Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum
On the other side of the hall, Uhura moved through the crowd with the practiced near-invisibility that comes with servant status. In her modest navy dress, she became part of the background architecture, positioning herself where conversations flow around her like water around a stone. It was an acknowledged truism that a servant was perhaps the most useful role for intelligence gathering precisely because they had the unique ability to be simultaneously present and yet not noticed or acknowledged by their social superiors.
She chose a station near the serving tables and doorways, areas where people naturally gather and speak freely under the assumption that their words won't be remembered or reported. The fragments she overheard painted a picture of growing tension in local trade: "...the Havens are furious about the territorial violations..." "...someone's been hijacking legitimate shipments and selling the goods at ruinous prices..." "...can't continue much longer at these rates without starving out every honest merchant on the rim..."
Meanwhile, Paget decided to stay near the entrance, using his intimidating Klingon appearance to psychological advantage. His presence made people nervous. He knew that nervous people often talk too much trying to fill uncomfortable silences. He selected a strategic position where multiple conversations overlapped, appearing to simply guard his employer while actually conducting surveillance. His trained ear picked up references to shipping schedules, trade routes, and the growing desperation of merchants who found themselves undersold by competitors who seemed to operate outside normal economic constraints.
The evening's careful choreography shattered when a scream cut through the polite prattle.
"Impudent slut!"
The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh echoed across the marble floors.
Near the refreshment table, Yameen Renalli stood over Sari Sanzint like an avenging angel. The girl held her reddening cheek where his hand struck, tears already flowing as she stared up at him in shock and humiliation. The beads of her chitalia necklace lie scattered across the floor like drops of green and red blood, their faceted surfaces catching the chandelier light in accusatory sparkles.
"You wear a fortune in stolen jewels around your neck," Renalli's voice was raw and ragged, "when my friends were hunted like animals... tortured like criminals... forced to flee our homeworld like refugees... when my own daughter was reduced to scrubbing floors just to put bread in our mouths..."
His words hung in the suddenly silent ballroom like an accusation against the entire gathering.
Savati rushed to his sister's side, but Renalli, beyond caring about consequences or social niceties, deliberately emptied his wine glass over both sobbing girl and her outraged brother. The deep red wine stains spread across their coordinated costumes like blood, marking them with the color of his rage.
Guild Hall security moved in hastily to contain the situation. As they quickly surrounded him, Renalli's voice rose to a scream that echoed off the marble walls and crystal chandeliers.
"This isn't over, Chavask! Your troll lover and your carachachino wives will not protect you from the justice you deserve! The blood of my people is on your hands, and I will see you pay for every life destroyed by your greed!"
As the guards drug him away, his muffled shouts carried even as they pulled him toward the exit. "You think you're safe here? You think your reputation protects you? I know what you really are, and I will make sure everyone else knows too!"
The Enterprise officers quickly formed a protective circle around the innkeeper's children.
"Oh, Master Chavask! My dress! My beautiful beads!" Sari sobbed. "They cost so much, and now they're ruined!"
"Don't worry, my dear," Chekov soothed. "These things can be easily replaced. What matters is that you weren't seriously hurt."
A whistle of appreciation rose from the crowd-whether for his generosity or his composure under pressure isn't clear, but both served to reinforce his reputation as a man of substance and character.
"What did he mean? That thing he said about trolls and... the other word?" Sari asked, her voice small and confused.
"Oh, that?" Chekov waved dismissively, although he was, in fact, greatly disturbed by Renalli's accusations.
"Embarrassing, really. People from my planet have some very primitive superstitions. They believe that Klingons are mythical creatures-trolls and demons. The other word he used was... well, let's just say it was a very rude insult. All nonsense, of course."
"I... I just can't..." Sari's voice broke again as the shock of the attack continued settle upon her.
"If you would like to return to the inn, my dear, I'm sure your brother would be glad to escort you," Chekov offered, capitalizing on this opportunity to remove potential complications the twins' presence on the scene might pose.
"Thank you, Master Chavask," she whispered gratefully, clinging to her brother's arm like a lifeline. Master Aldenn approached, his face flushed with embarrassment and wine, his earlier confidence shattered by the violent disruption of his perfect evening. "I am most profoundly sorry for this incident. Such behavior is completely unacceptable in civilized company."
"Who was that person?" Chekov asked.
The Guild Hall Master lifted an eyebrow. "You do not know Yameen Renalli?"
The Russian exchanged glances with his fellow officers
"I do not recognize him," Chekov admitted carefully.
