Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [35]
All the more reason not to attract undue attention.
Keeping his eyes straight in front of him, the captain felt the warmth of the firepit as he crossed the room.
There was a table in the corner with room for three.
Kahless gestured, and they all sat down. Taking a moment to survey the place, Picard decided it was just as the clone had described it.
Nearly everyone was wearing a hood. Most were sitting alone, minding their own business, but there were pairs and trios as well. And everyone spoke in such low voices it was difficult to hear what they were saying.
The captain turned to Kahless. “Are they here?” he whispered.
The clone shook his head. “Not yet. But soon.” He eyed Worf. “And you will recognize Lomakh when you see him, I promise. That is, if you look closely enough.”
Picard and his security officer exchanged glances. Worf sat back in his chair and frowned.
No doubt, the lieutenant was wondering if he’d done the right thing encouraging his captain to come here. The closer they’d gotten to the dining hall, the more skeptical Worf’s expression had become.
Still, Picard mused, they had ventured this far. As the expression went, in for a penny, in for a pound.
He had barely finished the thought when the door opened and two men walked in. One was tall, the other shorter and broad. Like everyone else here, they wore cowls to conceal their features.
Kahless turned to his companions. Picard could tell from the gleam in the Klingon’s eye that these two were the ones he’d warned them about. Nonetheless, Kahless felt compelled to underline the point.
“It’s them,” he breathed.
Worf looked past him at the newcomers. They sat down at a table on the other side of the room and bent their heads until they were almost touching.
“You see?” Kahless commented. “Do they not look like conspirators?”
The captain sighed. The newcomers looked no more conspiratorial than anyone else in the place. “You said Mister Worf would recognize one of them.”
The clone nodded. “Yes. The tall one.”
Worf’s eyes narrowed in the shadow of his hood. “I cannot tell from here,” he decided. “I will need a better look.”
“Then by all means, take one,” Kahless urged.
His frown deepening, the security officer got up and crossed the room to the firepit. Once there, he made a show of warming his hands by its flames. Then he returned to the table.
“Well?” Kahless prodded.
Worf paused for a moment, then nodded. “I believe the tall one is Lomakh. I do not recognize the other.”
“Then you see what I am saying,” the clone hissed, triumphant. “What would Lomakh be doing in a place like this, concealing his face with a hood … unless it was to p Ian Gowron’s overthrow?”
“Unfortunately,” said Picard, “he could be doing a great many things.” He was still unconvinced.
“I told you,” Kahless insisted. “I read their lips. I saw them speak of plucking Gowron from the council like a fattened targ.”
As on the colony world, the captain turned to Worf, relying on his judgment and his expertise. “What do you think?” he asked.
The lieutenant sighed. “As an officer in the Defense Force, Lomakh is taking a risk coming here. It does not make sense that he would do so-unless he deemed it a greater risk to conduct his conversation elsewhere.”
“In other words,” said Picard, “you agree with the emperor’s assessment of the situation.”
Again, Worf paused a moment, ever cautious. “Yes,” he replied at last. “For now, at least, I agree.”
The captain absorbed the response. As far as he was concerned, they had seen enough. They could go.
But if they left without eating, Lomakh might notice and wonder about it. And if he really was part of a conspiracy, it might then dig itself an even deeper hole, from which it would be impossible to extricate it. So they hunkered down within their cowls and stayed.
A couple of minutes later, a serving maid came over.
The clone ordered for all three of them. Fortunately, Picard was a connoisseur of Klingon