Star Trek - Masks Part 7

Cold Angel lowered his voice and pointed toward Piercing Blade. "The problem is, I don't think our lady will agree to that. She's determined to get to Cottage Meadow in eight days. But she won't mind if we catch up with you."

"I'd better talk to her," Picard concluded.

"We've already done that, sir," Worf interrupted. "She's given permission for Cold Angel and I to go, but no more. That will leave you only four ponies among the eight of you. We will return as quickly as possible with news."

With a nod, Picard relented. "Be careful, Worf. And get back to us sometime tomorrow."

"Just stay on the road," Cold Angel advised Picard. "Don't wander off."

Klingon and Lorcan rushed back to the corral, where Medicine Maker held two saddled ponies with very light packs. The ponies had eaten a meal of mixed natural grains and had rested most of the afternoon, so they looked fresh and eager. Worf and Cold Angel mounted and rode off at a trot that was none too stately, since their feet were nearly sc.r.a.ping the ground.

"I guess I'm odd man out," grumbled Fenton Lewis.

"We're all just feeling our way," Picard a.s.sured him. "Stay observant. I need to talk with Counselor Troi."

Picard strode purposefully toward the tent, glad to get away from Fenton Lewis. He didn't blame Cold Angel for being distrustful of the das.h.i.+ng explorer, who seemed more desperado than diplomat.

The two female pages were b.u.t.tressing the tent stakes with logs. At first, Jean-Luc wasn't sure which of the two women in the oval bronze masks was Counselor Troi. Even their clothing was similar-dark functional trousers, boots, and drab parkas. None of the pages wore chain mail or breastplates, as did the higher-cla.s.s Lorcans. Picard didn't regard this as any great disadvantage, since the armor looked more decorative than functional. But he did recognize that the two women had very quickly formed an efficient team for pounding tent stakes.

The tent hung from a gaily striped center pole in strips of red, blue, and yellow oilskin. Picard touched the material and was reminded of eelskin. Like eelskin, this waterproof fabric had been st.i.tched together from various sized patches, then oiled and treated. He ran his hand over the st.u.r.dy twine of the guy ropes and was reminded of the catgut strings of an antique violin he had once seen. Perhaps this substance was made of fish or fish by-products. He was mulling this over when one of the female pages approached.

"Captain?" queried a familiar lilting voice.

"Yes, Counselor." Self-consciously, he rubbed the snout of his animal mask. "I seem to have gotten the b.o.o.by prize of masks."

"It is striking, Captain," the Betazoid remarked. "Also a little frightening."

"Lewis says I won't have to worry about anybody challenging me to another duel."

"How is the amba.s.sador taking his demotion?" the counselor responded.

Picard shook his head to show his discouragement. He glanced around the tent to make sure no Lorcans were in earshot. "We have to watch the amba.s.sador carefully," he said. "He has things to hide, and I'm not exactly sure why he came here."

"He is very secretive," Deanna agreed. "I haven't been able to read him at all, except to see that he rarely lets his guard down."

The captain switched to a less troubling topic. "Worf has gone with one of the Lorcans to a nearby village. They will try to catch up with us by tomorrow night."

"I hope Worf learns something," Deanna replied.

The captain touched her elbow. "How areyou holding up?"

She shrugged. "Well, I think. s.h.i.+ning Dagger-that's the Lorcan woman in the Page's Mask-has been helpful and considerate. She is not a young woman, and I sense that she was once a member of the n.o.bility. But she is very pleased to be in Piercing Blade's company. She and the entire group are very loyal to their leader."

"Yes, they are." Picard nodded thoughtfully. "Counselor, do you think we're safe in joining them, even temporarily?"

Deanna hesitated. "They live in a volatile environment, and they are p.r.o.ne to violence. We may never be safe in their presence."

"But would we be safer without them?" Picard wondered. "By ourselves, we might run into other Lorcans who are more dangerous. Do you think there is safety in numbers?"

