A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Martok looked at Dorrek, who stared straight ahead, as did Klag. Tarilla, however, was staring at her younger son with an expression of fury.

  The chancellor said, “Captain Dorrek, do you deny the findings of the Imperial Guard?”

  “No.” A rumble of shock went through the chambers. For a decorated Klingon warrior to admit to such subterfuge was almost unthinkable, even though the evidence was overwhelming. “While my brother may paint me as dishonorable, I am a true Klingon, and I will not lie before the High Council. My brother has brought dishonor to our once-noble House. He rejected our father, M’Raq, a mighty warrior who served the empire well! He disobeyed the orders of General Talak at San-Tarah and pitted Klingon against Klingon for the sake of mere jeghpu’wI’! And he desecrated our father’s memory by placing his dead arm on his person! He is an abomination! But I had no avenue by which I could remove him, for he had manipulated events so that he was a hero of the empire. So I investigated his crew and discovered some anomalies in the history of his second officer, Rodek. I admit that I then committed the acts Councillor Grevaq described. I did so knowing it might mean my own death—as long as it also meant Klag’s.”

  Martok growled. “You will get half your wish at least, Captain. You have killed without showing your face. You have no honor.” Martok stood and unsheathed his d’k tahg. “You will not be allowed to leave this chamber alive.” He moved forward. Around him, all the councillors did the same, unsheathing their own blades, the click of their outer blades unfurling echoing with a snap off the walls of the council chamber.

  Klag and Tarilla stepped aside, the latter a bit more slowly, but Dorrek stood his ground.

  Raising his blade, Martok plunged his d’k tahg directly into Dorrek’s neck. Blood spurted out, but Martok found the smell of it to be far less intoxicating than it might, coming as it did from such a dishonorable worm as this.

  Each councillor in succession plunged his own blade into Dorrek’s body. To the captain’s credit, he did not fall until the tenth wound—few, in Martok’s experience, lasted past the seventh, particularly when the first was to the neck. Martok wiped his own d’k tahg on his sleeve. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Dorrek’s blood even smelled foul.

  To the steward, Martok said, “Remove that from our presence.”

  No one performed the death scream. Those who died by the council’s hand in this manner did so because they had dishonored themselves. There was no point in shouting a warning to the Black Fleet that Dorrek was on his way, because Dorrek’s destination was the Barge of the Dead. Fek’lhr could take care of his own warnings.

  Once the body was removed, the council had retaken their places, and Martok sat back down in the uncomfortable chair, Tarilla stepped toward the chancellor, her arms flailing. “I knew nothing of this! Dorrek told me only that I had to make sure Klag was at the qaDrav at the appointed time. He did not tell me what else he planned. For all the reasons Dorrek gave, however, I must petition the High Council to make me head of our House. Klag has—”

  “Your petition is denied,” Martok said before she could go on.

  Klag smiled.

  “You must hear me out!” Tarilla cried, her fists clenched so hard blood seeped from her palms. “I cannot allow this creature I birthed to have control over my life!”

  “Then you should have used a stronger poison,” Martok said. “Klag will remain the head of the House of M’Raq. If you wish to remove yourself from that House, then I suggest you acquire some adanji and find someone to give you Mauk-to’Vor.”

  “No! You must listen to me, Chancellor!”

  Martok smirked. “Many have told me what I ‘must’ do. Most of them are dead now. Would you join them?”

  Snarling, Tarilla turned and stormed out of the chamber.

  Leaning back in his chair, Martok tried not to squirm as the muscles of his backside started to contract.

  The rest of the session went by surprisingly quickly. Somehow, Martok had forgotten that the last item on the agenda was regarding Krios—both the appointment of a new governor to replace Gortak, who died in battle against Kreel raiders, and the commissioning of a sculptor to create a statue of Gortak to place in Krios’s capitol to honor his service. Once Berolik was made governor and J’lang commissioned to create the sculpture, the session was over.

  Thrilled at the realization, Martok practically leaped to his feet, the pain in his backside having grown roots. He put his fist to his chest and said, “The session has ended. Qapla’.”

  Walking gingerly toward the exit, he told the Yan-Isleth to allow Worf and B’Oraq to see him, but no one else. They also kept councillors and others from getting near him while he beat a hasty retreat to his office, pausing only to hand off his d’k tahg for a proper cleaning. He didn’t want any trace of Dorrek’s foul blood on it any longer than he had to.

