Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages (42 page)

H’daen tr’Khellian was gazing out of the antechamber window when Arrhae came in to answer his summons. He didn’t turn around, merely twisted somewhat and watched over his shoulder as she gave him the customary obeisance. He looked thoughtful and somewhat ill at ease.

“Fair day,
hru’hfirh,
” she said as usual, straightening.

“After a poor night.” H’daen looked her full in the face, as if searching for something that might give him an answer before he had to ask any questions aloud. Apparently he saw nothing, and shrugged. “Arrhae, is there truth in what I hear of you and Maiek tr’Annhwi?”

“My lord?” Arrhae had no need to pretend surprise. She knew that one of H’daen’s body-servants was on intimate terms with Ekkhae, who had been among those cleaning the dining-chamber last night, but she hadn’t expected the gossip to travel quite so fast as this. Nor had she expected anyone to give credence to it.

“The subcommander sought me out before he left, and apologized at some length for his behavior. Then he asked if he was forgiven, if he would be permitted to enter my house again—and if I granted him the right to visit you. He told me that you wanted him to speak on this matter.” H’daen crossed the room and sat down at his desk, pouring himself a cup of wine rather than asking her to do it. He had been drinking more of late, and earlier in the day, but with Eisn not yet clear of the horizon this cupful was more a continuation of last night’s drinking than a new day’s start. He swallowed perhaps half the cupful and refilled it before saying any more, and when he turned to face her again, his face was troubled. “It was my impression that you already visited with Lhaesl tr’Khev. Was I mistaken?”

Arrhae lowered her eyes uncomfortably. Lhaesl hadn’t yet been officially snubbed, and was either too enamored or too dense to realize of his own accord that she had no interest in him. Granted that they were physically of an age, the differing metabolism of Rihannsu and Terran—no matter how accurately the Terran might be disguised—still meant that his twenty-eight and hers left him at a behavioral equivalent of fifteen. A pretty child, but a child for all that. “Tr’Khev visits me, lord. I do not encourage him; and though I should, I have not yet discouraged him in whatever way it needs for him to understand.”

“Oh. Thank you. The situation becomes clearer, Arrhae. Then I was right in what I told tr’Annhwi.”

“Told him…?”

“That he could visit with you, that you were a free woman and one with a mind of your own, and that he would learn soon enough if he wasn’t welcome.”

Arrhae barely kept the strangulated squeak of horror in her throat, when what it really wanted to do was leap out as a full-fledged yell of
You old fool!!
Two days ago she wouldn’t even have considered addressing the Head of House in any such fashion, but then, two days ago, she had almost forgotten who she was and what had brought her here. “And if I choose not to make him welcome, lord?” she wondered tentatively.

“I would prefer that you did, Arrhae.”

“Prefer” indeed! That was an order. I wonder why?
She watched him, but said nothing.

“House Annhwi is strong, wealthy, and well-placed—”

Question answered.

“—and the subcommander’s friendship would prove an asset to House Khellian. Arrhae, sit down. Fill my cup again and…and pour a cup for yourself.”

The invitation was so out of place that Arrhae felt her face burn hot. “Lord, I am
hru’hfe
only, and—”

H’daen raised one finger and she was silent. “You are
hru’hfe
indeed, and a worthy ornament to this house, honored by its guests. Why wonder, then, that I bid you drink with me out of respect for that honor which reflects so well on me and on my House? Sit, Arrhae, and drink deep.”

She sat down straight-backed, most uncomfortable with the situation but aware of being closely watched, and determinedly did as she was told. Expecting something rough as ale, Arrhae found the wine so much smoother and of better flavor that she put her mouthful down in a single gulp, then grimaced and felt tears prickle at her eyes as the liquid revealed itself correspondingly stronger—when the swallow had passed the point of no return.

H’daen smiled thinly but without any malice. “It takes everyone that way the first time they drink it. Even me. Now, again. It won’t be such a shock; you might even start to like it.”