"Our safety depends upon Piercing Blade," concluded Deanna Troi, "and your relations.h.i.+p with her. I firmly believe that. The others won't disobey her and will treat us well as long as she does."

"Very well," said Picard through his grotesque Trainer's Mask, "then I had better attend to public relations. Try to gather as much information as you can."

"I will, Captain," Deanna said, then added sympathetically, "And if it's any consolation, I believe meeting Piercing Blade was fortunate."

"As do I," Jean-Luc agreed. "I'll try to talk to her." The captain nodded to Troi and gave her a smile she didn't see.

Piercing Blade had removed her breastplate and chain mail but she still wore the commanding Thunder Mask. Even stripped of her armor and dressed in a plain brown woven garment, she was an imposing woman. Picard saw the muscles in her forearms ripple as she hauled in the fis.h.i.+ng line from the hidden hole. It was an extraordinarily long line with several crude hooks. Incredibly, each hook held a squirming fish of the ugliest, spiniest, and palest variety Picard had ever seen.

Spider Wing, still wearing the awesome Amba.s.sador's Mask, deftly grabbed each fish by the gills-the only safe place to grab it-and tore it from its hook. Despite the brutal treatment, the fish continued to flop on the ground, clutching to life. Picard marveled at the number and variety of fish strewn on the red clay. For a fis.h.i.+ng expedition that hadn't been in progress more than two hours, this was an incredible catch. Lorca might not be an agreeable place to live, thought Jean-Luc, but there was no doubt of its ability to support life.

He almost felt Piercing Blade and Spider Wing were being greedy. "How many fish do you intend to catch?" he asked.

"Enough to feed us for a few days," Piercing Blade replied. "We will eat some tonight and smoke the rest for our journey." She turned to Spider Wing. "That is enough. Start gathering wood for the fire."

"Yes, my lady." Spider Wing tore the last fish from the line, tossed it into the squirming pile, and strode off.

"What do you use for bait?" asked Picard.

The warrior swung her jagged star mask toward him. Even though the mask couldn't change expression, her pause expressed her puzzlement. "Dirt. The smaller underfish eat the worms and decay from the dirt, and the larger underfish eat the same thing, plus the smaller fish."

She picked up a hook where the bait was still intact, and Jean-Luc saw a ball of clay impaled upon a hook with a couple of frozen worms clinging to it.

"How is it your people can be so ignorant?" she asked.

"We come from a long distance away," he replied. "Our world is much different from yours."

"But you do wear masks," she remarked with a tone that gave the visitors credit for displaying some culture. "Your masks are not fit for battle, but they have a certain allure. We've never seen anything like them."

"We do not wear masks all the time," Jean-Luc admitted, "only on special occasions."

"Such as ...?"

The captain shrugged. "For certain holidays, festivals, and parties."

She sounded shocked. "And the rest of the time you expose your naked faces?"

"Yes," said Picard. "We think nothing of it."

Piercing Blade shook the marvelous mask in wonder. "And men and women see each other's faces?"

"All the time. We appreciate the beauty and expressiveness of people's faces."

"So do we," Piercing Blade answered softly, "but we see only the faces of our most intimate companions."

Picard knew he was on dangerous ground, but curiosity about this fascinating woman forced him to plunge ahead. "Have the others in your band ever seen your face?"

She stiffened and her voice was as cold as the metal in her sword. "You are lucky you're a stranger," she seethed. "If you were a Lorcan, your effrontery would be punishable by death!"

"I'm sorry," Picard said quickly. "I meant no disrespect. I didn't understand what you meant when you said 'intimate.'"

He thought he heard her laugh behind the impenetrable mask. "Picard," she cooed, dropping her forbidding tone, "there is much I could teach you."

She brushed past him, and the momentary nearness of her stately body made Picard catch his breath. When he turned around, she was striding purposefully away from him, toward the tent.

"Night comes," she announced, turning to face the camp and pointing skyward to where the treetops were just beginning to disappear into the red mist. "Pages, gather and fillet the fish. Everyone else, gather and strip wood for the fire."

