A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Dax nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe not, but I think he deserves to know the truth. What’s more, precisely because he’s a Klingon warrior in his own right now, he needs to know the truth, for the sake of his own honor.”

  Bashir chuckled. “That’s the difficulty with honor. It’s not a measurable quality.”

  With a small smile, Dax said, “It can be.”

  He got to his feet. “The lieutenant said he was going to Kaga’s. We’ll find him there.”

  After departing the infirmary, Rodek moved as quickly as possible through the Promenade toward the restaurant. The last time the Gorkon had come to DS9, Rodek had stayed on board, but Toq had taken advantage of the Promenade and sung the praises of both the Ferengi bar’s dabo tables and the Klingon restaurant. Rodek had no use for dabo, and even less for Ferengi, but he had an urge for krada legs.

  For some reason, after seeing the doctor, the stench of the station didn’t bother him. Perhaps it was the doctor’s own diagnoses casting doubt on that of Qa’Hos. Or perhaps it was the feeling that he would get answers soon enough. If the ones provided by the human did not please him, Rodek would kill the doctor and seek satisfaction elsewhere.

  The restaurant was run by a chef, a short, rotund individual who introduced himself as Kaga. When Rodek expressed his desire for krada legs, Kaga laughed and said, “Of course, Lieutenant. The krada came in this very morning. However, the taknar came in this afternoon.”

  After smelling what he imagined to be taknar droppings all day, Rodek couldn’t bear the notion of eating any. “Just the krada legs.”

  Kaga bowed and walked off to fulfill the order.

  Rodek liked it here. The walls were decorated with weaponry and Klingon statues and tapestries, the chairs were proper stools, and the smells were almost like he was back on the Gorkon. True, there were many aliens fouling the place with their presence, but the whiff of grapok sauce and animal meat both living and dead overcame that.

  Soon, Kaga walked back and dropped a table filled with krada legs and a pool of grapok sauce. Then he held up his may’ron and started playing it while singing the final song from the opera Kahless and Lukara.

  Rodek appreciated the touch. On the Gorkon, it was traditional for there to be a song before the evening meal. That tradition did not exist on the Yorkang, and Rodek found he’d missed it. Somehow, song made the food taste sweeter.

  Kaga finished the aria just as Rodek swallowed the last of the legs. As he was considering whether to order some skull stew, a familiar-looking Klingon sat opposite him.

  “I would speak with you,” the Klingon said, staring at Rodek with small, beady eyes.

  “Would you?” Rodek said angrily, not pleased at the interruption. He wondered if the right of challenge existed on this station, or at least in this restaurant. Probably not—it is not a diplomatic space, merely an eatery.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I would. I have information that will be of value to you. I am Dorrek, son of M’Raq, and I know who you really are.”

  Thirteen

  Kenta District

  Krennla, Qo’noS

  When Lakras told G’joth that the name of the opera she was performing in was The Battle at San-Tarah, he nearly choked on his zilm’kach.

  He might have done so in any event, as Mother had prepared it with her usual lack of skill. G’joth had never really acquired a taste for Andorian food, but he found himself longing for Mother to prepare that, simply because she was good at it. Not that it would have done any good, as Mother said doing so at home was “too much like work.”

  Once he managed to swallow the zilm’kach, G’joth said, “Say that again.”

  Lakras sat across from him at the small kitchen table, both sitting between Mother and Father, practically bouncing up and down on her stool, holding a piece of bok-rat liver without actually eating it. “It’s called The Battle of San-Tarah. It’s a brand-new opera by Reshtarc that was first performed on Ty’Gokor last month. This will be its debut on Qo’noS, and I’m in the chorus!”

  On the one hand, G’joth had been hoping that Lakras would have had an actual part. On the other, she was a commoner—rarely did they get the named parts. On the third hand—if one was a Pheben, anyhow—at least she got to sing. Many commoners were just given roles that were little more than bodies, playing the cannon fodder or soldiers or relatives or what have you. The chorus, though, stood at the back and narrated the action through song. While individual singers rarely were noticed, at least the chorus as a whole played an important role.

  This, however, was the first time G’joth could think of where an opera was about a specific event that he participated directly in. Though he suspected it wasn’t a major work. True, the opera house in Krennla—located in the Baldi’maj District, the closest Krennla had to a respectable neighborhood—was well regarded, major operas generally had their Qo’noS debut in Novat or the First City.

  “That is…amazing.” He looked at Mother. “This is what you would not tell me?”

  Leaning over, Mother said, “She would have been very cross if I had told you. She wanted that privilege for herself.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Lakras was practically squeaking. “What’s more, the leading man is Kenni.”

  Lakras spoke as if that name should mean something. Then, suddenly, it hit him, from the last time he saw an opera on Ty’Gokor. Kenni had a powerful voice and performed decently with a bat’leth (for a stage performer, anyhow—stage fighting always left G’joth cold, as it bore no resemblance to actual combat). He had played Jokis in Goqlath Castle, an opera about the Kol’Vat Campaign allegedly written by Chancellor Sturka himself, though G’joth always assumed that to be propaganda and that he’d hired someone to do it for him. Still, it was a fine opera, and Kenni had performed the role of Jokis well.