He was right. Arrhae managed to down her second mouthful without spluttering, and actually enjoyed the small fusion furnace that came to life in the pit of her stomach. As for the rest of it, she set the cup down carefully and began to turn it around and around, watching the pretty sparkling of the reflec glaze. She would have watched moisture condense on glass, or paint dry—just so long as she didn’t have to watch H’daen’s eyes on her. At the back of her mind there was a suspicion, no matter how unfounded it might be, that H’daen might be trying to make her drunk in order to pry secrets from her. Only great caution would avoid that; she would appear to drink as she was expected to do, without absorbing any of the powerful toxins in the wine.

Yet H’daen himself was drinking without restraint, and the first and last rule of making someone drunk to loosen their tongue was not to get drunk first. He was on his third cupful now, and no matter how accustomed one might be to the potent liquor, immunity was a different matter. It wasn’t as if he were drinking from another jug, either. Each pouring, his and hers, came from the same vessel. Arrhae caught him glancing in her direction once or twice, and the glances weren’t furtive—she was used to those by now, and knew how to recognize them—but nervous. As if he were drinking to summon up enough courage to raise some delicate subject.

“McCoy,” he said at last, and gave it Federation rather than Rihannsu inflection.

“He still sleeps,
hru’hfirh,
’” she said. “Or so I presume. I answered your summons before visiting his quarters.” She made pretense of sipping more wine, barely allowing it to moisten her lips, even though she “swallowed” and made the appropriate small sigh of enjoyment.

“You grow accustomed faster than I did.” H’daen swerved off on another tack as if frightened by the two syllables he had previously uttered, and he sounded almost envious.

“After drinking ale, lord, even coolant fluid becomes palatable.” A dangerous thing to say, with its possible insult of his preferences in wine, but a joke if it were seen as such. It was; H’daen laughed quietly, forcing it so that it sounded more than it was, but genuinely amused for all that.

“Indeed so—especially if you drink it without water.” There was a swift, small silence before he pushed both cup and jug aside halfway through yet another refill. “Enough of this. The Terrans call it
small talk.
Around and around like a bloodwing gathering its courage to settle on a dying
hlai.
Always around, and never to the point.”

“And the point, lord, is Mak’khoi?”

“Yes. I…I have told you in the past that I trust you both with private words and with the honor of my House. That trust has not yet been misplaced.” H’daen’s stare was undisguised now, and he was trying to read her face as he might read charactery on a viewscreen. She met the stare for as long as seemed suitable, saying nothing, then demurely lowered her head in a bow of gratitude. “Now this Starfleet officer is given into my hands for safekeeping until the Senate brings him to trial.” He pushed back from the desk, stood up, and began to pace.

“That Fleet Intelligence entrusted him to you is surely a great sign of favor in high places, lord.”

“If it was widely known among my ‘friends,’” H’daen said bitterly. “More probable that he was left here as the least likely place any rescuer would begin to look. You know how House Khellian fared when you came here. I owe you thanks, not as master to servant, but as one who appreciates the effort and effect of hard labor.”

For all his dismissal of small talk, he was using it again, deferring the evil moment when he would have to say something that Arrhae was coming to expect might be treasonous. If it was, she didn’t want to hear it; if it was spoken aloud under this roof, she wanted away from the house; and if it was spoken by H’daen, she would as soon be out of his employ and a beggar on the road before he said it. Surely he didn’t think that Intelligence would leave so important a prize here and not leave some means of watching him…?

Perhaps he did.

And perhaps this disdained old
thrai
was wilier than any gave him credit for, because he closed relays on his reader’s keypad so that when the thing’s viewscreen unfolded from the desk, it was already emitting a white-noise hum that set Arrhae’s teeth on edge. And which would almost certainly make nonsense of any audio pickup hidden in the room. If a visual scan had been installed, H’daen played for its lenses by starting to work, in a most realistic fashion, with various electronic probes and fault-finders on the reader which had plainly “gone wrong.” After a few minutes passed, he “gave up,” sat down, and began to ponder about the problem—and his pondering seemed lost without at least two fingers and more usually a whole hand near or over his mouth. Only then did H’daen dare start to speak.

