Here There Be Dragons Part 10

"That is not likely," Data responded. "Lukas was most emphatic about the design of your banner. I saw none similar that he might have mistaken for yours."

Graebel shrugged. "Then perhaps he was attacked by robbers. I regret to say that in this city not every man is as honest as you and I." He clapped his hands. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you and I share a cup of wine, and I'll send my manservant to check among the other merchants and see if anyone has heard from or seen your friends?"

"Thank you." Data nodded gravely. "I would appreciate the inquiries. As to the wine, I thank you for your offer, but I do not imbibe."

"Come, now," Graebel said. "It's rude not to drink with a man-especially when he's offering you aid and opening a rather fine vintage."

Data considered the matter. He did not require food or liquids but could eat and drink if needed. The captain had ordered him to appear to be fully human. The merchant's logic appeared somewhat flawed, but the point was clear. "Then I will accept," Data agreed.

Graebel went to the door and spoke quietly with his servant in the hall. Then he returned with a tray holding the wine and goblets. "It should be a matter of less than an hour, Dieter. And what more pleasant way to spend an hour than in the company of good wine?"

This was clearly a rhetorical question. Data could recognize such quite well now, so he did not reply. Instead, he accepted the proffered goblet of wine and took a sip. Graebel smiled and took a healthy draft from his own goblet.

"Are you a connoisseur?" he asked. "Can you tell what's in that delightful bouquet?"

Data took a further sip and set his internal sensors to work a.n.a.lyzing the liquid. "Aside from the obvious alcoholic content," he replied, "there are traces of apple, a small percentage of cinnamon, and a third ingredient." This one he was having trouble identifying. Finally his computer memory produced an a.n.a.log in the form of an atropine variant. There was nothing to suggest that it was customarily used to flavor wines. It was extracted from the Common Hensbane, a weed found throughout Europe and most commonly used as a drug.

Ah. That would explain it. The wine had been doctored with the addition of a knockout substance. Interesting, because atropine hadn't been isolated on Earth until 1833 and- Data was suddenly aware that Graebel was staring at him. He wondered if he had allowed his pose of being fully human to slip, thus making the merchant suspicious of his behavior. Then he realized what the problem was: A human would have been rendered unconscious by the drug. Perhaps this was what had befallen the captain and his companions. Data therefore shut down his motor responses.

Graebel yelped and leapt to his feet with surprising speed for a man of his bulk as his guest suddenly appeared to go stiff and then collapse. "G.o.ds!" he muttered, "I've never seen the powder produce that effect before." He bent to Data's body and groped at the wrist.

He was obviously feeling for a pulse. Data's nutrient system didn't require pumping in the same manner as the heart pumped blood, so he did not possess a normal pulse. However he was able to simulate the action required by adjusting the flow of his chemical nutrients. Data made it slower than a normal human pulse, since he was supposed to be unconscious.

"That's better," Graebel muttered. Then he stood up. "Sigfrid!" he yelled. The manservant popped in through the door. "Here's another slave we can sell to the mines."

"The guards just took the latest lot out, Herr Graebel," Sigfrid replied. "They won't want to take another slave tonight. They'd have to feed him an extra day."

"Oh, wonderful," muttered Graebel. "Now I suppose I'll have to lock him up overnight." He sighed. "Pity. He's apparently a friend of that man Lukas we had here earlier. They might have enjoyed working on the same crew in the mines. I'm such a sentimentalist, Sigfrid, I know, to find pleasure in such a thought."

Data noted that Graebel had been lying when he claimed not to have met the captain. He had evidently been sold as a slave for some mines in the hills. Data continued to feign unconsciousness, hoping he'd overhear more useful conversation.

"What shall I do with him, then, sir?" asked the manservant.

"You'd better lock him in the cellar for the night," Graebel decided. "It's very inconvenient, but I suppose we'll have to put up with the trouble."

If they were going to lock him up, Data knew, his chances of discovering anything useful were slim. "Allow me then to relieve you of that burden," he suggested, springing to his feet.

It was hard to judge who was the more amazed, Graebel or Sigfrid. Both paled and jumped back. Data reached out and fastened a hand about each man's right wrist.

"That's not possible," squeaked Graebel. "You should be unconscious!"

"I agree." Data considered the point. Technically, he had broken the captain's orders to appear to be fully human. On the other hand, the captain's life-as well as those of Ensign Ro and Lieutenant Miles-might depend upon Data's being free and able to come to the rescue. "Fortunately I am immune to atropine. A birth defect." While not exactly true, Data hadn't told a lie. He had merely implied that he had been born, instead of constructed.

Sigfrid was straining to pull free of Data's implacable grip, without success. "He's skinny, but he's stronger than he looks, Herr Graebel," the man protested.