  However, Kenni also looked nothing like Klag. “He is playing Captain Klag?”

  “No, you silly petaQ, he’s playing General Talak.”

  “Talak is the villain of the piece,” Father said in the long-suffering voice he often used in conversations with his daughter. “Which means Kenni can’t be the leading man.”

  “Well, he’s the leading man to me. Besides, he’s the big draw. Nobody’s even heard of Klivv. He’s the one playing your captain. In any case, that’s not the really good news. The really good news is that, when I told the director that you were coming home, he said that you had to come to the theater and be a technical adviser.”

  Again, G’joth almost choked on his zilm’kach and finally just threw it down, determined to cease all attempts to eat until Lakras was done talking. “Adviser on what, exactly?”

  Father stared at G’joth from under his pronounced eyebrow ridge. “What do you mean ‘on what’? Son, you were there. You know more than some idiot opera composer about what happened in that battle.”

  “Reshtarc is not an idiot!” Lakras almost pouted when she said that, and G’joth had to restrain himself from throwing his zilm’kach at her. “He’s a great composer! And Konn is a great director.”

  While G’joth had heard of Reshtarc, he knew nothing of this Konn person. Of course, what he knew of Reshtarc was that he was exactly the type of ignorant yIntagh whose operas led G’joth to want to compose his own just so somebody would get it right. Still, at least this Konn person seemed to understand that problem, if he wanted G’joth to consult. “What else has this Konn done?”

  “This is his first time directing an opera,” Lakras said, “but he’s Reshtarc’s third-born son, so he knows the composer’s intentions.”

  G’joth wasn’t sure how he saw that as a good thing but refrained from comment. “When must I arrive at the theater?”

  Lakras stared at him as if he were mad. “First thing in the morning, obviously.”

  “I had hoped that on leave, at least I would be spared having to rise with the sun.”

  “You work in space. There is no first sun in space,” Father muttered into his chech’tluth.


  “Besides, we need your help right away,” Lakras said. “We’re about to rehearse the scene where Captain Klag faces the San-Tarah in the square for the fate of the planet.”

  “Ah, so you’ve already done the other contests?”

  “What contests?” Lakras asked as she finally swallowed her liver.

  Getting a queasy feeling in both stomachs, G’joth said, “The other contests prior to the swordfight—which, by the way, was in a circle, not a square.”

  For the first time since she served the meal, Mother spoke: “You see, G’joth, this is why your presence is required. You can correct things like that.”

  Lakras winced as she chewed off more liver. “I do not believe that will be possible. You see, there’s an entire song leading up to the battle, and if you change square to circle it will ruin the meter.”

  “This,” G’joth said with a long-suffering sigh, “is why I grow weary of operas—and why I tried to write my own.”

  That got Mother’s attention. “You wrote an opera? Why did you not tell us?”

  “Because I never finished it. Operas are…difficult.” He smiled snidely at Lakras. “For starters, you have to alter facts in order to make the meter work.”

  Primly, Lakras said, “It’s an important part of the creative process. And anyway, Konn wants you there so you can tell him things like this.”

  “Very well.” G’joth finally decided it was safe to chew his zilm’kach. While doing so, he added, “But I will need to depart at high sun for a time, in order to fulfill a promise I made to three children.”

  G’joth accompanied Lakras the following morning in the opera house’s aircar, which came and picked up several members of the company, bringing them to the opera house in Baldi’maj District. The theater itself was an artificial re-creation of a natural amphitheater. From above, G’joth could see the circular stage, surrounded by ever-rising circles of benches. The benches were made of stone in what G’joth assumed was an attempt to duplicate the feel of the amphitheater on Ty’Gokor. After the top row was a sheer drop down a wall that was all that could be seen of the theater from ground level. As the aircar moved to land behind the opera house, G’joth could see poorly rendered images of opera performers carved into the wall’s surface.

  The people in the aircar all spoke of either their singing, about which G’joth knew nothing, or about people whom G’joth had never met. He noticed that several of them were passing around mugs of bloodwine. Even G’joth thought it was a bit early for that, but Lakras told him archly that bloodwine helped coat the throat to improve singing ability. For his part, G’joth stuck with a raktajino, which was the one Klingon food Mother knew how to prepare properly, mostly for Father. There were times growing up that G’joth was convinced that the empire would be a better place if Father just had a permanent intravenous feed of raktajino all day long.

  The aircar landed behind the theater, right near a small door inset into a corner of the theater. Presumably this area—which was surrounded by fences on three sides and the curved wall of the theater on the fourth, leaving it accessible only by air or transporter—was set off to keep the performers away from the audiences. Kenni, G’joth knew, had a huge following and likely had many devotees who would kill for a chance to meet him.

  There was another aircar in the landing area, this one much more lavishly appointed than the one G’joth was in. A figure stepped out dressed in a white cloak made from al’Hmatti fur. His hair had been carefully styled to look like it was wild, and his crest looked carefully sanded.

  Lakras smiled. “Kenni,” she whispered and ran toward him.

  He smiled back at her, and he clasped her hand in his, squeezing so that her fingernails drew blood. She sniffed him, and he her.