"He is also from Kelincar," Aldenn explained
Gollub shrugged. "It's a big planet."
"I am from the Vebron region," Chekov added quickly in case the Guild Master might find his "wife's" response too forward for local customs. "It is quite remote from the main trading centers."
Aldenn, unbothered, continued with the relentless enthusiasm of someone sharing particularly juicy gossip, "Renalli claimed that after you sold the Kalee chitalia when all the established mines had supposedly been poisoned by Klingon raiders, the warlord assumed that the other merchants had been lying to him about the contamination. He pursued them as criminals and traitors. Renalli had to flee for his life, abandoning everything he'd built over decades of honest trade."
These unintended consequences of their successful mission on Kelincar weighed heavily upon Chekov. He had never heard of this aftermath or had ever considered that their triumph might have doomed innocent people.
"Oh, that is most unfortunate," he managed, his throat tight with genuine remorse. "However, I am not surprised that such a thing would happen. That man, Teclum, is a most unprincipled barbarian. On our first meeting, he held a dagger to my throat and demanded to be bribed just for the privilege of an audience. I, too, was threatened with torture to reveal the location of my chitalia source."
The assembled merchants gasped-partly from shock at such barbaric treatment, partly from admiration for someone who's survived such dangerous encounters and lived to profit from them.
"But you were able to outwit him?" someone asked breathlessly, leaning forward like a child hearing a thrilling adventure story.
"Fortunately," Chekov nodded gravely. "But apparently not so fortunately for those I left behind in that viper's nest..."
"Tomor!" Uhura breathed.
While the crowd processed the revelation about the incidents on Kelincar with a mixture of sympathy and excitement, the Communications Officer had spotted two figures on the balcony dressed in the distinctive black leather of Haven traders. Her heart leapt with recognition and anticipation - could these be the familiar faces she's been hoping to see?
She climbed the marble staircase, her pulse quickening as she approached. However, as she drew closer, disappointment crashed over her like a cold wave. These golden-skinned, black-eyed men were not Tomor Rand and Lane Gage. Instead, two completely different Havens stood before her.
The first man was tall and rangy. His facial features were very similar to those of Lane Gage. A marked distinction between the two was that a silver streak ran down the center part of this individual's dark hair.
The second man, like Tomor Rand was bald. He had cold, calculating eyes that seemed to catalog everything they see with the methodical precision of either a security or intelligence professional. Although of the same basic muscular build as Tomor, he was somewhat shorter and sported a neatly trimmed beard.
"I beg your pardon," she said, working to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "I thought you were someone else."
"An easy mistake, my lovely." The first Haven's lips curved in what might be amusement, his expression carrying the casual arrogance of a superior species addressing an inferior one. "All Havens look alike to most species - a useful trait in our business." His tone was polite but dismissive. It is clear that he considered a mere servant like her beneath his notice.
"Perhaps you were expecting someone specific?" the muscular Haven asked, his voice carrying an undertone that set off warning bells in Uhura's well-trained internal alarm system.
She immediately realized that if her answer to this seemingly casual question isn't careful and convincing, she could possibly trigger a good deal of unwanted attention from these two strangers.
"My employer had business with some Haven traders recently," Uhura improvised smoothly. "I thought I recognized them from our previous dealings."
"Ah, business," the first one nodded. His eyes, though, were still sharp. "The universal language that binds all civilized species. Well, perhaps you'll encounter your Haven friends later this evening-the galaxy's trading community is smaller than most people realize."
The two turned away with the synchronized movement of people accustomed to working together, effectively dismissing her, but not before she caught them exchanging a meaningful look that suggested they might suspect that her innocent mistake might not be so innocent after all.
As she descended the stairs, she noticed both Havens watching the crowd below with particular intensity, their attention focused on the area where Chekov continued to hold court with the local merchants. Their body language had shifted from casual observation to professional surveillance. Her simple mistake, the Communication Officer realized with growing alarm, might just have attracted some very unwanted attention.
As a highlight of the evening's entertainments, a guild-employed poet of local renown had taken the small stage on the ballroom floor to recite verses in honor of the legendary Pasol Chavask. The poet, a long-haired young man in brightly colored robes, spoke the verses he had composed eloquently and with great feeling. His words painted astounding pictures of the daring commercial exploits and impossible mercantile victories of the legendary trader.
"Isn't this just lovely?" Gollub prodded her "husband" in the side with an ill-contained glee that bordered on sadistic pleasure.
"Yes." The Russian replied through a smile of gritted teeth. "Lovely."
