Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum
Hours later, in a scene that would have scandalized any proper merchant - should any respectable person of that class be awake and on the streets at this ungodly hour (which they assuredly would not be) - the wife of the great Pasol Chavask was hanging on the arm of his Klingon bodyguard as the two drunkenly exchanged quotes from the poem honoring the great merchant while their household made their way up the cobblestone courtyard of the Golden Niran Inn.
"And let it never be said that he ever went…" Mrs. Chavask giggled with tipsy glee.
"…A single golden guilder below," Kring provided, his eyes watering from laughter.
"…Thirteen percent!" the two chorused together, between wheezes. Staggered by mirth, they had to hold each other up to reach the porticos of the inn's entrance.
"They're just jealous, sugar," Uhura comforted her employer, patting his arm. The smile on her face, however, had nothing to do with the present scene and everything to do with memories of dark eyes across a crowded ballroom.
"It was a very lovely gesture," Chekov replied defensively, adjusting his merchant's coat-rich burgundy velvet with silver threading that caught the moonlight. "But I can assure you, having poetry written about you is not always such an honor..."
Suddenly, the inn's ornate double doors burst open with such force that they slammed against the interior walls. Dafuv Sanzint, the innkeeper, stumbled out into the courtyard, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled. His embroidered vest was half-unbuttoned, his carefully waxed mustache drooping, his face flushed with panic.
"Master Chavask! Master Chavask!" he cried, wringing his hands so vigorously that his expensive rings jingled. "Oh, blessed stars, you've returned! There's been - oh, this is terrible - absolutely terrible!"
The navigator stepped forward. "Calm yourself, Sanzint. What has happened?"
The innkeeper's eyes darted wildly between the four of them. "Your rooms, Master! They've been - the maid, she went to turn down your beds as she always does, and she found - oh, the disorder! The terrible disorder!"
"Robbed?" Paget demanded.
"Yes! Yes, robbed!" Sanzint wailed, pulling at his thinning gray hair until it stood in wild tufts. "But that's not the worst of it - my children! My precious Savati and Sari they're gone! Vanished like smoke! No trace of them anywhere!"
"That's..." Chekov began, then stopped, exchanging helpless glances with his team. The weight of their deception pressed down on him like a lead blanket. How could he offer comfort when he suspected the "Trouble Twins"-as they'd privately dubbed the innkeeper's mischievous offspring -might have stumbled into something far more dangerous than adolescent pranks?
"Have you contacted the local authorities?" Uhura asked, hitting the perfect note of cool professional concern.
"Yes, they should…" Sanzit turned at a peculiar noise and pointed down the street. "Here they are now."
The City Guard announced their arrival with the distinctive "wah-wah" of their sirens-a sound that seemed to blend ancient tradition with modern technology. Their hover-cars gleamed blue-black in the moonlight, proudly emblazoned with Nanzine City's crest of a golden sun rising over silver mountains. However, the vehicles' advanced anti-gravity systems were supplemented by prancing white draft animals hitched to their fronts, creatures that snorted and stamped with barely contained energy, their breath forming small clouds in the cool air.
The chief inspector emerged from the lead vehicle. Captain Morvath was tall and lean. His mustaches were magnificent-long, waxed to sharp perfectly symmetrical points. His short goatee was meticulously trimmed, adding gravitas to his already imposing features. His uniform was a fascinating blend of worlds: a gold-trimmed guard tunic over a leather jerkin that hummed almost inaudibly with the power of its personal shield generator, traditional boots that bore the subtle shimmer of anti-grav technology, and a ceremonial sword whose pommel glowed with the telltale signs of energy weapon components.
"Oh, Captain Morvath!" The innkeeper bowed low. "You honor us, sir, under these most unfortunate circumstances… May I present…?"
"Master Chavask." Morvath's tone carried easy authority as if aiding the rich and powerful in distress were part of his daily routine. However, there was another element to the inspector's gaze - a careful assessment, as if he were cataloguing every detail of Chekov's appearance and demeanor. Apparently the inspector adhered to the precept that no one was above suspicion. The detective approached with measured steps, his boots clicking sharply on the wet cobblestones. "I apologize for the disturbance to your evening. I am Captain Morvath, Chief Investigator of the City Guard. I was summoned personally to handle this matter, given your... distinguished status in our city."
The pause before "distinguished" was subtle but unmistakable. The navigator wondered how much the captain knew - or suspected - about Pasol Chavask.
"Thank you, Captain," Chekov replied, offering a bow calculated to be respectful but not servile - the gesture of one important man acknowledging another. "A most regrettable incident."
