Here There Be Dragons Part 7

"Wonderful!" yelled Hagan. "All we have to be worried about is a fully armed stars.h.i.+p! That you brought here! Against explicit instructions!"

"Yes," Nayfack agreed casually. "Stupid instructions, if you ask me. All we need to do is to destroy the Enterprise and we're in business again. n.o.body else has the slightest idea that we're here."

"Destroy a stars.h.i.+p. Oh, yes, very likely!"

Nayfack laughed. "Come on, you know what the boss has in that Preserver vault of his. It should be a breeze to get rid of them. All you have to do is contact him and tell him. And be certain you let him know that this was my idea. If I hadn't convinced Captain Picard I was a Federation security agent, he'd have reported the destruction of the yacht to Starfleet. The whole cloud would have been swarming with s.h.i.+ps, and we'd have been finished."

"They would never have found the tunnel, you jacka.s.s!" Hagan shook his staff again. "You just did this to save your own miserable hide. And if the captain hadn't believed you, then you'd no doubt have told him everything to curry his favor and get a lesser sentence."

"Never," insisted Nayfack. He wasn't stupid enough to admit that had been his secondary plan. He could have bought his freedom with information.

"Do you think that if we destroy the Enterprise Starfleet will just ignore it?" Hagan was beyond fury now. "They'll take this sector of s.p.a.ce apart with microscopes! Anything that can annihilate one of their s.h.i.+ps will be of great interest and concern to them. You've placed us in greater danger with your stupid attempt to save your own miserable life."

"I'm helping us build a better bargaining platform," Nayfack argued. "Look, we know that the stuff the boss has stashed away in that Preserver base of his can wipe out the Enterprise. Once we've done that, we can contact the Ferengi, the Romulans, and the Federation. Offer to sell this stuff to the highest bidder and free pa.s.sage to wherever we want." He didn't bother to mention that the idea was mostly culled from his conversations with Picard's staff. "Then we could retire and live in luxury. No need to work again."

"You moron," Hagan snarled. "We'd already con sidered the idea of selling what we've found. But we could never trust the Romulans or the Ferengi. They'd slit our throats and steal what they could. And the Federation wouldn't deal with a bunch of outlaws for this stuff. We're safer doing things the way we are, even if it means more work." He glowered at Nayfack in disgust. "But we all know how little you like work, don't we?"

Nayfack hadn't expected Hagan to be happy, but he was getting annoyed with the other man's refusal to see what he had accomplished. "Just contact the boss and tell him what I've done," he ordered. "Let's see what he's got to say."

"I know what he'll say." Hagan twisted the head of his cane, and there was a soft click. The wooden length fell away, exposing a long, thin blade. With surprising speed, he whipped the dagger up and thrust hard. Nayfack gave an incredulous grunt of pain and shock as the stiletto rammed into his heart. "He'll say he wished he had killed you long ago." Hagan twisted, then tugged the blade free.

Nayfack fell, his face still locked in a gasp of astonishment. He was dead before his body hit the floor. Hagan knelt, fastidiously avoiding the spreading pool of blood. He wiped the blade clean on Nayfack's tunic, then replaced it in its wooden sheath.

"You were always a problem to us," he said to the corpse. "Now I have to dispose of your body. And you've left us with no other option than to destroy the Enterprise." He kicked Nayfack hard. It felt good, so he repeated the action. "You utter imbecile." He turned toward the curtain at the end of the room just as the front door opened.

His first reaction as the man-at-arms entered was one of disgust. Now he'd have to pay this man to get rid of the corpse. All the swordsmen in this town seemed to have empty pockets. He unclipped the pouch of coins from his belt, ready to hand it over for services rendered. His second reaction was panic.

"Nayfack!" The man-at-arms stopped, seeing the body on the floor. Behind him, a finely dressed lady stumbled against him in the doorway.

Hagan realized that Nayfack's stupidity had surpa.s.sed even the loose boundaries he had set it. This pair could only be from the Enterprise, trailing the dead man here-to him! The whole game was unraveling, thanks to Nayfack. With a curse Hagan dropped the purse and leapt backward. His hands grabbed the jar he had left conveniently beside the exit and threw it down onto the floor in front of the swordsman.

Riker whipped around to s.h.i.+eld Deanna as the jar exploded. Green flames leapt up from the floor. He managed to s.n.a.t.c.h up something from the carpet before heat seared across his exposed skin. He pushed Deanna backward, into the street. As they staggered out, the whole room caught fire. The wooden walls were thoroughly dry, and probably the shop's owner had treated them. Riker had seen only the swirl of the curtain at the far end of the room. The man had made his getaway, obviously long planned.

The fire danced about the room, turning a brighter yellow and crimson as everything burst into flame.