  The door to the office rumbled shut behind him and he sat in the chair behind the office’s small desk, which was only slightly more comfortable than the chancellor’s chair. Listen to me, complaining of my aching back. I’m growing soft in my old age.

  B’Oraq was the first to enter. “Chancellor, thank you,” she said without preamble. “I cannot begin to tell you what this means.”

  “It means nothing yet, Doctor,” Martok said with a smirk. “The KMA will only be as good as those who run it—and that will not be you.”

  That brought B’Oraq up short. “Why not? I have done more to expose the KPE’s uselessness and bring about the need for the KMA than anyone!”

  “Yes, and the landscape is well populated with the enemies you’ve made while traveling that road. There is a reason why warriors leave corpses in their wake, daughter of Grala—it means they cannot rise up and stab you in the back.”

  “Kowag.” B’Oraq practically spit the name.

  “Among others, but yes, primarily him. He has many high-powered friends, including the person you just made a fool of in open council. If you wish the KMA to be effective, you must not be involved in its hierarchy.”

  Shaking her head, B’Oraq said, “I wish Kowag had been present today. I would have killed him and taken great joy in the act.”

  “Kowag is a coward and a fool. His incompetence almost led to the disgrace of a respected councillor. That will not go unnoticed. Nor will your actions.” Martok smiled. “You have friends as well, after all.”

  “I hope I may number you among them, Chancellor.”

  “For the moment—but a chancellor must choose his friends carefully and abandon them when expedient.”

  “Of course.” She smiled back. “Including you, the list of my friends is now four—you, Klag, Worf, and Kryan. In truth, it is four more than I ever expected to have.”

  Martok chuckled. “You mentioned two other physicians who aided you in Novat.”

  “Valatra and Kandless, yes.” B’Oraq squinted. “Are you suggesting—?”

  “I believe they would serve the KMA with honor.”

  B’Oraq smiled. “I agree. Thank you, Chancellor.”

  The door rumbled aside to let one of the Yan-Isleth in along with Worf.

  “Ambassador,” B’Oraq said. “It is good to see you again.”

  Worf inclined his head toward the doctor, then turned to Martok. “You wished to see me.”

  “Yes, my friend, on a matter of great importance. That will be all, B’Oraq. I will inform Valatra and Kandless of their new appointment myself.”

  Her hands clutched together at her chest, B’Oraq said, “Again, Chancellor, thank you.” Turning to Worf, she added, “Ambassador,” then departed.

  As soon as the door shut, Martok rose. “Explain to me, Worf, why is it that I had to learn from Councillor Grevaq that your brother Kurn now lives as Rodek, son of Noggra.”

  Worf’s mouth twisted the way it did whenever he was about to say something Martok didn’t like. “It was…necessary to keep it a secret. At the time, I could find no alternative to—”

  Martok waved off Worf
’s words as he walked around to the other side of the desk so he could look the ambassador in the eye. “I do not care why you did what you did, Worf. It is done. What I wish to know is why you did not tell me! I made you part of my House, at a time when you were an enemy of the chancellor. I did so because of what I saw in the Jem’Hadar prison—I saw a noble warrior whose House had been taken from him and whom I would be proud to call brother.” He turned away from Worf, looking up at the targ head mounted on the wall. That had been a trophy from the very first targ hunt he and Worf had gone on months ago. “Now I learn that you kept this from me.” Turning back, he asked in a low rumble, “Why?”

  “It was never my intention to deceive you, Chancellor.”

  “Bah!” Martok waved his arm back and forth. “Do not fill the air with meaningless titles. We are not chancellor and ambassador now, Worf. I am speaking to you as the head of our House!”

  Worf looked down at the floor, as if it would provide comfort, then he looked back at Martok with a pained expression. “I could not speak of what happened with Kurn to you—or to anyone beyond those who were present at the time. It was a…a family matter.”

  “I am your family, Worf!”

  Speaking as softly as Martok had ever heard him, Worf said, “I meant it was a matter for the House of Mogh.”

  Though Martok hardly thought Worf needed to be reminded of this, he felt the urge to do so anyhow: “Worf, that House no longer exists.”

  Pointing to his chest, Worf said, “It exists here.”

  Martok found he could not argue with that. His anger burned to ashes, he went back to his desk and sat at it, becoming chancellor once again. “What will become of your brother?”

