The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [40]
Evidently she had underestimated the unDiWahn. And poor Grede had paid the price of her miscalculation.
Some men turned to fat in their old age, but First Prefect Lorris had added no weight to his lean, muscular frame as decade piled on decade. By his ninetieth year, his eyesight had not dimmed, the peaked scrollwork of his ears missed no whisper of gossip or slander, and his dry laughter had developed a blade-sharp edge that could cut his victims to the quick. If his reflexes had slowed any since his youth, Lorris had hidden that change beneath an imposing dignity of bearing.
His one concession to the passage of time was a diminished patience for disruption and disorder. So, as his family size swelled with succeeding generations of offspring, Lorris retreated more and more often to the sheltered confines of his library.
Only on this morning, when the prefect entered his sanctuary he found it already occupied. His irritation at the violation of his privacy was mollified once he recognized the uniformed intruder. Subcommander Vedoc was rooted in place by one of the tallest bookshelves, head bent over an open book; he was so immersed in his study that he had not heard the door of the room open.
“For a soldier, you read a great deal of history, Nephew.”
The young man twirled around. Then, with a smile of greeting, he ducked his head in an informal gesture of respect that acknowledged close family ties yet did not forget the distance between their ranks. “Your library is impossible to resist, Uncle. I have spent many of my ship leaves in this room.”
“Hah! If you value your career, you should be out whoring and drinking with your shipmates.” Settling into a broad chair in the middle of the room, the old man beckoned his sister’s son to come closer. “There was a time, in the early days of the Empire, when an officer was despised as a common throat-slitter if he did not also cultivate a knowledge of art, music, and literature. Those days are gone. Most of my fellow prefects are either mercenaries or bureaucrats, and I suspect that they consider me to be a peevish eccentric.”
“Then I appear to take after you.”
“You could do worse,” said Lorris with a sniff. Vedoc had always been a favorite of his, more so than any of his own spawn. The prefect was struck with a sudden inspiration, and he forged his attack strategy with the same rapidity that he had used as a commander in battle. “That book you are holding is contraband.”
The young man looked down in surprise at the volume in his hands. “But if that is so, however did you obtain it, Uncle?”
Lorris chuckled at the boy’s na@ivet`e.
“One of the advantages of a military career is the chance to make contacts with unsavory characters; the Ferengi, for instance. A loathsome race, but they do have their uses.”
“They smuggled Federation books to you for payment?”
“For payment, yes,” said the old man. “But also for trade. There are those in the Federation who are equally curious about the Romulans. In fact, as a centurion I provided the author of that very book,” he pointed once again to the tome in his nephew’s hands, “with a copy of the early history of the Romulan people.”
“I’ve read several of her works here in the library,” said Vedoc eagerly. “She’s a fine scholar.”
“Was a fine scholar. According to my contacts, T’Sara died just a few days ago.”
“Of old age?”
“Perhaps,” said Lorris with a shrug. “She must have been close to three centuries old. Yet the report is that she died along with a group of other Vulcans, which implies the death was not natural.”
“Her loss will be a blow to Federation science.”
“I agree, but the Vulcans do not value her scholarship as highly as we do. Evidently T’Sara’s uncanny understanding of alien emotion offends their delicate sensibilities.”
The young man frowned.