Chekov was finding it difficult to maintain his character while not sinking into the marble-checked floor in embarrassment. Even his Klingon bodyguard across the room seemed to be having a hard time keeping a straight face as the recitation became more melodramatically effusive in its praise of Pasol Chavask.
Noticing how high the color was rising in his cheeks, the Guild Master leaned in apologetically. "I hope you do not find this presentation a strain on your modesty, Master Chavask."
"Oh, no!" Daffy answered for him, waving off Aldenn's concern merrily. "He's had poems written about him before."
Chekov's eyes went wide. "Darling!"
The Guild Master blinked in surprise. Traders close enough to overhear began to whisper. "Really?"
"By an award-winning poet, no less," Gollub confided with an evil grin.
"My dear," Chekov suggested through his teeth. "Perhaps you would care to get some refreshments for us?"
"Certainly, darling!" Daffy gave him a loud kiss on his cheek. "And I have got to get a copy of that poem. We have friends who will just kill to hear this one."
"My wife is quite enjoying herself," The Russian explained to his host as Gollub headed towards a table of refreshments near where the poet was declaiming dramatically about Pasol Chavok's ability to avoid depreciation on backlogged stock. The chemist turned back every few steps to smile, nod, and blow kisses at him with each particularly notable couplet. "Master Aldenn, this is so very thoughtful."
The Uradan tilted his head to one side. "You are the subject of works by other poets? Award-winning poets?"
"Oh, that." Chekov laughed nervously. "Nothing really..."
Aldenn exchanged glances with his peers. "You are too modest, sir."
"No, you don't understand." Chekov racked his brains for some sort of disastrous circumstance in which a merchant like Pasol Chavask could have ever been unlucky enough to have been thrust into a situation where someone like Noel DelMonde would make them the subject of obscene doggerel. "The poet in question was very annoyed with me. The poem was quite… uhm… satirical in nature."
Understanding dawned on Aldenn's face like sunrise. "Oh... oh, dear sir." The Guild Master patted his shoulder with genuine sympathy while nearby traders nodded knowingly. "These things do happen to practical people like ourselves. We sometimes become targets for these... artistic types."
They all looked toward the poet on the dais, who was innocently constructing a particularly elegant metaphor comparing tax credits and young, furry pack-animals, oblivious to the conversation his performance had triggered.
"Exactly!" Chekov felt so moved by this unexpected moment of understanding that he nearly forgot it was meant for his character, not himself. "You understand completely."
"They are the ornaments of our culture..." Aldenn smiled and spread a generous hand toward the poet with the tolerant affection of someone discussing beloved but troublesome children. "But can be somewhat..." The Guild Master's gesture morphed into the universal "drinkee-drinkee" motion. "...unpredictable."
"Precisely," the Russian agreed emphatically, amazed to find himself in perfect sympathy with his hosts despite the layers of deception dividing them. "You are so very right. Thank you for your understanding... And for this very lovely poem."
The Guild Master beamed at him beneficently. "My pleasure, Master Chavosk."
Chekov crossed his arms and sighed contentedly as the poet concluded with an impressive string of alliterations praising Pasol Chavask's ability to leverage market downturns for quick gains. Perhaps he would send a copy to Noel DelMonde himself-assuming he survived this mission to do so.
Just as the presentations of the evening had concluded and the musicians began to play the opening strains of the first dance, a ripple of excitement passed through the crowd like an electric current.
Jeremy Paget, stationed near the door, was the first to notice the presence of the arrivals who caused this stir. He quickly caught Daffy's eye. Upon seeing the identity of the newcomers, Gollub had to cover her mouth to stifle a scream.
Lane Gage and Tomor Rand had arrived.
The crowd did not merely part before them - conversations paused mid-sentence, heads turned with the synchronicity of a choreographed performance, and the social temperature of the room shifted like a storm front was moving through. Even the musicians seemed to play with more intensity, as if the very air had become infused with electricity.
Lane Gage cut a striking figure in black leather and suede that seemed to absorb light like an event horizon. His golden skin contrasted beautifully with his dark clothing, and his hair was pulled back in the traditional Haven style that emphasized the sharp planes of his face and the predatory intelligence in his dark eyes. He moved with the confidence of someone absolutely comfortable in his own power. Every gesture was economical and purposeful, speaking of someone who never wasted motion or words.
Tomor Rand followed slightly behind in the traditional bodyguard position, his massive frame making even the Guild Hall guards look small by comparison. His bald head gleamed under the chandeliers like polished bronze, and his black-on-black eyes seemed to pinpoint every potential threat in the room within seconds of entering. He was not simply large - every muscle had a purpose, every movement was controlled with the kind of discipline that comes from professional training.