The inhabitants of the street began yelling and piling out into the open. With buildings as close together as these were, there was a real threat of the whole street-if not the whole town-going up in flames. Riker grabbed Deanna's arm and urged her back through the growing crowd. They hurried away, casting anxious glances back over their shoulders as the building writhed in the grip of the fire.

Deanna sighed. "I think that's what they call a dead end."

"Right." Riker stopped in an empty street. Everyone in this section of the town was rus.h.i.+ng to help beat down the fire before it spread. When he was certain he couldn't be seen, Riker tapped the communicator b.u.t.ton in his sword hilt. "Riker to Enterprise. Come in, Geordi."

His only reply was a crackle of static. He tried again, with the same results.

"It's no good, Will," Deanna said. "Geordi told us there was a good chance that the graviton fluctuations might interfere with transmissions. I guess we're cut off for the moment."

"Yes." Riker slammed his fist against the nearest wall. "d.a.m.n." Then he gave her a weak smile. "Well, I hope the captain is having better luck than we are."

Chapter Eleven.

"OH, THAT'S VERY SOOTHING." Lieutenant Reg Barclay closed his eyes and dug his fingers deeper into the soil. "Yes, you're right-it's a sort of primitive pull deep in the soul, isn't it?" He opened his eyes again and smiled happily at Keiko O'Brien. "It's really therapeutic, isn't it?"

Keiko's face wrinkled in a smile. "Reg, I think you're overdoing it a bit. I know I said that working with the soil is very relaxing, but it's not that great."

"Oh." Barclay jerked his fingers out of the dirt, brus.h.i.+ng them off on the pants of his uniform. His face fell back into its normal expression of vague worry, coupled with an embarra.s.sed flush. "I guess I was kind of trying a bit hard, wasn't I? But I do so much want to experience the thrill of returning to humanity's roots, so to speak."

Keiko couldn't restrain herself, and she had to laugh this time. Her husband, Transporter Chief Miles...o...b..ien, had recently befriended the overenthusiastic systems a.n.a.lyst. He had suggested to Keiko that she introduce Barclay to the joys of gardening, while warning her that Barclay's responses were sometimes a little out of alignment with reality. Now she could see what Miles meant-Barclay was simply trying too hard to experience the emotions that she had explained to him. "Just relax," she advised him. "Don't force it. Just do it, and let the emotions come by themselves. You don't have to dive into it. In fact, it's better if you don't. One of the great pleasures of gardening is that you can simply work without too much conscious thought. It's very relaxing, even when you get tired and sweaty."

Reg swallowed and nodded. "Okay, I'll try and remember that. Don't try too hard. Just relax and let it flow. Okay, got it." He gave her another nervous grin. "What's next?"

Laughing again, Keiko led him to a tray of seedlings. She loved her work in the botanical section, and it took very little effort to relay her love to Barclay. For all of his nervousness around her-and almost everyone else-Barclay was almost pathetically eager to please. He was very bright, but he was more at ease in the rarefied atmosphere of the intellect than with human contact. He was always uncomfortable around other people but constantly attempting to make them happy. Keiko could see why Miles thought Barclay would relate well to plants. It would be less emotionally draining for him than working with people. "I'll a.s.sign this tray of Andoran glitterlings to you," she said. "They grow quickly, so you'll see results in weeks instead of months. But you have to take good care of them, because they are rather delicate."

"Oh, I will, I will," Barclay promised fervently. Leaning over the tray, he beamed down at them. "h.e.l.lo, little seedlings."

Keiko smiled again and handed him a compupad. "Here are all the instructions, Reg," she told him. "Just be very careful to establish a routine and stay with it." She gestured across the large indoor garden. "I have a lot of other work to do, so I'll leave you to get on with it, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. "And-thank you, Keiko." He watched her leave and sighed. O'Brien was one lucky guy to have married someone as pretty and personable as Keiko. He wished he had that kind of luck, but he always felt so self-conscious about women. He was so afraid of making an idiot of himself that he invariably did precisely that.

He dragged his mind back to the matter at hand. He'd been given charge of these glitterlings, and he'd be very careful to cultivate them properly. Placing the compupad on the table beside the tray, Barclay reached over and gently touched the soil's surface with the tips of his fingers. He wanted to experience the earth that his little charges called home. Closing his eyes, he attempted to empathize with the seedlings. He breathed slowly and deeply, feeling himself relax. It really was quite therapeutic when you- "Lieutenant Barclay!"

Barclay's eyes snapped open as he heard his name snarled. Facing him across the table was Worf. Unable to prevent himself, Barclay gave a yelp of terror and leapt back a pace, stumbling against another table of seedlings. The table rocked, and he grabbed at it wildly to prevent it from collapsing and scattering the trays all over the deck. His heart pounded in his ears. What had he done now that the head of security was after him? He couldn't think.

"Are you well, Lieutenant Barclay?" inquired Worf. "You seem somewhat-tense."

