Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  Blue-tinted smoke curled in tendrils through the doorway, smelling as heavy and sweet as cheap Ferengi potpourri. Mu hesitated at the very brink of the exit, then sighed and took a deep breath. Head down, his gaze still glued to the ornate floor, the chamberlain addressed Riker in a low voice. “Honored Commander, I was not going to speak further of your lovely ladies, but I find I must.”

  “Please,” Riker said, anticipating trouble.

  “By tradition, no women are allowed at a state banquet of this nature, except for entertainers. It would be inappropriate to the dignity of the occasion. And yet these women are, as you say, officers and thus must be considered honored guests.”

  “They are officers, sir,” Riker said firmly. He glanced at Picard. The captain’s face was stern.

  “If you say so,” the chamberlain agreed hastily.

  “Then of course they must attend. I will have someone escort them and your Lieutenant Commander Data to a small table—”

  “Near the kitchen,” Troi murmured.

  “—not unduly far from the celestial magnificence that is the Dragon. Through this door, if Lord Commander Riker would condescend so completely to honor us all (not to mention his exalted master Captain Picard), the Dragon awaits their honorable presence.”

  Riker was annoyed at the chamberlain’s assumption that Data and the two women were entitled to less honorable treatment. Still, he was reluctant to raise a fuss before the captain could even lay eyes on the Dragon himself. He remembered the G’kkau warship lying in wait somewhere within the Dragon Nebula and concealed his irritation. Sorry, Deanna, he thought, recalling his own humiliating experiences on the matriarchal world of Angel One, I know how you must feel.

  “We will be the honored ones,” Riker said. “After you, Captain.”

  Picard found himself facing an enormous courtyard easily five times as large as the chamber they had beamed into. A flight of shallow marble steps led to a wide pavilion bordered on all four sides by vermilion towers capped by conical roofs painted a bright and sunny shade of yellow. Ming yellow, Picard realized: the sacred color of the ancient Chinese emperors. Each floor of the towers had an overhanging yellow roof, stacked atop each other in descending size, growing smaller and smaller as they approached the sky. More painted paper lanterns hung from the lower roofs, bestowing light upon the sumptuous scene before Picard. Bronze incense burners, the size of warp engines, rested at both ends of the stairway, turning the warm night air faintly blue. The floor of the courtyard was paved with reddish bricks of terra cotta, except where a rectangular marble frieze had been embedded in the exact center of the yard; the frieze depicted a dragon mating with a phoenix. A fertility symbol, Picard guessed; appropriate for a wedding banquet, if a little graphic in its presentation for his tastes.

  Two rows of tables were placed on the right and left sides of the pavilion, leaving a wide space open between them. Female musicians, modestly attired in satin gowns buttoned to their necks, performed in the opening, standing at the four corners of the dragon frieze. Dozens of guests knelt behind the tables on padded cushions. Dressed much like the chamberlain, the guests ranged in age from young men to wizened elders, but all looked proud and prosperous. Picard assumed the men, guests at an imperial wedding, to be the leaders of the Empire: judges, scholars, dignitaries, and their sons. Their robes looked like the finest silk, adorned with intricate embroidery. None of the men wore yellow, however; that color, Picard recalled, was reserved for the Emperor and his heirs.

  There was much yellow at the opposite side of the courtyard, facing Picard. A long dais, draped in golden silk, had been erected at the top of another flight of marble steps. Huge jade dragons mounted on marble pedestals flanked the dais; the dragons had been carved rearing up on their hind legs, their forelimbs reaching out to claw the smoky air. Glancing upward, Picard saw, above the golden rooftops of the surrounding towers, the Dragon Nebula itself: a wisp of violet mist speckled with stars. Picard looked again at the dais, where four men sat awaiting him. Even across the impressive length of the courtyard, he could see that three of the men wore robes of yellow.

  A servant, his dark plait of hair trailing down his back, led Data, Troi, and Beverly away. Picard watched as the women and the android were guided along a gallery to his right, beneath the overhanging eave of the eastern tower. Soon they disappeared into the shadows behind one of the huge jade dragons.