"I exercise frequently," Data informed him. "Now, I wish to know what you have done with Lukas and Rosalinde." Sigfrid darted a look at his master, then shook his head, too scared of Graebel's wrath to talk. "Very well." Releasing the merchant for a moment, Data tapped the manservant with sufficient force to render him unconscious. Before Graebel could seize his chance and flee, Data had a firm grip on his wrist once again. Sigfrid collapsed onto the floor.

Graebel was shaking. He was clearly expecting physical a.s.sault, and ill prepared to cope with the concept. Data knew that it would be relatively simple to make such a person talk. All he needed was the correct encouragement. Data smiled for effect. It seemed to scare the merchant. "Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to supply me with the information I seek. If you do not cooperate, I shall be forced to commence inflicting pain on you. It will not give me pleasure. I am reasonably certain that it would give you no pleasure, either."

"Now, don't be hasty, Herr Dieter!" gasped Graebel. "I'm sure we can work this out like sensible men."

"That is a distinct possibility." Data inclined his head slightly. "Another is that if you do not tell me where my friends are, then you will discover that you have a broken wrist." To emphasize his words, Data squeezed the hand he was holding very slightly.

Graebel screamed, more from fear than pain. "All right! I'll tell you." Data eased up slightly. "I sold all three to Binder, the gla.s.smaker in the High Street."

"That is a lie," Data stated. Aside from the fact that he'd heard Graebel mention selling Lukas as a mine worker, he could tell the man was lying by his bodily responses. Somewhat like a lie detector, Data could sense the change in the electrical conductivity of the man's skin and see the narrowing of his eyes. "If you attempt to lie again, I shall be compelled to injure you. Now, where is Lukas?"

"I sold him to the mines!" Graebel yelled, shaking with fear. "He's been taken off to them already, along with Martel."

"By what route?"

"I can't be certain," the merchant said. "Honestly! But I imagine through the Portergate and out on the mountain road. Believe me, that's all I know."

Data did believe him. He had shown no signs of lying. "And Rosalinde?" he prompted.

"Her, too!"

"A lie." Data shook his head slightly. "Accept my word when I say that I do not feel pleasure from doing this." He activated the servo-motors in his hand and constricted.

"No!" Graebel screamed, falling to his knees. Data stopped applying pressure but did not loosen his grip. The merchant's hand was deadly white, all circulation in it stopped. It was as if Data's hand were a powerful tourniquet. "I sold her to the duke as a servant girl," Graebel sobbed, pawing with his other hand at Data's remorseless arm.

Data considered the matter briefly. The captain and Miles were clearly in great danger. The mines could not be a safe place for humanoid life-forms; otherwise slaves would not be needed to excavate them. And there was the possibility of meeting one of the dragons on the way to the mines. Ro, on the other hand, should be relatively safe-if somewhat overworked and perhaps abused-inside the castle. By simple arithmetic, he would be able to aid two of his companions by following the slave train, as opposed to only one if he went after Ro. He would have to attempt to find the captain and Miles first, Data decided. Then, together they would be able to rescue Ro.

The android realized that all of this time, Graebel had been clawing at him to try and break free. He moved his attention back to that problem. There was a real danger of permanent damage to the man's hand if Data held the wrist this tightly for much longer. He abruptly released his grip. Crying incoherently, Graebel collapsed into a blubbering bundle on the floor, nursing his damaged hand.

Data realized that he could not leave Graebel like this. He would prefer to stop Graebel's little slaving racket once and for all, but the Prime Directive forbade such interference in native matters. On the other hand, if he left the man conscious, then he would undoubtedly warn the duke of Data's interest in the new servant girl. That could complicate freeing Ro.

There was an obvious solution to his troubles. Data picked up the drugged flagon and refilled it with wine. This he then proffered to the shaking, sobbing merchant. "Drink this," he ordered. "It will make me feel much better."

"No." That much was plain even between the sobs.

"If you do not drink it," Data told Graebel, "then I shall be forced to render you unconscious through more physical means. It is not simple to gauge the force of blow required. Your high percentage of body fat would dull my blow. I might only hurt you. Alternatively, I might break your bones with the force of my blow as I try to correct for your size."

Graebel grabbed the wine goblet and emptied it in a single gulp. After a few moments he fell forward, completely limp.

Data nodded in satisfaction. There should be sufficient drug to keep him oblivious for the rest of the day. That should be adequate time to free the captain and return. He tapped the communicator hidden inside the broach pinning his cloak about his body. "Data to Enterprise."

Even with his sensitive hearing, Data had trouble making out Geordi's response. Static chittered and barked throughout the whole call. It was possible that the s.h.i.+p, with its greater communications facilities, was receiving better than his pin could. Data had to act on that a.s.sumption. "The captain, Lieutenant Miles, and Ensign Ro have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, Geordi," he reported. "I shall endeavor to rescue the captain and lieutenant first, as they are currently outside the town and potentially in the greater danger. Data out."