"If you and your household will make yourselves comfortable in the lobby," Morvath said, gesturing toward the inn's entrance as his officers fanned out behind him like a well-oiled machine, "we will try to conduct our investigation with as little wasted time as possible."
Chekov caught the subtle growl that rose in Jeremy Paget's throat - a sound that had nothing to do with his Klingon disguise and everything to do with a security officer's frustration at being sidelined.
The tension radiating from his team was palpable, but there was no help for it. The Enterprise officers had no choice but to stand by while the local authorities swarmed over their crime scene.
The inn's lobby felt like a gilded cage. Ornate furniture upholstered in rich fabrics surrounded them, but none of the Enterprise officers could truly relax. They sat stiffly on cushioned benches beneath oil paintings of Nanzine's noble families, the silence broken only by the steady tick of an elaborate chronometer and Sanzint's occasional muffled sobs from behind the reception desk.
Nearly two hours crawled by-time measured in the slow rotation of Nanzine's moons through the lobby's tall windows-before Captain Morvath finally sent word that they could return to their rooms.
The luxury suite was barely recognizable. What had been an elegant refuge was now a hive of investigative activity. Morvath's team moved through the space with practiced efficiency. The investigators presented a fascinating study in contrasts. Some officers wielded traditional magnifying glasses and oil-burning lanterns, squinting at surfaces and taking notes on parchment with quill pens. Others brandished advanced scanners that beeped and hummed as they swept the rooms, their displays flickering with data streams that would have been at home on a Federation starship.
The suite itself told the story of violence and haste. Furniture was overturned, drawers pulled out and emptied, their contents scattered across hand-woven carpets from distant worlds. Tapestries hung askew on the walls. The smell of spilled perfume and cosmetics mingled with the night air flowing through the violated balcony doors.
"The perpetrator or perpetrators gained entry through the balcony window," Morvath reported, indicating the French doors. "They appear to have used climbing equipment - possibly grappling devices."
Chekov noticed Paget's subtle movement toward the wall where their hidden Federation equipment lay concealed behind false paneling. The barely perceptible nod that followed confirmed their real technology remained undisturbed.
"What exactly was taken?" Uhura asked, her tone perfect-concerned but not overly curious, exactly what one would expect from a dutiful servant protecting her employer's interests.
Morvath consulted what appeared to be a scroll. The device was an elegant piece of synthetic parchment that glowed with a soft inner light as text materialized across its surface like magic made manifest. "Various items of jewelry, several precious stones, and..." The detective paused, his brow furrowing with genuine puzzlement. "Some kind of cosmetic preparation?"
Chekov and Gollub exchanged looks. The beauty cream containing traces of moritite was hardly valuable enough to warrant theft, unless someone knew exactly what it really was… or was feeling particularly dry and wrinkly?
"We have developed a strong suspect," Morvath announced. He beckoned forward one of his officers. "Vishi." A young woman in traditional Uradan dress approached, her molecular scanner still humming softly in her hands. "This was found caught on the balcony railing," she announced, holding up a distinctive button that gleamed dully in the lamplight. "The fabric appears to be of Kelicarian origin, with a specific weave pattern unique to their merchant class."
Chekov examined the button. It appeared to be from Renalli's coat. He remembered seeing the merchant at the ball wearing a garment with exactly these ornate fastenings.
Another investigator, this one an older man, stepped forward with a piece of paper held carefully in preservation tongs. "This was discovered near the escape route," he reported. "The handwriting suggests haste, possibly written under extreme emotional distress."
The paper itself seemed to throb with malevolent intent as Morvath read aloud, "'The false Chavask will pay for destroying my family's honor. Tonight, I take back what should have been mine.'"
Chekov sighed heavily. Despite the fact that the harm done to this Kelincarian merchant was inadvertently caused indirectly by the actions of an undercover role he had assumed rather than any purposeful plan of his own, he still felt a guilty sadness for the fate of these victims of the mad warlord's wrath.
"Well, that does seem to point to a certain someone," Daffy said, remembering the disturbance at the ball.
"At the social event you attended this evening," Morvath continued, his tone that of a prosecutor building his case, "there was a disturbance, was there not?"
"Yes," Chekov admitted reluctantly, knowing that everything he said would inevitably shift suspicion onto the trader.
"With another Kelicarian merchant by the name of Yameen Renalli?"
"Yes."
"He has publically sworn vengeance on you," the inspector persisted. "Tonight he even assaulted one of your retainers."