“There are those on ch’Rihan,” he said, “who would pay more than a chain or two of cash to lay their hands on an officer of the Federation vessel
Enterprise.
And there are those who would look most highly on the man and the House who made such an acquisition possible.”

“My lord…!” said Arrhae, shocked. “Commander t’Radaik—”

“Jaeih t’Radaik is of an ancient and noble House. To one like that, hardship and dishonor are words without meaning. Whereas to me…” He let the sentence hang, not needing to finish it.

“I—I understand, my lord.”

“Yes, and disapprove. Good.”

“My lord…?”

“Do you think, Arrhae, that I would have taken you into my confidence where this plan is concerned if I suspected you were other than honorable? You’re shocked, of course—but since mention of this would bring me, you, and the House you serve into still more disrepute, you’ll say nothing and disapprove of me in private.”

“But if Intelligence learned of what you have just told me,
hru’hfirh?
” It struck Arrhae even as she said it that the question was unnecessary, one with an obvious answer. She was even more right than she guessed.

“Then they could have learned from only one source, and would also learn—from a similarly anonymous source—that my so-trusted
hru’hfe
is a spy for the Federation, suborned by her late last master tr’Lhoell,” said H’daen silkily. “Tell me, whom would they believe?” Then he swore and scrambled to his feet with his hands reaching for her shoulders, for Arrhae’s face had drained of color so fast and so completely that he thought she was about to faint. “Powers and Elements, Arrhae, it was a brutal answer to the question, but I didn’t mean it!”

“No…” she whispered, waving him away, not wanting to be touched, not wanting him anywhere near her. In the single instant between H’daen’s words and his realization that he had gone too far, all the suppressed horrors of her years undercover had run gibbering through her mind. Even now, knowing that he had threatened without knowledge of the truth made her feel no better. It was a reminder of too many things: of the Rihannsu paranoid fear of espionage, of her own delicately balanced position, of how the confession had been twisted out of Vaebn tr’Lhoell and what had been done to him afterward. Of the shattering of that which she had thought of as her life.

H’daen pushed her cup, refilled, across the desk and she drank eagerly, holding the cup in both hands but almost spilling it even so. “That was cruel,
hru’hfe
Arrhae. I ask pardon for it.” She heard his voice as though from a great distance, saying unlikely things that no
hru’hfirh
ever said to a servant, no matter how senior or how favored. He was blaming himself and asking forgiveness. Wrong words, impossible words, that made her feel uncomfortable and wish that he would stop. But she knew what had provoked them, and it hadn’t been the wine.

“You were frightened of what you had said, lord,” she told him, coming straight out with it rather than trying to find some more acceptable substitute. He stared at her, unused to such plain speaking, and then shrugged. Arrhae took the shrug as approval, or at least as permission to continue. “And that made you say things that I know my own good lord would not have said. Yes, I disapprove of what you plan for Mak’khoi. Not only because Commander t’Radaik entrusted him to your keeping—but because you intend to sell him. I know what being sold is like, my lord, and
I
was sold only to work. He…would be going into the hands of those whose sole delight would be to prolong his death. Better to kill him now yourself. It would be a cleaner and more honorable thing to do.”

“It seems that my
hru’hfe
is more than simply an efficient household manager,” said H’daen, speaking in a flat, neutral tone that gave Arrhae nothing but the words it carried. She waited, her stomach fluttering, to learn if she had overreacted and said too much. He watched her for what felt like a long time, his face unreadable, then nodded. “It seems she is my conscience. Very well, Arrhae, carry my guilt if you must. But whatever happens, know this: if I or my House can benefit from this unlooked-for gift, then whatever must be done will be done—and the moral scruples of a servant will not get in my way. Do you understand?”

Arrhae pushed her winecup away with the tip of one index finger, knowing that the brief while when she and H’daen might drink together as equals was gone beyond recall. “Yes, lord,” she said, standing up and making him an obeisance. “I understand perfectly. With my lord’s permission, I will be about my duties now.”