Gathering his cloak about him, Data left the building and strode toward the main gate. He would be able to travel much faster once he was un.o.bserved. For now, though, he must continue to appear human.

The Black Knight grunted as he swung his sword down in a vicious arc. Worf brought his own blade up to block the blow. The two metal edges sang as they collided under the force of the blow, showering sparks. The impact strained Worf's arms, but he laughed with the pleasure of the combat.

It was time to do the unexpected.

Releasing his sword, he grabbed the surprised knight's still-upraised arm. Twisting about, he applied leverage and all of his strength. With a howl of surprise the Black Knight was thrown over Worf's shoulder, and he slammed down onto the turf. Worf dropped upon him, wresting the sword from the stunned man's fingers and then holding the point of the blade to the man's exposed neck, visible under the rim of his helm.

"Do you yield?" he demanded.

The knight's face was invisible behind the faceplate, but his exhaustion and fear were apparent in his voice. "I ... yield," he conceded.

Worf let the sword fall and jumped to his feet as cheering broke out among the king and the other knights. Barclay hurried across the field, grinning. Then his face fell, and he yelled a wordless warning.

Spinning about, Worf fell into a crouch. The Black Knight had regained his feet and had drawn a knife from a hidden sheath. Weaponless, Worf's eyes narrowed as he watched the wicked blade close in. Then, with a roar of rage, he lashed out with his right foot. Pa.s.sing beneath the startled knight's guard, it connected with his stomach. Even though he wore a chestplate, the force of the kick slammed him from his feet. Worf limped over to where he lay and glared down at him.

Barclay ran up, panting. "Are you okay?"

Worf glowered. "This man was not honorable," he complained. "He cheated."

"Well, I tried to make the program realistic," explained Barclay. "That sort of thing happened a lot, you know. The idea of chivalry was-ah-accepted and believed in. But it wasn't always practiced."

With some disappointment Worf turned away from the fallen man. "Computer," he called. "End program." The scene vanished, and the bare walls of the holodeck returned. Worf looked down at Barclay. "Thank you for your help. This has been a most entertaining diversion. But we must return to duty now." He shook his head slightly. "I had hoped that a human society based on chivalry would appeal to me. Perhaps I was mistaken."

Barclay nodded. "The problem is that although they have high ideals, people don't always live up to them. It's not the fault of the ideals. It's just human weakness."

Worf looked down at him. "The same, I must confess, can even be the case with Klingons. It appears that the appeal of ideals is universal-as is the failure of all races to consistently attain those goals."

"I hope I didn't disappoint you," Barclay said anxiously.

"No. The program was most enjoyable." Worf strode toward the door while Barclay scurried beside him to keep up. "The cheating knight was a good reminder that our expectations and desires are not always met in the real world."

"Now what was that all about?" wondered Geordi aloud. "I couldn't make out a word of it in all the static."

Worf had returned to duty only five minutes earlier. Traces of a smile still lingered about his features. "I shall attempt to clean up the message," he stated, working over the communications panel. After a few moments he announced: "I've made it listenable." Then he played it back.

In the quietened-but still irritating-hiss of the static, Data's report could be heard. As he announced the loss of the captain and Ro, Worf stiffened with rage. At the end of the message the Klingon rounded on Geordi.

"Permission to lead an away team to rescue the captain," he demanded.

"Sorry, Worf," Geordi replied. "No can do. The captain gave strict orders-no further away teams unless he or Commander Riker calls for one. We'll have to trust Data to get the captain back."

"I do not like waiting and doing nothing," complained Worf.

"None of us do," Geordi told him. "But we gotta do it, anyway. And I'm sure that Data will get him free. He's pretty darned resourceful, you know."

Worf slammed his fist down on the plasteel rail surrounding the deck. It buckled visibly. "A fight!" he snarled. "And I cannot take part!" Then he launched into a string of Klingon oaths. Geordi winced at the anger in Worf's voice and turned back to his work. He could sympathize with Worf's frustration. He, too, hated having to just sit and wait. But what else could they do?

"Are you absolutely sure that this is just to try and gather information?" asked Deanna with a mischievous smile plucking at her lips.

Riker halted, hand outstretched, by the tavern door. "Why?" he asked. "What other possible reason could I have for visiting a place like this?"

"You wouldn't happen to be thirsty, would you?"

"I'm hurt, Deanna. I'm really hurt." Riker clutched his heart dramatically. "Your suspicions wound me, you know that."

"I'm sure they do." Deanna shook her head. "Seriously, Will, do you really think you'll be able to pick up anything here?"

"Trust me. You know the best place on the s.h.i.+p to pick up scuttleb.u.t.t is Ten-Forward. And down here this is the local equivalent. There'll be someone here who'll sell what they know for a drink."