"True," the navigator admitted slowly, not satisfied that the trader's justifiable bitterness spelled guilt in this matter.
"We have witnesses," Morvath continued with growing confidence. "The inn's staff, when questioned, has provided remarkably consistent testimony. A stable boy claims he saw someone matching Renalli's description near the inn around the time of the robbery. A kitchen maid reports hearing angry voices speaking in a Kelicarian accent coming from the direction of the guest quarters."
"That is very troubling," the Russian granted.
"There is also the matter of the disappearance of Savati and Sari Sanzint…"
At the mention of his children's names, the innkeeper's composure finally shattered completely. Great, gulping sobs wracked his round frame as he collapsed into a nearby chair, his face buried in his hands.
"Oh, Master Chavask!" he wailed. "They were so excited about serving you! Sari spent an hour arranging her hair in the style of the court ladies. Savati polished his boots three times until they shone like mirrors. They went to your rooms to prepare them for your return with such pride, and now..." His voice broke entirely, dissolving into wordless grief that seemed to fill every corner of the violated suite.
Morvath's expression remained professionally neutral, but Chekov could see genuine concern flickering in the captain's dark eyes. The missing teenagers quite obviously upped the stakes for the detective.
"We must consider the possibility that the young people interrupted the robbery in progress," the inspector said quietly, his voice gentle despite the disturbing possibilities he was invoking. "If so, they may have been taken to prevent them from identifying the perpetrator."
The inspector's implications hung heavily in the air. If Yameen Renalli has indeed abducted the innkeeper's children, this incident might have escalated beyond simple theft to kidnapping and might yet still progress to other darker crimes if their return were not secured quickly.
Captain Morvath stepped forward, reaching into his uniform jacket, and removing an official document. "Master Chavask, based on the evidence we've gathered, I'm prepared to issue a warrant for Yameen Renalli's arrest. However, I require your formal complaint to proceed."
Chekov stared at the scroll, his mind racing. His instincts were telling him that this was wrong. However, refusing to press charges would be so completely out of character that it might expose their real mission.
"This Renalli," he said carefully, "he confronted me publicly at the ball tonight. Made threats."
"Indeed," Morvath nodded. "Several witnesses can attest to his hostile behavior toward you. His motive is clear - revenge for what he perceives as your role in his downfall on Kelincar."
The irony wasn't lost on Chekov. The fictional reputation of "Pasol Chavask" had created real enemies. Now someone was using that animosity as cover for their own agenda.
With great reluctance, Chekov signed the warrant. The scratch of the quill on parchment sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
"Very well, Captain," he said, his voice steady despite his qualms. "I formally request that you arrest Yameen Renalli for theft and kidnapping."
"It will be done within the hour," Morvath assured him, rolling the document carefully and sealing it with his official stamp. "My officers are already moving to apprehend him."
"Where's Uhura?" Jeremy Paget asked, immediately noting a discrepancy in the normal lineup as he walked into the sitting room of their apartment at the inn late the next morning.
Chekov, like himself, had just emerged from his bedroom, still stretching and yawning after the late night necessitated by the combination of the ball and the robbery of the previous evening. Both of them had been awakened by the clatter of the inn's room service laying out their mid-morning breakfast.
Daffy Gollub, who was most decidedly not usually an early riser, was already dressed and sitting at the table. A little wicker basket sat in front of her.
"After you boys went to bed, she decided to go spend a little quality time with ‘the one who commands her heart,'" the chemist answered around bite of a muffin.
Paget groaned in frustration. "Are we or are we not under direct orders not to communicate with the Havens?"
Chekov straightened and gave a determined shake of his head. "I do not think that Uhura would ever intentionally violate orders," he said staunchly.
Paget and Gollub exchanged a look.
"They ain't talking," the two concluded in unison.
"Where are you going?" Paget asked, pointing at Gollub's basket as he sat down and reached for the coffee.
"Back to the bazaar," the chemist replied, supplementing her muffin with a fortifying dollop of jam. "I want get another jar of that beauty cream."
"Daphne…" Chekov began with a sigh that encapsulated a protest against wasting effort on such an obviously fraudulent product.
"Before you open your mouth for a hearty breakfast of fillet of foot, consider this, Bubbeleh," Gollub warned. "That little jar was one of the cheapest things in the place. Why steal it? I only wanted it for analysis."
"You have a point," the Russian conceded reluctantly, selecting a puffy bun from a tray. "I suppose…"
The chemist gave him a sharp grin. "Don't I always?"
