watched him expectantly.
Picard almost gagged at the taste. His was a palate trained by years in Starfleet to try anything, from live Klingon gagh to Ferengi grubs, and to find its merits, regardless of cultural preconceptions about what constitutes edible food. But this was bad, really bad: bitter and gamy and nasty. Even aware of the Dragon’s eyes upon him, it took all his training to manage to swallow a bite.
“Ah, you like?” the Dragon said, beaming. “Extraordinary, is it not?”
Picard took a deep drink of his wine; in accordance with ancient Chinese tradition, the drink was both warm and strong, with a distinct resiny taste, but it failed to wash away the foul aftertaste of the noxious morsel. “Yes,” he managed at last, “it is certainly that. What is it?”
“A great delicacy. Thousand-year-old lao shu.” Picard felt obliged to take another bite and swallowed heavily. On top of the awful taste, he now noticed the disgusting texture of the thing, which succeeded in being gritty and slimy at the same time.
“Quite so,” Picard said with difficulty. “I am not familiar with your lao shu. An animal, I take it.” His Universal Translator had been stumped for a more descriptive synonym.
“It is a small beast, native to Pai, so big—” The Dragon held his hands a few inches apart to demonstrate the size; Picard noted the Emperor’s overlong fingernails, which made the vizier’s elongated nails look trimmed. “—not including the tail. Much like your rat, but with gills. We take a small lao shu and bury it for a millennium in an earthenware pot packed with spiced preservatives. When we dig it up, it has dissolved into this delightful substance.” He pointed a nail at the half-eaten cake in Picard’s hand. “You like it?”
“It is quite delicious,” Picard said, perjuring himself without hesitation. Given a choice, he would have rather eaten a Denebian slime devil.
The Dragon laughed and reached across to slap him on his back. “I see you are a man of no little refinement! Excellent! I have too few people to share these gourmet delights with. You will not believe this, but most people, including my own sons and my most educated mandarins, would sooner