Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [55]
“Are we agreed then,” he asked, “to discreetly protect the Dragon from any further assassination attempts?”
Chih-li glanced around hastily to assure himself that no one was listening to their conversation. “We are agreed,” he said in hushed tones, “provided our methods are unobtrusive and inconspicuous. I have the usual forcefields built into much of the palace’s structure. It is a simple matter to bring them up to full power. Sensors for darts and other projectiles are in most of the major chambers, but I can do nothing about the Dragon’s private rooms.”
“That is unfortunate,” Worf said, “but unavoidable.” Captain Picard was accompanying the Dragon, he recalled; he would have to rely on the captain to guard the Emperor directly. “What of attacks from the air?” he asked.
“Protective shields are in place, along with long-range sensors and antiaircraft weaponry installed in the upper towers. Perhaps you would care to inspect their deployment?”
Worf bowed his head in the manner of the Pai. “I would be honored,” he said.
“Excellent,” Chih-li said genially. “Come. We can work out the details of our duel as we walk.”
Chapter Nine
“THESE ARE THE PALACE KITCHENS,” the Dragon said. A pair of huge bronze doors slid apart, disappearing into hidden recesses in the adjoining walls. A gust of hot air emerged from the kitchen, carrying the aroma of exotic spices and flavors. Along with the ever-present incense, Picard found the odor slightly overwhelming.
“A privilege,” he murmured, none too sincerely. His stomach was still recovering from the rich and unappetizing dishes he’d been subjected to during the wedding banquet. The gamy, greasy taste of the rahgid eyes lingered on his tongue. He heard Deanna, walking two paces behind Picard and the Dragon, smother a laugh. Mu, the Dragon’s faithful chamberlain, had disappeared on some errand or another.
The doors opened into an enormous space. Even here, everything was ornamented, although the materials employed were less overtly expensive—no gilt, no jewels, no bioluminescence. In the kitchen, the decorators had relied instead on pure color, and they had used it lavishly, in sweeping expanses of green, purple, and puce. The long tables all through the center of the room, and the open hearths, ovens, and stoves that lined the walls, were brightly colored, albeit dusted with white flour and fresh green salad leavings, and splattered with the sticky spills inevitable in any kitchen of whatever size. Small dogs, resembling a cross between a bulldog and a Pekingese, ambled freely through the kitchen, munching on table scraps.
Years ago, during a brief sabbatical on Earth, Picard had visited Hampton Court, the summer palace of King Henry VIII, and toured the enormous kitchens that had once provided for the British monarch’s many lavish feasts. The Dragon’s kitchens reminded him of those cavernous ancient kitchens, or at least a multicolored, phaser-bright replica of the same. How can such an impressive kitchen produce such noxious food? he wondered.
Most of the people in the room—the chefs and their assistants, Picard guessed—had clustered around one table near the center of the room, conversing in loud voices. “That is where we are going,” the Dragon said, gesturing toward the site of the activity.
One of the chefs, an elderly man with a stringy white mustache, glanced up as they approached. “I am so sorry, masters, but no one is allowed—” He paused, jaw dropping. “Your Excellence!”
As he fell to his stomach on the flagged stone floor, he managed to jab his neighbor with his elbow. The neighbor went through the same motions—the gasp, the sagging jaw, the jab, the fall. In an instant, Picard, the Dragon, and Deanna found themselves the only upright people in a room suddenly filled with the slight haze of flour puffed from everyone’s aprons.
The Dragon picked his way through the kowtowing chefs to the table they had been gathered around. “This is what I brought