"As your security advisor, I strongly advise you not to answer that," Paget warned Chekov, reaching for a platter of fried meat strips. "Wait ‘til after I've eaten and I'll go with you, Daf."
"And I will stay here and mind the store…" The navigator looked around the still disheveled apartment, then sighed again. "What there is left of it…"
Lane Gage looked up from his late morning breakfast as Tomor Rand walked through their rooms at the Silver Svindar. "And what have you been doing?"
"My job," the enforcer answered with a rather lethal brand of pleasantness.
Gage snorted and gestured with his fork at the ever-present Rigellian stogie clamped between his bodyguard's teeth. "If you have gathered so much as one iota of useful information, I will eat that cigar."
Rand stopped, smiled, then turned to face his employer. "Beauty said she ran into two Havens at the ball who looked like the two of us."
The thought did set off warning bells, but Gage shrugged and went back to his breakfast. "Humans think all Havens look alike."
"It's been a long time since the two of us got mixed up for someone else, though, right?" the enforcer asked, leaning against the table.
"Mmmm…" Gage replied, granting nothing.
Rand ran a finger down the center of his employer's head. "She said one of them had a cute little white streak right about here."
"Gol Tarilon." Gage pronounced the name as if each separate syllable were a curse. "What in Saford's Seventh Hell would that impudent bastard be doing here?"
"Don't know." Rand straightened. "Gonna find out." He took the cigar from between his teeth and ground it into the center of Gage's soufflé. "Enjoy your breakfast, Boss. May need some salt."
Pavel Chekov sat at the ornate writing desk in his suite's sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the evidence from the previous night's robbery. The morning light streamed through the leaded glass windows illuminating several datapads spread before him, their screens displaying his analysis of the supposed "proof" against Yameen Renalli.
He picked up the torn piece of fabric that was supposedly from Renalli's coat, running it between his fingers. The weave was wrong - too fine, too uniform. His tricorder readings confirmed his suspicions. The fabric was manufactured off-world, not from the Kelicarian textiles he'd observed Renalli wearing.
"Computer, display timeline analysis again," he ordered. The readout presented the contradictory witness testimonies. The navigator shook his head. The stable boy claimed to have seen the suspect at precisely the same time the kitchen maid was supposedly in a different part of the building - yet both claimed to have witnessed the same suspicious individual. Beside him, a jewelry box beeped. The team's communicators were proper Starfleet devices equipped to defeat Havens from intercepting their messages. They were, however, disguised inside Andorian hand-comm shells and enclosed in ornate wooden Uradan boxes to make them look like objects that might be purchased by people of the upwardly-mobile merchant caste on this planet.
The Russian rolled his eyes at the inconvenience of all these layers of pretense imposed upon the simplest functions of daily life as he opened the decorative cover and activated the device. "Chavosk speaking."
"This is Kring." Paget reported. "We were able to find the beauty cream. Wondering if you needed us to pick up anything on our way back?"
"No," Chekov answered, picking up his tricorder. "My analysis of the fabric from last night showed off-world origins."
"Interesting," the Security Officer responded tersely.
"And the note," Chekov felt safe in continuing, reasoning that none of this conversation would give away their true identities to a bystander who happened to overhear. "The word for "honor" is spelled in an archaic form that modern Kelicarians would not use. Also there is a grammatical construction that seems forced."
"Well, well, well…" Paget sounded impressed. "Aren't you just the Sherlock Holmes this morning?"
The Russian blinked. "What?"
It sounded like Paget and Daphne had a conversation that wasn't quite intelligible. After a moment the Security Officer returned and said, "What I meant was, you sound like Mr. Spock with those deductions..."
"Thank you," Chekov said, although he thought this might be a rather risky line of conversation to pursue for the sake of their covers. "I try to be thorough."
"So you suspect we're looking at a frame-up?"
He nodded. "The evidence patterns are... suggestive of coordinated deception."
"Agreed. This gives me some angles to work. We'll be back before evening meal."
"Exercise extreme caution," the Russian warned. "The political currents here run even deeper than our initial assessment suggested. Chekov out."
He closed the ornate top of his communicator and shook his head. There were so many inconsistencies about the robbery that just did not fit the Chief Inspector's neat story. First, the robbery had occurred with almost surgical precision during the exact window when they were all at the ball. How did the perpetrator know their schedule so precisely? Next, there was the selection of the items stolen -- Why steal relatively inexpensive replicated jewelry while leaving behind other items that would be far more valuable to a typical thief? And why take the beauty cream - unless someone knew its true significance?
