Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [13]
“Not at all,” she replied. “There’s a man named T’lanak who sits here every day. I don’t know much else about him, but he’s a steady customer, and we stand by our steady customers.”
The broad man took a step toward the serving maid.
He was smiling, but it was a forced smile, and Kahless had the impression it could easily become something else.
“This T’lanak isn’t here now-and we are. Nor are we any less hungry than he’s likely to be. Now go see to your other customers while we decide what we want to eat.”
The clone frowned. He didn’t like the way this Klingon was talking. As much as he would have liked to keep to himself a while longer, he wasn’t going to stand here while two cowards bullied a serving wench.
He got up and approached the men. He wasn’t more than halfway there before they noticed and turned to face him His
His voice was low and unmistakably threatening. “The serving maid gave you some advice. I suggest you take it.”
The broad man tilted his head to get a better look at Kahless, though he couldn’t see his face very well because of the cloak. Likewise, the clone couldn’t see much of his adversary.
Then again, he didn’t have to. Kahless didn’t back off from anyone. In fact, he was actually hoping the situation would come to blows. As emperor, he seldom got the opportunity to engage another Klingon in combat. But as a hooded man in a place where everyone had a secret, it wouldn’t be at all inappropriate for him to crack a few skulls.
“This is none of your business,” the broad man told him.
Kahless grunted. “I’ve made it my business.”
“Even if it involves the spilling of blood?”
The clone smiled. “Especially if it involves the spilling of blood.”
The broad man’s hand drifted toward his waist. Under his robes, no doubt, he had a weapon tucked into his belt.
Kahless prepared himself for his adversary’s move. But before the broad man could start anything, his companion clamped a hand on his arm.
The clone looked at the tall man. For a moment, as their eyes met, he caught a glimpse of a long, lean face, with a clean-shaven chin and a wispy moustache that began at the corners of the man’s mouth.
Then, perhaps realizing that he was exposed, the tall man lowered his face. Again, his cowl concealed him.
“This isn’t worth killing over,” the man said, his voice deep and throaty. “It’s just a table, after all. And there’s another for us.”
The broad one hesitated, lingering over the prospect of battle. But in the end, he relented. Without another word, he followed his companion to the empty table and sat down.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kahless noticed that the serving maid was looking at him. Gratefully, he imagined. The clone turned and nodded, as if to say, you’re welcome. With a chuckle, the wench stirred herself and went about her duties.
Kahless returned to his seat, quite pleased with himself. It was satisfying to engage an opponent eye to eye and stare him down. Not as satisfying as drawing his blood, perhaps, but pleasing nonetheless.
And yet, as he reflected on it, there was something about the encounter that didn’t seem right. Something that didn’t ring quite true. He glanced at the newcomers, who were conversing across their new table with their heads nearly touching. Only their mouths were visible.
They didn’t look the least bit shaken by him. Nor should they have been, considering there were two of them, and neither looked feeble in any way. So why had they backed down so easily?
Unless, perhaps, they had even more reason to hide behind their cowls than he did? The clone nodded to himself. That must have been it.
In his mind’s eye, he reconsidered his glimpse of the tall one’s features. Long chin. Wispy moustache. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him there was something familiar about what he’d seen something he couldn’t put his finger on.
He scoured his memory. The man wasn’t one of the clerics, was he? No, not that. A bureaucrat on one of the moons? He didn’t think so. A retainer to some great House, then? Or a crewman