  “He has chosen to remain as Rodek.” Worf hesitated, then: “And he has promised to kill me if I give him cause.”

  Martok smiled. “Then I suggest, my friend, that you not give him cause.”

  Worf nodded. “If I may pursue other business, Chancellor.”

  It was not a question. “Of course.”

  “Klag informed me that an opera called The Battle at San-Tarah is debuting tomorrow night at the opera house in Krennla. I will be attending. Will you join me?”

  His nose scrunching up, Martok said, “Krennla? Ah, Worf, I knew that foul place in my youth. And it has grown worse. Still, I suppose the opera house is tolerable. Besides, it at last gives me an opportunity to see Klag in action.”

  Twenty-nine

  Kenta District

  Krennla, Qo’noS

  Krom’s dwelling had the exact same design as Klaad’s, only it was in a larger building that was in worse shape. There were no automatic doors, and G’joth had to shove his shoulder into the building’s main door in order to get it open. The hairs in his nose practically retreated into his sinus cavity, the smell was so foul. Breathing through his mouth as much as possible, he went up the stairs to Krom’s place.

  G’joth had spent most of his time at the opera house, grinding his teeth while watching The Battle at San-Tarah come together. At home, he stayed in his room, rewatching the Battlecruiser Vengeance recordings he’d inherited from Bekk Tarmeth. Tarmeth had been involved with a mutiny on the Gorkon. The ship’s security chief had put him to death after he confessed, and G’joth had claimed Tarmeth’s recordings of the century-old entertainment. The simplistic narrative and over-the-top melodrama of Captain Koth of the Vengeance were an especially nice palliative after suffering through the pomposity of the opera.

  Lakras had been inconsolable, and her performance was affected to the point where Konn had almost put her to death. Only G’joth’s own intercession had prevented that, but almost losing her life had served as a reminder to her, and she had performed well after that.

  Watching the Vengeance recordings had also given G’joth an idea. On opening night of the opera, he told Lakras to go ahead without him, as he had an errand to run. Klaad hadn’t been home, so he went to Krom’s.

  His other friend wasn’t quite as broken-down as Klaad, but Krom still did not look especially well. All his teeth were gone, and one eye was milky and white, but he seemed more robust otherwise. His mane of hair was still dark, with only streaks of white. “Thought you might come by. What do you want?”

  “I have something for your son, and for Klaad’s, and for their other friend. It is something for them to share.”

  Unlike Klaad, Krom showed no sign of letting G’joth into his home. “What is it?”

  He held up a satchel. “In here are data spikes containing every episode of Battlecruiser Vengeance.”

  Krom’s good eye went wide. His bad eye didn’t, a sight G’joth found somewhat nauseating. “They still make those?”

  “No, these are the originals. I received them from a crewmate. I remember how much we enjoyed these when we were young. Remember, we would roam the streets, each taking turns being Koth?”

  Shaking his head, Krom said, “We were foolish youths.”

  “Perhaps. But sometimes it is good to be foolish.” He looked around, even though all there was to see was a dilapidated hallway that smelled of rot and decay and a battered door. “There is little cause for enjoyment in this place. But while the adults may have no hope, the children should have some. They should dream of better things, the way we did. That is why I want all three of them to have these recordings.”

  “Perhaps they’ll find them inspirational.” Krom held out a hand, and G’joth placed the satchel in them.

  It wasn’t exactly a sacrifice—these were copies, after all. The hard part had been finding a merchant who had enough blank spikes on which to copy them.

  “I will tell Gurlk what you have done and why you have done it for them. I cannot say if he will be grateful—but I can say that his father is.” Krom stood up straight. “Thank you, G’joth. It has been good to have you back.”

  G’joth sighed. “Would that I could say the same.”

  He turned and exited down the staircase. Thus far, I have learned that my father is a liar, my sister is an idiot, and my oldest friends are miserable. I should have gone with Wol and the others to Pheben III.

  Checking his wrist comm, he saw that he had just enough time to take a leisurely walk to Baldi’maj. He’d probably arrive right on time for the opening, which was good, as it meant he wouldn’t be obligated to go to the preshow celebration. Konn had invited him, which Lakras said would involve a great deal of shouting, last-minute rehearsing, and drinking. G’joth had no interest in participating, especially since he might be tempted to slit Kenni’s throat.

  When he finally arrived at the opera house, there were Defense Force guards at every entrance. G’joth went to the cast entrance, where there were two guards, a tall one and a short one, who scowled at him, until they saw his uniform. “I’m Bekk G’joth.”