"Tense?" squeaked Barclay. "Me?" He swallowed hard. "Oh, no, sir. Not me. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Just dandy, really."

Worf's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You are certain?"

"Oh, yes, quite certain," Barclay a.s.sured him nervously. "Never felt better in my life."

"Good." Worf dismissed the problem. "I have come to seek your help."

Barclay's jaw fell. "My help?" He was at a total loss now. "Uhh ... I don't understand, sir. My help with what? I'm off-duty right now... . But if it's important, of course I could reschedule my work period and-"

Worf couldn't understand why Barclay was ranting on like this. "It is a matter of leisure, Lieutenant, not work. Guinan suggested that you may be of a.s.sistance to me."

"She did?" Barclay was still in the dark. "Oh, well, I'm sure if she said that, then she's bound to be right. I'm definitely able to help you. She's always right on the ball." He blinked several times. "Uh-with what?"

Worf looked rather uncomfortable. "I am experiencing ... envy," he finally admitted. "I am jealous of those persons who have been allowed to beam down to the planet below us. The culture of this world fascinates me." He smiled rea.s.suringly at Barclay, who looked as if he might faint at any second. "Do you know anything at all about Germanic knights and their code of chivalry?"

"Chivalry?" On safer ground now, Barclay stopped trembling. "Oh, yes-lots! King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and all that! I love it!"

Worf draped a friendly hand about Barclay's shoulders. Barclay staggered under the weight. "Excellent, Mr. Barclay. Then it appears that Guinan was correct. You can help me."

"What would you like me to do, sir?"

"I want to meet these knights in combat... . "

Picard groaned as he started to waken. He tried to roll over to check the chronometer he'd brought with him, but was brought up short by a sharp tug on his wrists. He groaned again as he tried to open his eyes. His head felt terrible. What on earth could have happened?

His eyes refused to respond. Instead, he tried to bring his other senses into some sort of order. He was flat out on something very scratchy. His bare skin felt as if it had been whipped. He tried to roll over again, but once again his wrists caught fast. There was something around them both that rattled as he moved. And wherever he was stank. It was obviously not his cabin.

Then his memory began to come together again. He, Miles, and Ro had been in that merchant's shop... . What was his name? Graebel, that was it. They had been talking, and he'd suddenly lost all his coordination. He'd spilled his- "Wine," he groaned. "He drugged the wine after all!" Miles had been right to be suspicious. And he'd just walked right into it. How foolish could he have been? He'd known that Nayfack wasn't to be trusted. Why had he blindly a.s.sumed the man would send him off to an innocent merchant? Innocent men don't drug their guests. He'd been so certain that he'd outsmarted Nayfack that he'd underestimated the ingenuity of the locals.

"Is that how they got you?"

Picard tried to straighten up, to discover who had spoken. A pair of arms slipped under his shoulder, enabling him to rise into an uncomfortable sitting position. The arms steadied him, then moved away, clanking in the same manner as Picard's.

"Here," the other man said. "Drink this."

Picard felt the rim of something touch his lips. What if this, too, was drugged? But his throat was on fire, and the water that touched his lips overcame his caution. He drank. Even though it was rather bitter-and probably none too pure-Picard's throat eased a little. "Thank you," he managed to croak.

His eyes had finally decided to listen to his brain. With difficulty he managed to open them. His vision was blurred, but he blinked, and then managed to focus. He almost wished he hadn't.

He was in a cell of some kind. The p.r.i.c.kly stuff on the floor was old straw, which clearly served as bedding-for numerous insects as well as the human inhabitants of the cell. His wrists were clanking because they were manacled together. The smell and the lack of light were due to the fact that there was only one small opening for air and light, up by the ceiling. It was much too small to allow anyone out, and almost too small to allow light and air in.

"You'll feel better in a minute. Then you'll feel utterly miserable for the rest of your life. The one comforting thought is that it isn't likely to be very long."

Picard swiveled around to study his cell-mate. The man was of average height, with a shock of dark hair. Like Picard, he was bare to the waist and chained about the wrists. He had dropped the pottery cup back into the bucket of dirty water by the door. As he moved back to join Picard, the captain saw his face was pocked. Probably from disease. The man must have been lucky-many people died.

"What's happened to me?" Picard asked. His strength was returning, but he wasn't ready to move yet.

"You've become a mine worker, friend. Just like me and the other twenty or so men in this jail."

"A mine worker?" Picard shook his head. "There must be some mistake."

"I'm sure there is. You've made it, or you wouldn't be here. Drugged wine, you say?"

"Yes. A merchant named Graebel." Picard felt like kicking himself for being so arrogantly self-a.s.sured.

"Graebel?" His companion laughed bitterly. "The biggest slaver in Diesen, and you drank wine with him? I had hoped for at least an intelligent companion, but I guess I'm in for yet another disappointment."