"But we don't have any local currency to buy them a drink," Deanna protested. Riker winked. Then he tossed her a small silver coin, which she s.n.a.t.c.hed from midair. "Where did you get this?" she asked, amazed. "Did you lift someone's wallet?"

"Almost. Remember that little bag I grabbed when we left the shop? It turned out to have been Hagan's purse. I thought it would be kind of appropriate to use his cash to buy information."

Deanna favored him with a dazzling smile. "Will Riker, sometimes you amaze me."

"Only sometimes?" He grinned and pushed open the tavern door. "Follow me."

The tavern was quite crowded. From the noise and the stench that hovered over the room, it catered to mostly working-cla.s.s types. The customers were mostly fishermen, vendors, and laborers, drinking thick beers and gambling. There were one or two women, but none in clothing as fine as Deanna's. She and Will looked rather out of place in the smoke-filled room. As befitted his role, Riker pushed his way through the crowd toward the bar. The people who started to complain changed their minds when they saw his outfit and the hand on his sword. Deanna followed in his wake, not deigning to look at the peasants she was pa.s.sing through.

At the bar Riker rapped for the tavern owner's attention. "Do you have a quieter room?" he asked. "Somewhere that's fit for a lady?"

The owner was a bulbous man, with an ap.r.o.n about his waist that was more stained than his s.h.i.+rt. His bald head gleamed in the light from the fireplace. "What you see is what I've got," he replied. "Who can afford two rooms in this town? I don't get many customers of your cla.s.s, sir."

"Well, you wouldn't have us if the house of the man we were to have visited hadn't burnt down." Riker shook his head. "G.o.d, what a poor excuse for a town."

One of the women elbowed her way across to the bar. She was dressed plainly and was of an age with the tavern owner. She was obviously his wife. Pus.h.i.+ng the strands of hair from her eyes, she gave a short curtsy. "I've a nice chair by the fire Your Ladys.h.i.+p could rest in," she offered.

"It's better than nothing, I suppose," Deanna said, pretending aloofness. "Very well."

The woman led the way to the open fireplace. After the chill of the outside air, it felt good to be close to the warmth. The only drawback was that every now and then a gust of wind would send smoke hiccuping into the room. Deanna settled into the chair, which was surprisingly cozy. It was also still warm from the previous occupant that the owner's wife must have turned out to make room for Deanna.

"Could I get you a drink, milady?" the woman offered.

"Wine," Riker told her. "And a good vintage, mind. Not the slop these beggars drink. One for me, too."

The woman curtsied and scurried away. Riker leaned on the mantel above the fire and warmed his hands. "What a town," he grumbled, loud enough to be heard by the others about the fire. They were studiously pretending not to have noticed the lady and her man-at-arms. "They seem to have a fascination with fires here." He glared at the closest bunch of men. "I don't suppose any of you know anything about the house that burned down an hour or so ago?"

The men exchanged uneasy glances. None of them wanted to reply, but they were also aware that not answering might get them the back of Riker's hand-or sword. Finally an older man c.o.c.ked his head.

"The house of Dr. Hagan, you mean, sir?"

"How many houses are there that burned down?" Riker snapped. "Yes, of course I mean that house."

"If you ask me, sir," the man continued, "it went back to its true master, if you know what I mean." He looked as if he wished he could vanish into the gloom of the room somehow. It was dangerous to attract the attention of the arrogant n.o.bles, and just as dangerous to discuss the workings of the vanished sorcerer. But the threat of the armed man's sword was immediate, while Hagan's powers were possibly avoidable.

"I don't know what you mean," Deanna broke in. She sensed that the man was afraid to speak-and almost as frightened not to speak. He needed a little extra encouragement to loosen his tongue. The woman had returned with a flagon of wine and two pewter goblets. She handed the goblets to Deanna and Riker, then poured their drinks. Deanna held up a hand. "Perhaps you'd give our friend there a little, too."

The woman blinked with surprise and glanced at the old man. Then, shrugging, she filled his hastily emptied goblet.

"Leave the bottle," Riker told her. He flipped her another of the coins. When she looked at it in shock, he realized it was probably far too much. "We'll want food later," he said.

The woman gave a deep curtsy this time. "Of course, sir." Then she skittered away, quickly, the coin disappearing down the front of her dress.

"Thank you for your kindness, milady," the old man said. He scratched at his neck. "What I meant was that old Hagan wasn't black in just his clothing. He communed with the Devil. And the Devil must have let loose the fires of h.e.l.l on that house."

"Aye," one of his companions added. "Those were no ordinary flames. They refused to be put out." That made sense-it had been a chemical fire, after all, and these people wouldn't have understood such things. Water and dirt were probably all they had to extinguish the blaze.

"An evil man," the old man said. "I heard they found a body in the ruins. I hope it was his." Then he suddenly paled as a thought occurred to him. He swallowed nervously. "Was he ... someone you knew?"