She stopped and turned back to Picard. "Are these orders acceptable to you?"

"Certainly," the captain replied. Then he picked up a dead limb at least a meter long. Remembering the trials of the night before, he wanted to see how they managed to get a fire going on Lorca.

But none of the Lorcans moved. Instead, they lowered their masks and waited for their n.o.ble leader to speak.

Piercing Blade held out her arms and spoke as if making a familiar benediction. "Great Dragon, sleep in peace tonight and allow us to sleep in the glow of your breath. Give us the stars to guide our dreams and the morning flame to follow our path."

After the benediction, they built a huge fire inside a living tree and hung the blind fish, mercifully filleted from their unsightly carca.s.ses, on the branches to cook. The lower fillets cooked quickly and were eaten as soon as they were retrieved, while those on the higher branches were left to smoke all night. The aroma filled the camp and more than made up for the tedious job of stripping of moss from the firewood.

As soon as the meal was over, Piercing Blade retired to her tent. Medicine Maker and Spider Wing bedded down just inside the tent door, leaving their two pages to stand guard in s.h.i.+fts. The captain suggested to Deanna Troi that she sleep inside the tent, but she preferred to sleep outside, by the fire. The crackling flames and natural warmth appealed to something primal inside the Betazoid's soul.

The muscles in Deanna's shoulders, arms, and legs ached from the strenuous activities of the day, and she had a hard time getting comfortable on the thick bed of evergreen needles. Everyday life on Lorca made the Starfleet fitness regimen look like a stroll on the holodeck. At least cold wasn't a problem, Deanna mused; if she covered herself with enough moss, she could probably sleep rightinside the fire. It was not the lack of creature comforts that was keeping her awake.

Nothing was keeping Captain Picard and Amba.s.sador Lewis awake, she noticed. They were snoring peacefully on the other side of the flames. Deanna saw their masks lying on the ground beside them, and she wondered if the Lorcans slept with their masks on. With no light in the tent, masks probably weren't necessary. The male and female Lorcan pages kept to themselves, obviously nervous about sleeping at all with so many strangers in camp. But it wasn't their subdued conversation that was keeping her awake.

What deprived her of the sleep she so desperately needed was a disturbing impression. Someone among the quiet sleeping figures was planning a deception. She couldn't tell who it was or what it was, but the feeling was unmistakable.

Despite her apprehension, the Betazoid finally gave in to sleep, knowing she could do nothing to prevent a mind from scheming. The situation would become clear soon enough.

It did, sooner than she thought it would. Deanna bolted awake, confused and groggy, a short time later. She rolled out of her makes.h.i.+ft bed and crouched beneath the overhanging boughs of the tree. She counted the bodies around the fire. One of the Lorcan pages was sleeping with his mask on, and Captain Picard was curled in a fetal position, dozing peacefully. But where was Fenton Lewis?

Instinctively, she knew he was gone.

Chapter Six.

DEANNATROIgently shook Captain Picard awake, keeping her voice low so as not to attract the attention of the Lorcan pages, one of whom was on guard by the tent.

"Captain," she whispered, "please wake up."

He responded to her urging by rolling off his pallet and blinking at her. "What is it?"

"Fenton Lewis is gone."

"Lewis?" he asked, still groggy. He glanced at the spot where the amba.s.sador had bedded down beside him. Now there was nothing but an indentation in the brown needles. Most tellingly, the feathered Messenger's Mask was gone. "Are you sure he's not somewhere nearby?" Picard asked.

The Betazoid shook her head with certainty. "He's gone. I don't sense his presence anywhere in camp."

The captain grabbed his mask and moved out from beneath the tree. Away from the snapping fire, his breath came in vaporous bursts, and he s.h.i.+vered with the chill of the gloomy night. No stars shone above the gigantic trees, thanks to the clouds that blanketed the planet, but the mist itself seemed to sparkle with a faint luminescence. Surely Fenton Lewis wouldn't be foolish enough to have dashed off into the unknown darkness of Lorca by himself. To what purpose would he have done so? Had he been so humiliated by Piercing Blade that he couldn't face another day in her band? Could some harm have befallen him?