To the Uradans, the Havens represented something beyond mere traders - they were legends made flesh, consummate survivors in the ruthless ecosystem of interstellar commerce. Everyone present knew their reputation. They had negotiated with warlords and pirates and outwitted even the Federation itself.
From her position near the refreshment tables, Uhura's face transformed with genuine joy and relief. Here, finally, were the familiar faces she had been hoping to see. She took an instinctive step toward them, then caught herself, remembering her role and the need for discretion. However, her eyes followed Tomor's every movement.
Daffy grabbed Chekov's arm with urgency that bordered on panic. "Gage! Gage!" she squeaked in a choked voice. Chekov made an annoyed sound.
"Really, Dafshka," he admonished, "the Havens' presence does significantly complicate our evening, but I do not understand why this person so intimidates you."
Gollub scowled. "The next to last time he saw you, Bubbeleh, you were dressed as a harem girl."
Every ludicrous detail of their desperate escape from the Kalee's palace on Kelincar suddenly surfaced from the depths of the Russian's traumatized psyche. The silk veils, the jewelry, the makeup-all of it flooded back with perfect, mortifying clarity.
"Boizhe moi..." he whispered, his face draining of color.
On the balcony, Gol Tarilon and Rev Marken watched the new arrivals with emotions very different from the crowd below. Tarilon's sharp features tightened with what might be anger, concern, or both.
"Well," he murmured to his companion, "this is a most unwelcome development."
"Lane Gage," Marken said, his voice carrying undertones of professional respect tinged with wariness. "What brings the Monolem's lapdog to this backwater?"
"Nothing good for our operations," Tarilon replied grimly, his calculating mind already working through implications and contingencies. "If Gage is here, it means the Monolems are taking a direct interest in our activities. That suggests either opportunity or threat - and given our current situation, I suspect the latter."
"Orders?" Marken asked simply, his hand making an automatic check of his weapon.
Tarilon considered for a moment. "Observation only, for now. Let's see what develops and who shows their hand first. Be ready to move quickly if the situation deteriorates."
They melted back into the shadows of the balcony, becoming nearly invisible among the tapestries and architectural details.
Master Aldenn, who had begun to fear that Gage was not going to put in an appearance, was now beside himself with delight at having such prominent figures at his gathering. Eager to orchestrate what he saw as potentially the social coup of the season, he pushed through the crowd.
"Master Dealer Gage!" he called out, his voice carrying across the ballroom like a herald's trumpet announcing the arrival of royalty. "What an extraordinary evening this has become! Two legends of commerce under one roof-surely the gods smile upon our humble gathering!"
Gage acknowledged the greeting with a slight nod.
Beside him, Rand was silent as he scanned the crowd with professional thoroughness. When his gaze lit upon a certain blue-clad figure, though, it lingered with an intensity that spoke of personal interest that far transcended professional duty.
"You must meet our guest of honor," Aldenn continued joyfully. "Master Pasol Chavask! I believe you two have had... business dealings in the past?"
The crowd fell silent with an expectant hush.
Chekov could feel every eye in the room focused on him. He couldn't refuse to acknowledge Gage without breaking character. He feared, though, that any extended conversation posed the risk of exposure and humiliation.
Gage's lips curved in what might be amusement as he stepped forward, his movement creating small eddies in the crowd like a shark moving through a school of fish. "Ah yes, Master Chavask. How could I forget our... memorable encounter on Kelincar?"
The Haven pronounced the name with subtle emphasis on the first syllable, making it sound uncomfortably like "Chekov" to anyone listening carefully - a deliberate provocation that hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
"Chavask," Chekov corrected carefully, offering a slight bow while internally screaming. "Your reputation precedes you, as always, Dealer Gage."
"As does yours, dear Chavask," Lane responded, deliberately ignoring the correction. "Oh, the fascinating stories that could be told of your... adventures. The roles you've played, the costumes you've worn. Perhaps we might compare notes on some of your more... theatrical endeavors?"
The surrounding merchants leaned in with the anticipation of children promised a treat, their faces bright with curiosity and excitement. Here were two master traders, legends in their respective spheres, about to share insights into the mysterious world of high-stakes interstellar commerce.
"I am a simple merchant, uncomfortable with the spotlight," Chekov replied diplomatically. "I find that the best business is often conducted in private, away from curious ears. Perhaps another time, when we can speak more freely without..." He gestured vaguely at the crowd, letting them draw their own conclusions about the need for discretion.