  Mu clapped his hands loudly, and the music came to a sudden stop. Clutching their instruments, which included a harp and two flutes, the musicians scurried out of sight, leaving the center of the courtyard unoccupied. “Please,” the chamberlain said with yet another bow, “follow me.” Head bowed, he walked down the steps and into the courtyard. Picard and Riker marched a few steps behind him.

  As they passed by the seated guests, each mandarin and soldier would bow until his head rested on the table before him. “Extraordinarily flexible, it seems,” Picard whispered to Riker, “despite all the robes.”

  “Perhaps,” Riker speculated, “the fanciness of the robes indicates the status of the wearer. If so, these are all highly esteemed gentlemen.”

  Picard looked at Riker, his only ornaments the tiny pips on his dress uniform’s collar. “I trust they will not think us the least popular men in the Federation.”

  Less than a yard away from the foot of the dais, Mu suddenly dropped to floor, lying flat on his belly atop the polished bricks. Picard hoped he and Riker were not expected to abase themselves in the same way. For the moment, he chose to remain standing before the dais.

  In a voice surprisingly loud for one whose face was pressed against the floor, the chamberlain said, “Most excellent and exalted Dragon, most estimable Heir and estimable Second Son, honorable Lord Lu Tung, allow this insignificant one to introduce to you His Excellence Lord Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise, the honorable Lord Commander William Riker. And other, er, officers,” he finished vaguely and gestured in the general direction of the jade dragon. Glancing over, Picard saw Beverly and the others being seated at a small table lurking inconspicuously in the shadow beneath a gilded rooftop. Caught by the sudden swivel of heads in their direction, Beverly brought up her fan to conceal her face while Troi visibly struggled to sit down without tripping over her robes. Data, unflappable as ever, bowed to the assembled guests before sitting.

  Every head in the courtyard slowly swiveled back to regard Picard and Riker. “Lord Captain, Lord Commander,” the chamberlain continued his introductions, “His Excellent and Exalted Majesty, the Dragon Emperor of the Dragon Nebula and Environs. Chuan-chi, the estimable First Son and Heir to the Dragon Empire and Keeper of the Throne Planet of Pai. Kan-hi, the also estimable Second Son. The honorable Lord Governor General Lu Tung.”

  “Bring them forward,” a voice from the dais said imperiously. Picard easily identified the Dragon by both his age and the extravagance of his robes. The ruler of the Dragon Empire was, like his vizier, a small round man. A full beard, white as snow, partially concealed a face that fell easily into laugh lines. “Now, Mu!” he added in a much sharper tone; his visage fell as easily into a horrible scowl. Swaddled in heavy robes of yellow silk, embroidered with gold and silver thread, the Dragon resembled a gilt statue of a dissolute and irritable Buddha.

  The chamberlain lifted his head from the floor. “Most Excellent and Exalted One . . .” he began.

  “What are you doing down there?” the Dragon interrupted him. “Looking for something? Get up, get up. And have them bring stairs for the gentlemen. Sometime tonight would be nice.” He glared at Mu, who scrambled hastily to his feet and vanished into the shadowy recesses of the western tower. He returned with a pair of servants clad in simple blue garments. The men brought a set of portable stairs over to the dais. Then they abased themselves as Picard and Riker ascended. “Sit, sit,” the Dragon said enthusiastically.

  The dais was furnished with six couches laid out in a horseshoe, its open end facing the floor. Two couches st
ood free. Picard seated himself gingerly on the one beside the Dragon. Riker found a place nearer a younger man whom Picard assumed to be one of the Dragon’s two sons. “Excellence,” Picard began, relieved to be able to speak at last, “I am honored to extend the greetings of the entire Federation to—”

  “So, Picard, hmmm?” the Dragon broke in. “I have heard good things about you. You are a true warrior and a man of honor. Good, good. You look like a warrior. I told those soft courtiers at your Federation, those old women who chat ceaselessly over subspace, that I wanted a warrior here, someone who would understand my side of things, a real man. You look one, yes?” The Dragon tapped his own balding pate. “Lots of thoughts, hmmm? Lots of experience makes the follicles die. We are men of the world, you and I.”

  “I expect we will find we have much in common,” Picard began again, “as do the Federation and—”

  “Indeed,” the Dragon interrupted. “I look forward to hearing your poem.”

