Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
Kahless snarled. His joy turned to bile, he left the square and headed for his favorite dining hall.
Kahless grunted as he walked in, still hooded, and felt the warmth of the firepit on the exposed portion of his face. It was a good feeling.
Not that he was cold-at least, not on the outside. it wasn’t even close to being winter yet. The fire felt good because it was a diversion-because it took his mind off what had happened in the main square.
Also, the clone was comfortable here. He had eaten his midday meal in this hall for the last week or so, having become a creature of habit since his “return” a few years ago.
There were three empty tables. One was near the firepit, used every day by an elderly man whose name he didn’t know. The other two were located in the corners by the back wall.
One of them was his. Without removing his hood or his cloak, Kahless crossed the room and sat down.
In most places, a hooded man would have attracted attention. Stares of curiosity, perhaps a taunt or two. But not in this place.
It was run by an old woman whose husband had been killed long ago in the Romulans’ attack on Khitomer.
Widowed, left with little or no property, she had opened a dining hall in her native Tolar’tu, on one of the narrow, twisting streets leading to the main square.
Because of the location, the woman’s first customers had been of the less-than-respectable variety-the kind with secrets to keep. She hadn’t done anything to discourage them, so more showed up. And more.
It was the fastest way to build a business that she could think of. More importantly, it worked. Before long, the widow was dishing out more bloodwine and gaghserpent worms-than anyone else in Tolar’tu.
And if the fare wasn’t the best, and the walls were bare of decoration, so what? It was a refuge for those in need of one, and there was always someone with that kind of need.
Besides, Kahless had never felt comfortable lording it over others. Here, he didn’t have to worry about that.
And though the customers were rough-hewn, they weren’t the kind to give up on tradition because of some wormeaten, fungus-ridden scroll.
Before long, the serving maid approached him. She was a comely sort, though a bit too short and stocky for his taste. Then again, she did have a nice sharp mouthful of teeth….
“What do you want?” asked the serving maid.
Kahless shrugged. “You?” he asked playfully. Even a man in a hood could enjoy flirting. Particularly now, when his spirits were low.
“Not if you were the emperor himself,” she replied.
“Now, if you’re not hungry, I can-was
“No,” he said, holding up a hand in surrender. “I know what it’s like to incur your wrath. One can sit here until he dies of old age and never get a chance to order.” He sat back in his chair. “How’s the targ?”
“It was still alive a couple of hours ago.” The serving maid looked around at the patrons. “Which is more than I can say for some of the clientele. But there’s no heart left.”
“Of course not.” Kahless thought for a moment-but just a moment. “The liver, then. And bring it to me bloody.”
She chuckled. “Is there another way?”
He watched the swing of her hips as she left him, then nodded appreciatively. He liked this place. He liked it a lot.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two men walk in, their cloaks as dark with rainwater as his own. Like him, they left their hoods up to conceal their faces.
One of the men was tall, with an aristocratic bearing.
The other was broad and powerful-almost as broad as Kahless himself. They looked around, then headed straight for the elderly man’s table.
Apparently, the serving maid had noticed too. Halfway to the kitchen, she veered off and wound up at the table in question. The two men, who were about to sit down, turned to her.
“We’re not ready to order yet,” said the tall one.
The maid shook her head. “You misunderstand. I wasn’t asking for your order.” She pointed to the table.
“This is taken.”
The tall man glanced at the table, then at her, then