"I will spare your blushes this time, Master Chavask," Lane agreed with urbane laughter, patting the Enterprise officer's shoulder in a gesture that looked friendly but felt like a jungle cat marking territory. "I quite understand the need for... discretion. Some stories are best shared only among those who truly appreciate their full... flavor."
Uhura, recognizing that the interaction between Chekov and Gage was heading into rough waters, realized that a diversion was needed before the conversation spiraled into dangerous territory. She approached one of the musicians - a young man whose stringed instrument resembled a Terran guitar-and requested to borrow it with a smile that made refusal unlikely.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, her voice carrying clearly across the ballroom's crystalline acoustics, "I would like to dedicate this song to a very special man present here tonight."
Her voice rose in melody that was unmistakably Uradan in style but somehow universal in emotional appeal. The song was a love ballad, its lyrics speaking of separation and longing, of love transcending distance and circumstance, of hearts that refused to forget despite impossible odds.
As she sang, her eyes found Tomor's across the crowded room. To casual observers, she appeared to be performing for the gathering's entertainment. Even the dullest auditor, though, could feel the intensely personal nature of the performance crackling through the air like electricity.
The lyrics spoke of "the one who commands her heart." The vast majority of the crowd assumed this was a sentimental tribute to her employer - appropriate for so devoted a servant. However, the real target of the song was obvious to anyone who could see the shadow of a smile softening a certain Haven enforcer's usually impassive features.
Her voice carried across the dance floor with heartbreaking beauty, each note carefully placed to convey emotions that couldn't be spoken aloud. The romantic ballad painted pictures of lovers separated by duty and circumstance, of hearts beating in synchrony across vast distances, of promises that neither time nor space could break.
Tomor stood transfixed, his usually granite features showing rare, unguarded emotion. For a moment, the dangerous games of espionage and commerce faded away, leaving only two people connected by something deeper than duty or politics - something that made the galaxy's dangers seem small by comparison.
Chekov, recognizing with relief the opportunity for both a tactical retreat and a romantic gesture, stepped forward and extended his hand to Gollub with formal courtesy.
"My dear," he said, his voice carrying clearly to nearby observers, "would you honor me with a dance?"
Careful to maintain maximum distance between herself and Lane Gage, Gollub quickly took her cue. They moved onto the small dance floor as other couples followed their example, the ballroom transforming into a swirling kaleidoscope of color and motion.
"Oy, what a close shave," Gollub murmured, glaring over her shoulder at the Havens as they promenaded past them.
"Gage knows exactly who we are," Chekov replied grimly, leading her through the traditional steps while he considered contingency plans. "He's toying with us."
"That bastard is going to expose us, isn't he?" she predicted.
"I don't know." Chekov frowned. "He is most definitely enjoying making us squirm."
Uhura's song concluded to thunderous applause. She returned the instrument to its owner with another devastating smile as the orchestra struck up a dance tune that seemed to lift the entire ballroom into motion.
Many in the crowd were disappointed when Pasol Chavask continued dancing instead of returning to his conversation with Gage. A few claimed they'd seen Chavask's spirited wife stick out her tongue at the fearsome Haven trader before the merchant whirled her away - a scurrilous rumor deemed too silly to be true, though most blamed it on the copious amounts of excellent wine flowing freely by this point in the evening.
Opportunistic social climbers capitalized on Chavask's absence as a chance to lionize Gage. The Haven accepted their congratulations with sardonic amusement.
"Oh yes, Master Chavask is quite... resourceful," Gage commented to one fawning merchant. "His methods are certainly... unique. I'm sure we'll all learn a great deal from his presence here."
From their secluded position on the balcony, Gol Tarilon and Rev Marken continued their surveillance. Tarilon's hard features were set in thoughtful lines as he began to piece together the roles and motivations of the various players in gorgeously costumed drama unfolding below him.
"Interesting dynamics," he murmured to Marken, his voice barely audible above the music and conversation. "The servant girl and the Haven security specialist clearly know each other…very well. The merchant couple seems as angry as they are alarmed by Gage's presence. And our friend near the refreshments has been watching everyone with far too much professional interest."
"Orders?" Marken queried again, his patience professional but not infinite.
Tarilon took a moment to weigh his options before reaching a decision. He gave the arm of his body guard a pat as he led him further into the shadows."Retreat."
Marken raised a surprised eyebrow. "Are we going to be that boring?"
"Oh, no." Tarilon promised with a laugh as they headed for a moon-lit back exit. "Definitely nothing boring about us."