Deanna touched his shoulder, and he turned to see her impa.s.sive Page's Mask. "The guard approaches," she whispered.

Jean-Luc barely had time to pull his snarling Trainer's Mask over his face before the male Lorcan page emerged from the darkness into the faint circle of light surrounding the tree. "Is everything all right, Sir Trainer?" he asked.

"Quite all right." Picard nodded. "Please return to your post."

The page started off, and Picard called softly after him, "Wait. Have you seen our companion, the messenger?"

The bronze oval swung back and forth. "No, not since our lady retired." He glanced suspiciously over Picard's shoulder. "Is he not with you?"

"Not at the moment," the captain answered. Thinking quickly, he added, "Perhaps he's gone to deliver a message for me. I asked him to get an early start."

The page shrugged and motioned to the black woods. "I hope he keeps to the road. In the dark, it's easy to fall into a bog."

"He knows he will have to be careful," Deanna remarked soothingly. "Thank you."

The page nodded and disappeared into the darkness surrounding Piercing Blade's tent.

Jean-Luc turned to Deanna, lowering his voice but failing to hide his anger. "What's the matter with that fool? Where could he have gone?"

"Lewis is a strange man," Deanna admitted. "A headstrong man. I sensed he was disturbed about something."

"He had reason to be," Picard answered, refusing to elaborate. Instead, the captain paced for several moments, trying to recollect everything he knew about Amba.s.sador Fenton Lewis. "Deanna," he said finally, "do you think Lewis is capable of deserting us in an attempt to stay on the planet by himself?"

She shrugged. "Why not? What have we to offer him now that we're out of contact with the s.h.i.+p? And he doesn't have much faith in Piercing Blade's ability to further his aims."

"What are his aims?" he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

Deanna shook her head, puzzled. "At one time, I would have said his aims were the aims of the Federation. But here"-she gestured toward the vast primeval forest all around them-"so much is possible. If he found the Wisdom Mask, he could be king."

Jean-Luc nodded, suddenly reminded of a Rudyard Kipling story he had read in a twentieth-century literature course. It told of another "civilized" man who journeyed to a primitive land in the hope of being a king. He achieved his goal, Jean-Luc recalled, but was separated from his head.

Deanna took her captain's silence for a request for suggestions. "We could go after him," she said, without much conviction.

"No," the captain replied. "He's an experienced woodsman, and we're hardly that. Besides, we must continue on the road with Piercing Blade if Worf is to rejoin us tomorrow. We have no choice but to leave Amba.s.sador Lewis to his own devices."

After the third branch whipped across his face, Worf was thankful for the Page's Mask he wore. Of course, not many Lorcans would be riding at breakneck speed on a murky dirt road in the dead of night. Or would they? He was following Cold Angel, whose pony kept kicking clay clods back at him. Occasionally one would strike his face, and he had yet another demonstration of a mask's usefulness.

Despite the Klingon's weight, Worf's pony remained strong and surefooted under him. Cold Angel had a system for conserving the animals' strength while making good speed: first, twenty minutes at a full gallop, then twenty minutes of walking to cool the equines, then a drink of water and a five-minute rest before going back to a gallop. Worf had no idea how far they'd come, but Cold Angel was evidently pleased with their progress. Several times he had said they would eat a sunrise breakfast of fish stew and moss m.u.f.fins.

Ahead of him, Cold Angel slowed to a trot, and Worf a.s.sumed they would dismount and walk for a spell. He pulled on the reins of his pony, but the beast didn't want to stop; it nearly collided with Cold Angel's mount.

"Hold up!" ordered the Lorcan.

The Klingon grabbed a single rein and tugged the pony's head around. When the pony stopped its struggling and pawed the ground anxiously, Worf reached down to stroke the animal's stiff mane and matted coat. "Slow down," he cooed soothingly. "Time for a rest."