Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [38]
“Let’s go,” said Ben Zoma, leading the way.
Simenon paused for a moment, seemingly reluctant to go back into the Great Hall. Then he followed Ben Zoma and the rest of their colleagues fell in behind them.
Picard went through the doorway last. But then, he wanted to see the expressions on the faces of Simenon’s adversaries. As it turned out, they didn’t look any more confident than Simenon did. The captain drew encouragement from that.
The Assemblage of Elders was just where the captain had seen it last, occupying the bench in the center of the room. Simenon walked up to them and stood before them, while Picard and the others again took seats on the stone shelves that protruded from the walls.
It took a moment for everyone to get settled. Then, as before, the High One spoke for the entire Assemblage.
“We have heard the arguments and made our decision,” he said, his voice echoing lavishly. “And it is this—that the offworlders will be allowed to participate in the ritual.”
The announcement was met with muttered protests and expressions of disgust from the camps that had spoken against Simenon. The High One didn’t respond to them. He simply stood there and waited patiently for them to subside.
“However,” he added at last, gazing directly at Simenon, “it will be up to you to keep your companions from violating the ancient laws that govern the ritual—for if they do, rest assured that you will be the one held accountable.”
Simenon nodded. “I understand.”
The High One regarded him for a little while longer. Then he turned to Picard. “Accommodations will be provided for all participants. However, I cannot guarantee they will be to your liking.”
“I’m sure they will be just fine,” the captain assured him.
But then, what else could he say? The Gnalish weren’t about to build a new wing on their majestic Northern Sanctum expressly for the comfort of meddling offworlders.
“Then,” said the High One, “this hearing is over.” He took in everyone present at a glance. “As always, the trial begins at first light. May all participants in the ancient ritual face the challenges ahead of them with skill and courage.”
There was a chorus of agreement with what was no doubt a traditional blessing. But, clearly, not everyone was happy with the Assemblage’s decision. The two who had spoken against Simenon earlier glared at him now with unabashed animosity.
But Ornitharen didn’t glare at his cousin. He walked over to him and put his scaly hand on Simenon’s shoulder as Picard and the others closed in on them.
“I think you’re making a mistake by not including me among your companions,” Ornitharen said. “But I’ll still be cheering more loudly than anyone for you to make it to the egg nest first.”
Simenon harrumphed—about as close as he ever came to a laugh. “Thanks,” he told his cousin. “I’ll feel better knowing that.”
He sounded sincere, Picard thought. However, it seemed to him that his engineer was simply trying to take the edge off Ornitharen’s humiliation. Nothing would truly make Simenon feel better except the knowledge that his ordeal was over. . . .
And that it had ended in victory.
Chapter Twelve
CARTER GREYHORSE FOUND HIMSELF in a dark, drafty place, surrounded by an eerie landscape of blanketed bodies. It took him a moment to get his wits about him—to figure out where he was and what the devil he was doing there.
Finally, he figured it out. Gnala. The Northern Sanctum. He and his colleagues had been given this chamber so they could rest in preparation for Simenon’s ritual.
He raised his head and looked out past the last prone body, which was too large to belong to anyone but Vigo. Greyhorse remembered the weapons officer saying he liked to sleep by the exit. Apparently, he had done just that.
But the doctor couldn’t make out the outline of the door, which meant one of two things: either it fit its frame too perfectly to let any light in, or it was still the middle of the night. In a place this ancient, the doctor guessed that it was the latter.
He sighed