Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [28]
But Kahless didn’t like the sound of his host’s words.
Getting up, he felt himself sway a little-a sign that he’d had more wine than he thought. But he spoke nonetheless.
“I have no intention of going anywhere near Molor, much less feeding him his entrails. In fact, I want to stay as far away from him as I can.”
Vathraq roared with laughter. “Whatever you say,” he replied. “Don’t worry about us, brave Kahless. We’ll keep your secret.” He turned to his some of his people. “Won’t we?” They howled their approval. Kahless shook his head, intent on dispelling any illusion they had created for themselves.
“No,” he shouted. “I mean it. We’re outlaws, not idiots. No one can get within a mile of Molor, anyway.
But Vathraq and his people only laughed even louder.
Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, Kahless sat down again. Obviously, they would believe what they wanted to, no matter what he said.
But as he poured another goblet full of bloodwine, the warchief saw Morath looking at him from across the room. Of all his men, only Morath seemed clear of eye, free of the wine’s influence. And he had a distinct look of disapproval on his face.
Kahless could guess why, too. If he had learned one thing about Morath, it was that the man had principles the kind that didn’t allow him to let a falsehood go uncorrected.
The warchief grunted. Some falsehoods weren’t worth worrying about, he mused. Turning away from Morath, he drained his goblet, allowing his troubles to drown themselves one at a time.
The Modern Age Picard materialized on a smooth, black plateau open to a glorious, red-orange sky. The air was cool, with a strange, spicy scent to it. Beyond the precipice before him, a good hundred and fifty meters below, a Klingon colony sprawled across a ruddy brown landscape.
Turning to his left, he saw that Worf had taken shape beside him. That was something of a relief. He hadn’t particularly trusted the transporter unit in the Pescalian cargo ship that had brought them here.
Then again, they hadn’t had much choice in the matter.
The captain couldn’t have taken the Enterprise into Klingon territory without notice-not unless he wished to start a war with Gowron.
“WorPeople” boomed a deep voice from behind them.
“Captain Picard!”
The captain turned-and saw Kahless emerge from behind a rock formation. The clone grinned. As he closed Bs with them, a curious-looking amulet swung from a thong around his neck.
“It is good to see you again,” he said. “Both of you. In fact, you don’t know how good.”
“It is good to see you as well, Emperor,” Worf responded.
Kahless clasped his fellow Klingon by the forearm, then repeated the gesture with Picard. The captain winced. The clone was as strong as ever.
“You look well, Emperor,” Picard said.
Kahless shrugged. “I am well,” he replied, “despite what you may have heard.” He looked past the human at the installation below them. “Strange. I have never been to this world before, but it feels familiar here.”
He paused to consider the place for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke out on his face.
“T’chariv,” the clone whispered.
“In the north?” asked Worf.
Kahless nodded. “Of course, the sky was this color only at sunset. But the shape of the settlement, the way it nestles in the hills …” He grunted. “It’s T’chariv, all right. The place where the original Kahless called the outlying provinces to his banner.”
Picard didn’t say anything. Neither did Worf.
The clone looked at them. “Yes,” he added, responding to their unspoken question. “I am sure the original Kahless visited T’chariv. Any person or thing that says otherwise is a liar.”
Again, the captain withheld comment. Until the scroll was determined to be authentic or otherwise, he couldn’t offer any encouragement. What’s more, the clone knew it.
“In any case,” Kahless went on, “I didn’t bring you here to reminisce with me. There is treachery afoot.