"I didn't know his reputation," Picard answered. "I'm not from around these parts."

"Obviously." The man extended both hands. "My name's Kirsch. Michael Kirsch."

"Lukas," Picard replied, shaking his hand. "How did they get you?"

"Heresy." Kirsch smiled. "A trumped-up charge, of course. A convenience to them. I'm a scholar, really. Came here from Bittel to study. I must have stepped on a few toes with my theories. They had me up before the magistrate, and-" He shook his wrists. "I guess this means I don't get to publish. You?"

"I'm a musician," Picard replied, sticking to his story. "My companions and I-" He broke off sharply. "Ro!"

"Pardon?"

"I had two companions," Picard told him. He tried getting to his feet, but he lacked the strength to rise. "A man and a woman. Martel and Rosalinde."

"G.o.d, you are naive, aren't you?" Kirsch shook his head. "Graebel must be thanking G.o.d for the profits you brought him."

Picard felt a stab of fear for Ro and Miles. "Why? What will he have done to them? Are they going to be sent to the mines as well?"

"The man, probably. The girl? Not unless she's got the looks of a horse's backside, friend. Does she?"

"No." Picard shook his head. "To be truthful, she's very attractive."

"Well, I doubt that'll last long." Kirsch sighed. "I hope she wasn't too good a friend of yours. If she's lucky, she's been sold as a prost.i.tute."

Picard groaned. "And if she's unlucky?"

"If she's unlucky, Lukas, she's been sold to the duke."

Picard wasn't willing to bet on her being lucky. Given the fortunes this far, he was certain Ro was going to be in a great deal of danger indeed. He willed himself to ignore the fatigue and pain as he pushed himself to his feet. "I've got to get out of here," he gasped, wincing with the effort.

"Oh, you'll get out of here all right." Kirsch loaned him a supporting hand. "We all will-from here right into the mines."

"What mines?" Picard took deep, slow breaths to control the buzzing in his head and the nausea that threatened to overcome him.

"The gold mines," replied Kirsch. "In the mountains. We're working for the duke now, as penance for our sins. Mining him gold, to make the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d filthy rich as well as just plain filthy."

"In the mountains?" Picard shook his head. "That's where the dragons are."

"Ah! You're starting to catch on. Like I said, the rest of your life is going to be miserable. But it'll certainly be short. If the mine work doesn't kill you, the dragons surely will. That's why they always need new supplies of slaves." He shook his wrists. "Us."

Wonderful. Not only had he managed to walk right into a trap, but he was now in chains, on his way to become either another statistic in the mine fatalities or else lunch for a hungry dragon. With his cloak gone, there was no chance of communicating with the Enterprise. It looked as if Miles would be in this prison with him somewhere. And he'd apparently dragged Ro into an even more unpleasant fate. His only hope was that she was in a better position to get hold of her communicator and contact the s.h.i.+p.

Ro came awake with a start. It took a few seconds for her to recall what had happened, then she cursed herself for a fool and a failure. She'd been suspicious of Graebel and had been conned by one of the oldest tricks in the book. She'd seen him pour all their wines from one jug and, after he'd drunk, felt it safe to do so, too.

The drug had been in the goblets before he'd poured, of course. How could she have been so dumb? Especially when the captain was depending upon her.

Her years of living on the edge had taught her a few tricks, though. Getting caught once was dumb. Getting caught twice would be criminal. Though she was awake, she'd not moved a muscle, or altered her breathing patterns. If she was being watched, n.o.body would know she wasn't still drugged. It might be useful.

Ro concentrated all of her energies into her other senses. Slowing her breathing slightly, she listened for any sounds she could pick up. Straining hard, she heard nothing. She flared her nostrils. Her sensitive sense of smell detected a variety of odors-cloth and candles. Incense. Wood. But no human scents save her own.

Her skin told her other things. First, that she was in a bed. The mattress below her was certainly stuffed with some avian feathers. So was the pillow under her head. The sheets were coa.r.s.e but not too hard to take. And, finally, that she was completely naked.

Wonderful. Things were looking worse by the second.

She cracked her eyelids slightly, just enough to check that her initial deductions were correct. Then she opened her eyes, still not moving the rest of her body.

She was in a large bed in a fair-size room. The walls were of stone, covered with tapestries. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a chest at the foot of the bed. The room was lit by a candelabra that stood on the table and by a small window-barely more than a slit-up near the ceiling. There was no way out there, even if she was dressed. At least she was alone.

Well, there was no need to fake being unconscious without an audience. She sat up and looked around.

The tapestries left her in very little doubt about her fate. They weren't technically the most adept bits of weaving she'd ever seen in her life. But she doubted that their appeal was their artistic merit. There were three of them, one on each of the walls the bed wasn't up against. All three showed naked women being used by naked men. The tapestries were obviously meant to turn someone on. They left her with a chill in her soul.