Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [35]
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice so that all present could hear him. “Let’s not waste time debating politics. This is supposed to be a party, in honor of the Dragon-Heir and his coming marriage.” To his right, he heard Kan-hi mutter something angrily beneath his breath. The young prince stepped toward his brother, only to be calmly but firmly blocked by Riker. Interesting, Riker thought. Kan-hi is touchy about the wedding. I wonder why? “Anyway, why spoil a happy occasion? Especially with all these lovely ladies around? Where I come from, there’s an ancient saying: ‘Make love, not war.’” Riker’s gaze swept the room. He had everyone’s attention. The scene still felt tense, but at least no one was making any threatening moves just yet. There was still time to turn things around. Keeping one eye on Kan-hi, he bent long enough to lift his goblet from the floor. “More wine!” he cried, and, like a genie summoned from a lamp, a fetching young woman wearing only two strategically placed strings of beads appeared to replenish his cup. As soon as she was finished, he raised the goblet up high. “A toast,” he declared, “to love.”
You can’t get less political than that, he thought. Who is going to object to love?
Except maybe a Vulcan, that is.
For a long, drawn-out moment, nobody joined his toast. Then, to Riker’s relief and surprise, Kan-hi lifted his cup as well. “To love,” the Second Son said glumly. The edge of his anger apparently dulled for the moment, he slowly lowered himself down to his waiting cushion, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. Riker turned his attention to Chuan-chi. The Dragon-Heir remained as stiff, and about as cheerful, as a marble statue at first. His face was a frozen mask of utter contempt directed at his brother. After it became obvious, however, that Kan-hi was not going to launch an attack upon his brother’s person, Chuan-chi’s posture gradually relaxed beneath his robes. Is it just my imagination, Riker thought, or does he look slightly disappointed? Perhaps the Heir was looking for an excuse to sic his men upon the Second Son? Riker wasn’t sure, even as he watched the Heir reach languidly for his own gold-encrusted goblet. “To love,” he said, yawning conspicuously.
As unenthusiastic as the Heir’s toast sounded, it served to signal the end of the current standoff. Throughout the prince’s outer harem, voices and cups were raised in praise of love, even though the bellicose expressions of many faces belied the gentle sentiment. There was no question, Riker saw, that many of the hot-blooded warriors reclining in sybaritic comfort felt themselves cheated out of a good fight. He had delayed an explosion, not defused it. Even now, only a few yards away, the black-eyed victor of the previous skirmish was glaring at Riker with obvious animosity. His foot-long fingernails, now tipped with traces of drying blood, clacked together ominously. Riker deliberately avoided making eye contact with the warrior, suspecting that it might be considered a challenge. We’re here to win friends and influence people, he reminded himself, not to knock sense into anyone’s head.
With every appearance of casual ease, Riker sank down onto the plush, velvet divan. The soft cushion gave beneath his weight as he sat cross-legged between the princes. Beneath his red Starfleet dress uniform, his neck and shoulders ached slightly from maintaining—and concealing—his constant state of alertness. He reached back to massage his neck, only to be surprised by the gentle touch of hands already at work upon the sore muscles there. Strong fingers kneaded his flesh through his tunic, and Riker glimpsed turquoise nails at the periphery of his vision. “What—?” he exclaimed, startled but not all distressed by this sudden turn of events.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the lady of the turquoise fruit had returned, this time with no refreshment to offer aside from her own tender ministrations. Her body pressed gently against his back,