The case against Renalli was almost too perfect. Every piece of evidence pointed directly to him, with no ambiguity or alternate theories to consider. The note, the button, the witness testimony-it all felt orchestrated, like a carefully constructed narrative designed to lead to a predetermined conclusion.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his concentration. "Enter," he called, expecting the inn's staff or perhaps Captain Morveth with updates on the investigation.
Instead, Dafuv Sanzint burst through the door, his florid face flushed with excitement and what appeared to be genuine anxiety. The innkeeper was wringing his hands, his usual obsequious demeanor replaced by something approaching panic.
"Master Chavask! Oh, thank the stars you're here. Such terrible business, such terrible business indeed!"
Pavel looked up from his work, noting the man's distressed state. "What is it, Sanzint? Have you news of your children?" "Yes, yes - they've returned, praise be! But they're... they're not well, Master. They remember nothing of yesterday evening after the ball. Nothing at all! The physician says they may have been drugged, but..." He wrung his hands more vigorously. "But that's not why I'm here, Master Chavask. You have a visitor."
Pavel's eyebrows rose. "A visitor? At this hour? Captain Morveth, perhaps?"
"No, no, Master. A... a Haven gentleman. Very insistent, he is. Says he must speak with you immediately about matters of great importance. He's waiting in the main parlor, and he's..." Sanzint lowered his voice conspiratorially, "he's not the sort one keeps waiting, if you understand my meaning."
The navigator frowned. He did not know what madness had possessed the Haven Ambassador, but this was going too far. First Gage had nearly exposed his true identity a half dozen times at the ball last night and now he was sending his Security advisor to intimidate him for some reason. "This gentleman," he asked, narrowing his eyes, "he was a rather large person? Bald?"
"Yes, Master, yes!" the innkeeper confirmed. "Very large and very quiet sort. The kind who speaks with his fists, if you take my meaning."
"Oh, yes." The Russian scowled in annoyance "Very well, Mr. Sanzint. Tell my visitor that I will be down momentarily. But allow me a moment to make myself presentable for such an important visitor."
The innkeeper bowed deeply. "Of course, Master Chavask. I shall inform him immediately."
As soon as the door closed behind Sanzint, Chekov quickly gathered his research material and stowed them in the hidden safe. Since the portion of the team's communication equipment he had be left with was too bulky to be nicely portable, he put on an ornate ring that contained a location transmitter in case he decided to leave the inn.
Grumbling, he straightened his merchant's tunic and checked his appearance in the mirror before turning to the door.
"Haven Cossacks!" he growled, as he exited. "Will no one take this mission seriously?"
The main parlor of the Golden Niran was designed to impress wealthy guests, with its rich tapestries, imported furniture, and carefully arranged artifacts from across the sector. Chekov descended the main staircase with measured steps, every inch the successful trader coming to meet with important business associates.
As he neared the bottom of the staircase, the navigator began, too late, to process the clues that told him that the Haven waiting for him was not Tomor Rand.
Like the Haven Ambassador's security advisor, the Haven was large and lethal. The bald man was sitting in a chair that seemed barely able to contain his massive frame. He was looking down.
Hearing his footsteps, the Haven stood. Chekov could see then see that his visitor was not quite as tall as Tomor Rand. This man was broader, more brutal in appearance. The lower half of his face was covered by a short beard. The navigator noticed the slight bulge beneath his leather jacket. His guest was clearly armed.
"I was anticipating someone else," the navigator said, coming to a cautious halt before the bottom step. "There may be some mistake…?"
"I am Rev Marken. My employer has a proposition for you, Master Chavask," the man said, immediately coming much too close for comfort. "A business opportunity that simply cannot wait. His car is outside. He believes the two of you can come to a most... profitable arrangement."
There was a clear threat in the Haven's size and proximity.
"I see," Chekov said with forced calm, "and if I decline this generous invitation?"
"I wouldn't, if I were you," Marken's voice was a low rumble. "My employer dislikes discourtesy."
Chekov's hand moved toward the transmitter hidden inside his ring. He intended to hit the button within the jewel that would activate the emergency beacon, but Marken was faster. The enforcer's massive fist clamped down on the Russian's wrist with crushing force. With the same ease he might have employed to take a toy from a struggling child, the Haven removed the ring and smashed it beneath his boot-heel.
"No more of that, little man," the Haven scolded, giving his face a rough pat that felt like a slap. "Declining this invitation isn't an option."
