Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [63]
Additionally, the game of ch’i was not over yet. He had thought the Dragon had won when all of Picard’s pieces were taken, and he’d congratulated him on his victory with a genuine enthusiasm that had nothing to do with the quality of his playing; but the Dragon assured him that this was only the first phase of the game, that now Picard was obligated to attempt to free all the warrior-pieces and marry off the dishonored women-pieces.
Troi brought him a goblet containing some clear liquid. “Have a sip,” she whispered.
“What is it?” he asked warily, looking into its transparent depths. Nothing vile was floating in it, but he would not be surprised to find out it was some loathsome insect’s saliva. He contemplated his reflection in the fluid, and hoped he didn’t really look that green.
“Water,” she said. “You could use some. If Beverly were here, I’m sure this is what she’d prescribe.” Grinning weakly, she stepped back toward the fireplace. By now, only a few glowing red coals remained in the oven. Picard wondered if Deanna’s empathic senses had forced her to share his nausea. If so, she deserved a commendation.
Picard started to sip the water. Then Mu arrived once more to whisper something into the Emperor’s ear. A huge smile broke over the Dragon’s jovial features. He gestured expansively toward the servants now converging from every corner of the kitchen. Picard observed the servants murmuring among themselves in an excited, possibly even agitated manner. Something is definitely up, he concluded. What now?
“At last,” the Dragon chortled. “The final triumph of our culinary odyssey: ma erh tsai mao tan ch’ing!”
A half-dozen servants approached the bench in a solemn procession, headed by the master chef himself (identifiable by his vast bulk), holding a single tiny dish high over his head.
“This seems a lot to servants to serve one dish,” Picard observed.
“This delicacy has not been prepared in a thousand years,” the Dragon informed him. “Each of these peasants had some small part in its production, so they’re eager to see it consumed; it will be something to tell their children and grandchildren. I have chosen to indulge them in this matter, provided you have no objections?”
“No, of course not.” Picard found himself torn between relief and apprehension. If this was indeed to be the final item on tonight’s menu, then it was truly a consumption devoutly to be wished. On the other hand, the earlier repasts had been so dreadful that he shuddered to contemplate what the Dragon might consider the pičce de résistance.
The chef awkwardly lowered his meaty frame until he was lying facedown on the floor before his Emperor. One hand still held the dish up high; Picard could spy only a covered serving tray seemingly sculpted from solid gold. Emeralds and rubies studded the gleaming lid, each one larger and more radiant than the one before it. Picard had not seen such shameless ostentation since the last time he dined with a successful Ferengi.
The chamberlain himself took the dish from the chef’s hand. He gulped and swallowed nervously, clearly terrified that he might spill a drop of the precious comestible. Mu placed it carefully on the playing board between the Dragon and Picard, then slowly removed the intricately filigreed top. Picard eyed the contents of the dish for the first time.
Even by Pai standards, it looked sickening and smelled even worse. Gnarled objects that might have been talons floated in a murky fluid that showed oily swirls of dark clotted red and a viscous pale green. The concoction boiled and bubbled like a witch’s cauldron; Picard spotted a speckled worm of some sort writhing within one of the bubbles seconds before it popped, dropping the wriggling creature back into the gangrenous depths of the broth. The acrid fumes rising from the frothing liquid made Picard’s eyes water, and the noxious aroma—like a Klingon locker room right after a particularly frenzied battle—caused