  “Poem?” Picard echoed, caught off-guard. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “The wedding poem, of course,” the Dragon said. “It’s traditional.”

  I’m sure it is, Picard thought, making a mental note to worry about it later. Just one more thing my briefing left out. “As I was saying, Excellence, the Federation and the Dragon Empire share many interests—”

  Scowling, the Dragon tilted his head toward the courtyard. “Why is there no music?” he said abruptly. “Mu!”

  The chamberlain approached the foot of the dais.

  “Most Excellent and Exalted One?”

  “Start the entertainments again. Are we to sit here like peasants?”

  The chamberlain flinched visibly, then clapped his hands together. Almost immediately, the four musicians returned to their posts and commenced playing. They were followed by a ten-meter-long, dancing dragon made of brightly dyed paper and cloth; at least a dozen performers operated the dragon from beneath its fiery red coils. The dragon capered back and forth across the courtyard to the accompaniment of the music of bells, flutes, and harp.

  The Dragon smiled with satisfaction. “Much better,” he sighed. “Allow me to introduce to you my humble eldest son and heir, the eager bridegroom: Chuan-chi.”

  The Heir sat between Picard and Riker. Eager was not the word Picard would have used to describe him. Chuan-chi looked to be in his early forties, tall and thin, with a large nose and, currently, a sour expression that might indicate indigestion. A school of scarlet fish, of over a hundred exotic breeds, were embroidered on his yellow robes.

  “Gentlemen.” Chuan-chi sounded as dyspeptic as he looked. He brought his hands together and bowed, with the air of a man submitting himself for a painful and humiliating physical inspection. “You bring honor to my father’s palace.”

  As the formal introductions had apparently been concluded, Picard assumed he could now speak freely. Certainly, the Dragon himself did not seem to be standing on ceremony. “The honor is all ours,” Picard said to the Heir, “and my congratulations on this happy occasion.”

  “Happy for the Federation no doubt,” Chuan-chi replied. There was no mistaking the frosty edge to his voice. Did the Heir disapprove of the treaty binding the Empire to the Federation, Picard wondered. That could be a problem, depending on the extent of his influence over his father.

  “My second son,” the Dragon said, “and a vexation in my old age: Kan-hi.” The vexation in question was a beardless youth, no older than twenty, sprawled indolently on a couch opposite his brother. The young prince was handsome enough, but his hair was disheveled and his yellow robes in some disarray. He saluted Picard with a crystal goblet almost overflowing with red wine. “You must forgive my esteemed brother, Captain,” Kan-hi said. “He is constitutionally incapable of appreciating his own good fortune.”

  Chuan-chi glared at his younger brother. Picard could tell there was little love lost between the Dragon’s sons. “Enough!” the Emperor said brusquely. He shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. “A willful and disobedient child,” he explained to Picard. “It is my own fault. His mother was my favorite concubine. I doted on her and she spoiled him in turn. Still, I delude myself that he might someday still bring honor to his illustrious ancestors.”

  Picard was unsure how to respond to the Dragon’s open disapproval of his own son. “We are all willful in our youth,” he volunteered, hoping to alleviate the tension. “Isn’t that so, Number One?”

  “I’m sure I gave my father plenty of cause for aggravation when I was that age,” Riker said, grinning roguishly. “Still do sometimes.”

  Kan-hi, the object of the discussion, appeared unembarrassed. “You sound like a man after my own heart, Commander Riker,” he said. “Perhaps you should join our celebrations after the banquet, the Penultimate Bestowing of the Undomesticated Seeds.”

  “The Penultimate Bestowing of the Undomesticated Seeds?” Riker asked, somewhat taken aback by the flowery terminology.

  “Yes,” Kan-hi explained, “the traditional last revels offered to an unmarried man on the eve of his wedding. Heaven knows,” the prince said, staring glumly into the ruby depths of his wine goblet, “someone ought to enjoy himself tonight.”

  “My esteemed brother does himself a disservice,” the Heir said sarcastically. “I have no doubt he will acquit himself well at the festivities; drunken debauchery is an art for which is he has shown much talent and aptitude.”