Chekov could feel his blood boiling. Unfortunately, his options seemed to be quite limited at the moment. There didn't seem to be any way to escape the situation without blowing his cover or potentially endangering civilian lives.
"I will have you know that my associates will be most concerned when they discover my absence," he protested, as the enforcer took him by the shoulders and roughly guided him to the inn's side exit.
"Oh, we hope so." The Haven chuckled darkly as he forced the Russian into a waiting hover car. "In fact, we're counting on it."
"Well, well, well..." Jeremy Paget's grin stretched wide as he spoke into the ornate communicator, disguised as a merchant's trinket box. "Aren't you just the Sherlock Holmes this morning?"
Daffy Gollub rolled her eyes as a puzzled "What?" filtered through the static.
Around them, Nanzanin's bazaar pulsed with the chaotic energy of colliding cultures. Medieval stone archways framed stalls where hover-car parts gleamed beside hand-forged iron tools. The air itself seemed layered. Exotic spices battled acrid engine smoke. The sweet chime of strings of tiny bells caught in the ever-present breeze drowned in the guttural rumble of repulsor engines. Wealthy Uradans, draped in silk and brocade, haggled over alien trinkets they barely understood. A few feet away, the planet's poor transformed discarded Federation tech into ingenious contraptions that would make their original designers goggle with amazement.
Paget muted the communicator, pressing it against his chest. "You're telling me he honestly doesn't know who Sherlock Holmes is?"
Daffy shook her head as she continued to examine trinkets on the vendor's stand before her. "Encyclopedia brain for everything from quantum mechanics to 18th-century agricultural reforms, but mention anything literary that wasn't penned by his beloved Russian masters..." She shrugged eloquently. "Crickets."
Paget squinted incredulously. He'd heard Sulu and DelMonde joke about Chekov's nationalist tunnel vision, but this was beyond parody. "Seriously?"
"Just tell him he sounds like Spock," Daffy suggested confidently. "He'll practically purr."
Paget brought the communicator back to his lips. "What I meant was, you sound like Mr. Spock with those deductions."
The response was immediate and glowing. "Thank you. I do try to be thorough in my analysis."
Daffy caught Paget's grateful gesture and responded with a theatrical shrug, then held up her thumb and forefinger, mouthing "Mini-Spock" with a grin.
Paget fought back laughter that would shatter his Klingon facade. "So you suspect we're looking at a frame-up?"
"The evidence patterns are... suggestive of coordinated deception," Chekov's voice carried that particular note of scientific certainty that made him sound disturbingly like their Vulcan science officer.
"Agreed. This gives me some angles to work." Paget's gaze swept the bazaar's chaos, inventorying potential threats with an expert eye. "We'll be back before evening meal."
"Exercise extreme caution. The political currents here run deeper than our initial assessment suggested. Chekov out."
Daffy completed her purchase with a flourish, dropping a coin into the grimy palm of a gap-toothed vendor whose grin mixed genuine gratitude with practiced avarice.
"Blessings on you, m'lady! May your beauty shine eternal!"
As they walked away, Paget noticed the vendor's immediate response-a quick, furtive scan of the coin with a handheld device. Even authentic gratefulness came with healthy helping Uradan pragmatism in these quarters...
"So what's your theory about that perfume sample?" the Security Officer asked, watching Daffy tie a ribbon bearing a decorative vial around her neck.
"My theory," she replied with mock solemnity, "is that it's going to smell absolutely divine."
Paget's laugh was genuine. "Right."
"Which reminds me..." Daffy transferred one of the beauty cream jars from her wicker basket to her skirt pocket. "Time to put theory into practice."
"Wait." Paget's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "You're actually going to use that stuff? I thought you were just going to analyze it."
Daffy's gave him a narrow look. "You want I should be less than thorough?"
Paget's hands shot up in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of questioning a lady's professional judgment."
"Smart man." She straightened to her full height, hands on hips in a pose of mock authority, surveying the crowd-choked avenue. "So, you're going to do some actual investigating now?"
"That's the plan." Paget studied her body language-the slight shift in weight, the way her gaze kept drifting toward the distant spires of the inn district. "And you're ready to head back to base, aren't you?"
Gollub gestured towards her uncomfortably heavy skirts. "I could go for a nosh and a bath."
The Security Officer frowned as he scanned the crowd. "You sure you can make it back safely? This place has more undercurrents than a Romulan riptide."
"Please." Daffy brushed his concerns aside with an aristocratic wave. "It's six blocks through the merchant quarter. I've navigated through worse getting to the snack bar at the Clave...."