  The tall one said, “They said you’d be coming sooner. Go ahead.”

  “Why the extra security?” G’joth asked.

  “Ain’t you heard? Chancellor Martok’s attending, and he’s bringin’ half the damn First City with him. Ambassador Worf, Captain Klag, Councillor Grevaq, Danqo, even Jo’Krat.”

  G’joth had no idea who Jo’Krat was, but from the way the guard nodded, he was a man of great fame.

  The short one said, “Jo’Krat never comes to Krennla. This is huge.”

  Willing to take their word for it, G’joth moved past the two guards and went down the long, dank corridor to the dressing area. G’joth wondered what his captain would think of the opera. A part of him thought he might wish to warn Klag—but no, the captain was a warrior being honored by having his exploits made into an opera. Regardless of the accuracy of the opera in question, it remained a great honor. That, G’joth knew, would be all that mattered to Klag. And in truth, should be all that matters to me.

  The smell of cheap bloodwine was almost palpable as he entered the dressing area.

  The throat-coating bloodwine was drunk to excess right before the show. G’joth remained skeptical of the medical legitim
acy of this practice—he would have to ask B’Oraq when he reported back to the Gorkon—but the singers all swore by it, and they were quite drunk.

  Were he among fellow warriors, G’joth would have gladly joined them, but something about drinking with these performers left a worse taste in his mouth than the bad bloodwine was likely to. It didn’t help that the bloodwine on the Gorkon was particularly good…

  As soon as he got close enough, he saw Kenni standing at the center of attention, Lakras draped on his arm.

  “I do not believe this,” G’joth said. “Lakras, what are you—?”

  He was interrupted by Klivv, who stumbled into him. “G’joth! Come, my friend, drink with us, for tonight we open!”

  Pushing Klivv roughly aside—the singer barely seemed to notice—G’joth walked straight toward Kenni and Lakras. “What is going on?”

  Kenni was surrounded by half a dozen other Klingons, only some of whom G’joth recognized. “Ah, this is my good friend G’joth. He has been an invaluable aid in maintaining the verisimilitude of the original battle. Without him, this show would be a mere shadow.”

  Several of the Klingons pounded G’joth on the back and congratulated him. Someone handed him a mug filled with bloodwine.

  Snarling at Kenni, G’joth threw the mug to the floor, its clatter barely audible over the din of celebrating.

  “G’joth,” Lakras said, “what are you doing? Kenni is honoring you!”

  “Hardly.”

  He turned his back on Kenni and walked back to the corridor.

  “You dare to turn your back on me!” Kenni shouted.

  Suddenly, the room got very quiet.

  “You are nothing, G’joth. I spoke well of you for the sake of your sister, but now I see that you are a liar and a coward!”

  G’joth smiled. He turned around. “Normally, I would consider such words an insult, Kenni—but only if they came from a Klingon. When they come from spineless bloodworms—well, I consider the source.” G’joth walked back toward Kenni. “Listen to me very carefully. I have fought against Cardassians and Jem’Hadar, against Romulans and humans, against Kreel and Kinshaya, against Children of San-Tarah and creatures of Elabrej. I have not only survived, I have thrived. Do you truly imagine that after all I have done, anything you say could possibly matter to me?” Looking around at all the actors, singers, and sycophants (or whoever the unfamiliar faces were), G’joth said, “I have fought battles for the empire! I have bled and watched good warriors die! I have done this so we will have celebrations like this. I have done this so that our deeds may be enshrined in song, as they will be tonight!” Looking back at Kenni, he added, “And I am sure you will play the role of Talak well, for he too was a dishonorable traitor to the empire, and I cannot think of a better performer for his role than your pathetic self.” He grabbed Kenni by his cassock; the singer flinched, which alone should have condemned him. “Tonight, you will perform brilliantly, and you will bring honor to the ship on which I serve. And that is why I am letting you live. If you ever dishonor me publicly again—or if you do anything that brings harm to my sister or any member of my family—I will not restrain myself.” He smiled. “Oh, and the same holds true if you perform badly. My captain is in the audience, as is the Federation ambassador, and Chancellor Martok himself. I expect that the stage will be coated with drinks by the end of the show from the accolades. If I learn that the audience stayed quiet, if I learn that nothing was thrown on the stage in celebration, then I will return, and you will die—slowly.”