  “You ungrateful, cold-blooded—!” Kan-hi exclaimed. He started to rise angrily from his couch, but a heavy arm fell upon his shoulders, pressing the offended prince back into the waiting cushions. The arm belonged to the squarely built man seated beside Kan-hi. Unlike the Dragon and his sons, this man was clad in robes of green and blue, although the fabrics seemed no less rich and expensive than the royal gold of the Dragon. He looked at the Dragon and coughed loudly.

  “Oh, yes,” the Dragon said. “How could I forget? Captain, Commander, permit me to introduce my loyal and trusted subject, Lord Lu Tung, happy father of the beautiful bride.”

  Seated beyond Kan-hi, as far from the Dragon as possible, Lu Tung looked anything but happy. He appeared only slightly older than his future son-in-law, his dark beard and mustache peppered with gray. He had piercing eyes half-hidden under thick, frowning eyebrows, and a face as closed and unreadable as any Vulcan that Picard had ever met. How, he wondered, did Lord Lu Tung really feel about marrying off his only daughter to the son of the man he had so recently tried to depose? Would he be content to see his grandchild ascend the throne he had failed to conquer by force? Looking at Lu Tung’s flat, emotionless expression, Picard wished that Deanna were close enough to consult. Perhaps the counselor’s empathic abilities could determine just how “loyal and trusted” the Dragon’s former adversary now was.

  Indeed, there seemed to be all manner of personal undercurrents, and volatile emotions, simmering barely beneath the surface of the diplomatic pleasantries being exchanged upon the dais. Was it even possible, he mused, to unite the Pai in time for them to join the Federation—and resist the voracious depredations of the G’kkau? Diplomacy, he reminded himself, was often ten percent issues and ninety percent personalities; he had frequently managed to achieve a negotiated settlement between even more hostile and demonstrative parties. He wished, however, that he had a better idea of everyone’s personal agendas. He would have to listen very carefully to everything that was said and, perhaps more important, left unsaid.

  He and Riker exchanged greetings with Lord Lu Tung, who was polite but stiff in his replies. Then Riker attempted, with some difficulty, to engage the Heir in small talk while Picard turned his attention to the Dragon. Given Chuan-chi’s evident distrust of the Federation, Picard was glad he would be otherwise occupied when Picard attempted to bring up the subject of the treaty. He didn’t envy Riker, though; Chuan-chi struck Picard as a singularly stuffy and humorless individual. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the unlucky bride.

  It felt odd,
in fact, to be attending a wedding banquet at which the bride was not present. And yet, he recalled, even societies less male-centered than the Pai often kept the bride and the groom separated until the moment they took their vows. Picard wondered if Chuan-chi had ever laid eyes upon the Green Pearl of Lu Tung.

  “Excellence,” Picard said to the Dragon, speaking softly in hopes that the Heir would not hear their conversation. “I fully believe that the signing of the treaty will be just the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership between the Dragon Empire and—”

  “At last! Food!” the Dragon bellowed. “I thought Mu was trying to starve me to death.” Two more servants approached the dais, bringing the first of what seemed an endless series of tiny lacquered trays to the small tables beside each of the men.

  Picard looked down at his tray, which was crowded with dozens of miniature plates and bowls. The foods were all charmingly presented, garnished with flower blossoms and small fish no larger than minnows. There were no utensils, so, following the example set by the Dragon, Picard used his fingers to pick up a tiny piece of what looked like cake and brought it to his mouth. The Dragon watched him expectantly.

  Picard almost gagged at the taste. His was a palate trained by years in Starfleet to try anything, from live Klingon gagh to Ferengi grubs, and to find its merits, regardless of cultural preconceptions about what constitutes edible food. But this was bad, really bad: bitter and gamy and nasty. Even aware of the Dragon’s eyes upon him, it took all his training to manage to swallow a bite.

  “Ah, you like?” the Dragon said, beaming. “Extraordinary, is it not?”

  Picard took a deep drink of his wine; in accordance with ancient Chinese tradition, the drink was both warm and strong, with a distinct resiny taste, but it failed to wash away the foul aftertaste of the noxious morsel. “Yes,” he managed at last, “it is certainly that. What is it?”