When he automatically put a finger to his lips to admonish this reference to the secret racing society they'd been a part of as teenagers, she replied with a derisive snort.
"Really?" Gollub's gesture took in the alien marketplace. "Like someone here is gonna know?"
"Stranger things have happened," Paget pointed out, weightily.
"Yeah," the chemist agreed, then leaned in and then whispered dramatically, "…at the C..L..A..V.. E.."
The Security Officer smiled and shook his head as he gave the crowd surrounding them another scan. "You are incorrigible."
Gollub gave a piteous sigh. "And tired, and hungry, and sweaty."
"Straight back," Paget insisted, firmly pointing out a direct route to the inn. "No detours, no additional shopping, no matter how fascinating the local craftsmanship."
"Like an arrow I'll fly," she assured him, making an instant and miraculous recovery as she waved him an airy goodbye and set off with her basket swinging jauntily from her arm.
Ten minutes later, the chemist's confidence had melted like the morning mist.
Initially, she dismissed the sensation as simple paranoia. However as she navigated a narrow street lined with fabric merchants, her general unease crystallized into a certainty that all was not well. She paused at a stall selling Andorian silk scarves, their blue shimmer catching the filtered sunlight. Taking a decorative mirror from her basket, she used the polished surface scan the path behind her.
A figure in a brown cloak was stationed by a fruit vendor's display. When she stopped, he stopped. When she moved to examine merchandise, he mirrored her actions with the practiced ease of a professional.
Oy gevalt, she thought grimly. This is decidedly not good.
She purchased the silk headscarf-both to maintain her wealthy merchant's wife cover and to buy precious seconds to assess the threat. The Golden Niran Inn lay less than six blocks away through increasingly narrow streets that metamorphosed from broad sunny thoroughfares into a maze of medieval stonework and shadows. Perfect hunting ground for anyone with hostile intentions.
Gollub's pace quickened as she sorted through the list of those who might be intent on tracking her movements. Her first suspicions landed on the thought it might be someone connected to the Yameen Renalli case. Despite Captain
Morveth's swift arrest of the Kelincarian trader, the Enterprise team's investigation was revealing uncomfortable truths. The evidence had been too convenient, too perfectly arranged. If Renalli was innocent -which seemed increasingly likely - then the real perpetrator might be concerned about loose ends.
Or, the darker possibility whispered through her thoughts, someone's figured out that Pasol Chavask and his household aren't quite what they claim to be.
The street curved sharply leftward, passing beneath a stone archway that connected two ancient buildings. As she approached this bottleneck, Daffy made a split-second decision. Instead of continuing straight into what could easily become a trap, she ducked right into a narrow alley that divided the space between a bakery and a shop specializing in salvaged hover-car components.
The alley barely accommodated two people walking abreast. The air hung thick with the competing scents of fresh bread and mechanical lubricants. This route, however, offered an alternative path back to the main thoroughfare. If her pursuers were less professional than they seemed, she might lose them entirely in the maze.
Gollub had made it about fifty meters when the sound of running footsteps echoed off the narrow walls behind her, multiplying and distorting until it sounded like an entire squadron in pursuit.
Definitely not paranoia, she concluded, breaking into a dead run.
The alley system routed through Nanzanin's older district like a gigantic termite nest, twisting and turning crazily in all directions. Although she tried keeping track of the direction she was taking and making logical choices, in the end, Daffy chose her route toward the inn district by closing her eyes, saying a little nonsense rhyme, and then hoping for the best, her heart hammering against her ribs as the sounds of pursuit grew closer and more organized.
At length, the chemist burst onto a broader street she didn't recognize, lined with workshops where craftsmen performed the daily miracle of keeping Uradan civilization running. The sight that greeted her was the sort of cross-cultural mash-up that could only exist on a planet like this one. A man was using an industrial sonic hammer to beat dents from a hover-car's chassis while next to him a woman hand-stitched leather harnesses with the patient skill of centuries. Both looked up in surprise as she ran past, her elaborate gown hiked up to prevent tripping, the very picture of wealthy panic.
Behind her, the sound of pursuit had multiplied. There were now at least three sets of footsteps, possibly more, moving with the coordinated precision that might suggest military training rather than opportunistic crime.
Think! she commanded herself. You're a Star Fleet officer – a scientist. What's the scientific approach to this problem? Think like a scientist…. What would Spock do?...He'd haul his green ass out of here, that's what he'd do…!
