Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [47]
A broad grin spread over Will Riker’s face as the solution presented itself to him.
“Tell me, gentlemen,” he asked, “have you ever heard of a game called poker?”
Chapter Seven
WORF LOOKED AROUND as he was led through the halls of the Imperial Palace. The servant who led him moved silently and very fast, so that even Worf’s long stride was barely able to keep up.
So far, the Klingon warrior did not think much of Pai. The lavishly decorated halls, the gaudy attire of the people they passed, even the scented smoke hanging in the air, struck him as decadent, soft. Any race who so elaborately and painstakingly carved even the very hinges of every door was obviously lost to all sense of proper discipline. Up ahead, Worf spotted an artisan of some sort lying on his back atop an antigravity platform several meters above the floor. The craftsman peered through thick magnifying lenses as he employed a laser-stylus to etch in details far too minute to be seen from the floor below. What a waste of time, Worf thought. A low growl escaped his lips as he walked under the floating platform.
Finally, and none too soon as far as Worf was concerned, the servant stopped smoothly in front of an ornate door inlaid with pale blue and pink enamel. Worf growled again, as the door slid open and he found himself face-to-face with a scowling Pai noble.
In true Klingon fashion, Worf automatically assessed the stranger’s potential as an adversary. The Pai was only a few centimeters shorter than Worf, and clad in armor from head to foot. The armor reminded Worf of illustrations he’d seen in his human stepfather’s history books, particularly the chapters concerning the old Asian empires on preindustrial Earth. The gold and silver beads covering the chestplate and helmet were a typically decadent touch, but otherwise the armor seemed sturdy enough. Only the Pai’s face was exposed, revealing a broad face and two glaring eyes beneath heavy black brows that met above a nose that looked as though it had been flattened, and broken at least once, in past battles. A scar running down the man’s right cheek also testified to its owner’s violent past. Worf nodded approvingly. The man’s battered-but-unbowed visage was the first thing he’d seen on this prettified jewelry box of a planet that he could identify with.
Most importantly, though, Worf noted the unsheathed swords the Pai warrior held in each of his hands.
“I am Chih-li, Imperial Grand Minister of Internal Security, First Rank,” the man barked. “Your very presence insults my honor.”
His words hit Worf like a slap across the face. “What do you know of honor?” he demanded.
Chih-li raised his chin proudly. “The safety of the Dragon, his family, his guests, and his property is my responsibility and mine alone. To suggest I require foreign assistance is to besmirch my honor in the most heinous manner imaginable.”
Worf’s steady gaze never left the blades in Chih-li’s hands. “Honor demands I obey the commands of my captain. I cannot do otherwise.”
“I see,” Chih-li said. He fixed Worf with a penetrating stare. “Then our course is set.” He raised both swords in front of him. Worf reached for his phaser. “Choose your weapon,” Chih-li said solemnly.
Worf’s hand came away from his phaser. Understanding dawned in his eyes and behind the ridges of his brow. “You challenge me?”
Chih-li nodded, thrusting the hilts of both blades toward Worf. “It is a matter of honor,” he declared.
That was good enough for Worf. He suspected that Captain Picard would not approve of this duel, but failed to see any alternative. He could think of no greater way to offend the Pai, and sour relations between the Federation and the Dragon Empire, than by refusing to respect their standards of honor. Honor, to his mind, was the only universal verity strong enough to unite such disparate peoples as the Pai