  The rest of the cast ignored the public display of affection. For his part, G’joth wondered what, exactly, he would extract from Lakras to keep this information from Mother and Father. There was simply no way she could have forgotten to mention that she and Kenni were lovers, though it did explain her insistence on his being the leading man.

  To one of the other chorus members, G’joth asked, “How long has that been going on?”

  She shrugged. “Since he discarded his last toy. He’ll discard her soon enough.”

  The others all went inside. G’joth remained, not wishing to enter without Lakras to introduce him.

  “Ah,” Kenni said after he and Lakras were done, “you must be the famed G’joth.” The Klingon spoke with a deep, resounding voice that no doubt served him well on the stage. He also projected his voice so that G’joth was sure it could be heard back in Kenta District.

  Dryly, G’joth said, “I was unaware I had any fame to precede me.”

  “My dear Lakras speaks quite highly of her brave older brother, who fights for honor on the great ship Gorkon. When I first accepted this role, I had simply assumed it to be another opera. But now, thanks to Lakras, I have learned just what a privilege it is to be permitted to help tell the story of your ship’s grand exploits for the empire.”

  Unable to resist, G’joth added, “By playing the villain who forced Klingon to fight against Klingon?”

  “Ah, but without great villains, whom would the great heroes fight to prove their heroism? Besides, General Talak believed he was in the right, and in the end, he dies with honor. What more can anyone ask?”

  One could ask that Talak not have been an honorless fool. But G’joth did not say that. Besides, even if Talak hadn’t forced Klag to disobey orders or go back on his word to the Children of San-Tarah, Davok and Krevor would still be dead.

  Indicating the door, Kenni said, “Come, let us enter, so you may see what we have made of your battle.”

  G’joth followed his sister and the singer through the small door that the others had already entered. Looking at Kenni, the only thing he could think was, He doesn’t look a damn thing like Talak.

  The door led down a flight of stairs to a large room with a low roof. People had split off into groups of three and four and five, chatting at a low volume.

  There were two exceptions to that. In one corner sat an older man with bone-white hair sitting alone at a battered and tarnished tIngDagh with strings of at least four different colors. G’joth seriously hoped that the stringed instrument was merely used for practice and that the actual performances were accompanied by a proper tIngDagh that didn’t look like it had been through the Dominion War.

  The other exception was a short-haired Klingon wearing a garish green one-piece outfit. He was engaged in an animated conversation with a man wearing a cloak that looked remarkably similar to that of Kenni, though it was made from klongat fur rather than al’Hmatti, and was a ruddy color.

  The one in the green suit said, “Remember, Klag has watched as his beloved first officer died, so he is distracted. That is why the alien creature is able to defeat him.”

  G’joth could not help but burst out laughing. “That is not how it happened.”

  Turning around, the man—whom G’joth assumed to be Konn—said, “Who are you?”

  Ignoring the question, G’joth said, “First of all, Captain Klag lost the duel because he fought with a bat’leth when both arms didn’t yet work properly. Second, Commander Kornan wasn’t killed until after the captain’s duel with Me-Larr.”

  “Who is Commander Kornan?” Kenni asked.

  Konn said, “Ah, you must be Lakras’s brother G’joth. I’m told you served as an officer on the Gorkon.”

  Sparing a glare at his sister, G’joth said, “No, I serve as one of the soldiers.”

  “Oh.” That seemed to deflate Konn. “It matters not. You were there at San-Tarah! Your input will be of great value to our endeavor!”

  “I can begin by telling you that the San-Tarah have their duels in a circle, not a square.”

  Konn sighed. “Yes, I tried to tell Father that that was a mistake, but he did insist that it needed to be changed for the song’s meter. The circle would look better, as
well, matching the contours of the stage itself. Alas, we cannot rewrite the songs, so we must work with what we have.”

  Before G’joth could respond to that, Konn clapped his hands once, loud enough that G’joth’s ears almost popped. Everyone grew silent.

  “Now then,” he bellowed to all in the room, “the chorus will remain here and practice the overture with Kruq.” Kruq, obviously, was the one at the tIngDagh. “Once Klivv arrives, we’ll rehearse both duels, first with Gowrik here, then with Kenni. G’joth, you will join us. Any insight you can provide into adding verisimilitude to the duels would be welcome. Let us commence!”

  The members of the chorus all gathered near Kruq, who was now tuning the tIngDagh. Konn moved toward a staircase in the back, Gowrik and Kenni following. A woman moved to pick up a box off the floor, and she followed. After a moment, G’joth ran to catch up to them, asking Kenni, “Why did you ask who Kornan is?”

  “There’s no character by that name in the opera.”

  “What? He was the first officer!”

  “The only first officer in this story is Captain Klag’s lover, Commander Tereth.”

  G’joth could not help but burst out laughing at that as he followed the others up the stairs. “Commander Tereth died at Narendra III before we ever set off for the Kavrot sector! And I can assure you that, of all the lovers she had on the ship, Captain Klag was not among them. She preferred her own sex for a bed partner.”

  From the top of the stairs, Konn said, “There must be a love story. There is no opera without it.”