Taking a deep breath, Gollub turned and headed down another street. The route climbed toward what she hoped was the inn district. The buildings here spoke of greater age-weathered stone walls, smaller windows. Fewer people were about. Less populated streets presented both advantages and disadvantages: less chance of civilian casualties, but also less chance of help if the situation deteriorated further.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed her worst fears. Three figures were following her now, no longer bothering with subtlety. They wore the rough clothing of dock workers or manual laborers, however their movement patterns screamed professional training. This wasn't random street crime - this was a coordinated operation.
The street ahead curved sharply around a large building that might once have been a warehouse. As she rounded the corner, Daffy's heart plummeted. The street terminated in a small courtyard surrounded by walls that might as well have been fortress barriers - a perfect dead end.
Looking more closely, she could see that there was a fountain in the courtyard's center. Beyond it, there was what appeared to be the mouth of another alley. If she could just reach it-
"Nowhere left to run, lady."
Daffy turned to see her three pursuers blocking the courtyard's entrance like a human wall. The speaker was tall and lean with the kind of craggy features that spoke of a life lived in the galaxy's harsher corners. His companions flanked him with in a formation that only appeared casual to the untrained eye, their hands resting meaningfully on weapons concealed beneath their cloaks.
"I believe you gentlemen have mistaken me for someone else," Daffy replied, drawing herself up to her full height with the imperious confidence of inherited wealth. "I am Dasha Chavask. My husband will be most displeased to learn of this harassment."
"Your husband is exactly why we're here," the tall man interrupted. "Yameen Renalli sends his regards."
Gollub gave them a genuinely puzzled frown. So it is about the frame-up. But if Renalli's in custody, how is he coordinating this?
"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name," she said aloud, backing carefully toward the fountain.
The man's smile widened into something very unpleasant. "Oh, but you do. Your husband had him arrested on charges that wouldn't fool a child. Yameen has friends, you see. Friends who don't appreciate watching him get railroaded by some off-world merchant who thinks local law is just another commodity to be bought."
"My husband simply reported a theft to the proper authorities," Daffy replied, rapidly dialing down on the "haughty" level of her performance. If these were genuinely Renalli's allies, she gambled that might be able to reason with them-especially if she could convince them that she and her 'husband' were also victims of the real criminal. "He was pressured to sign that complaint by the Chief Inspector."
"Funny thing about that theft," one of the other men spoke up angrily. "Yameen says he never left his rooms that night. Says he can prove it too, if anyone bothered to ask the right questions instead of just accepting convenient evidence."
Poor bastard's probably telling the truth, Daffy thought. But that doesn't help me right now.
"Look, fellows," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of peace while continuing to back toward the fountain. "It's obvious that there's been some kind of mistake-"
"Oh, there's been a mistake all right," the tall man said, beginning to advance. "The mistake was your husband thinking he could frame an innocent man and walk away clean. But Yameen believes in justice. Old-fashioned justice. An eye for an eye."
The scope of the set-up was becoming clear. Renalli's allies intended to use her as a hostage to create leverage to pressure the authorities for his release.
It was also equally clear to Gollub that someone had orchestrated Renalli's frame-up and now was using his legitimate grievances as cover for their own agenda.
"Here's what's going to happen," the tall man continued, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone explaining something to a slow child. "You're going to come with us nice and quiet. We're going to send your husband a message he won't forget. Tell him if he wants you back in one piece, he needs to withdraw those charges and make a public apology for his lies."
Over my dead body, Daffy thought, but kept her expression carefully neutral. "And if I refuse?"
"What was that?" The man pulled at his ear, then looked to his companions and laughed. "Sorry, lady. We're not hearing "no's" today."
Daffy huffed with the perfect mixture of outrage and fear that she imagined would characterize a pampered merchant's wife. The gesture brought her wicker basket within easy reach of her right hand. She let her fingers drift down to rest on the beauty cream containers, as she quickly sorted through chemical compositions and catalyst possibilities. The substance was harmless in its current form, however, she knew its molecular structure. With the right components-and she had several in the basket-the compound could be transformed into something considerably more volatile.
"Give me a moment to consider," she fretted melodramatically, trying to buy precious seconds.
"You've had enough time," the tall man replied, starting forward. "Let's go, lady. Time to send your husband a message."
Daffy's hand shot toward the jars in her basket.
Unfortunately her captors had anticipated resistance. One lunged forward with impressive speed, his iron grip closing around her wrist like a shackle. The second materialized behind her, his dirty hand clamping a drug-soaked cloth over her mouth to prevent any cries for help. The basket overturned, spilling her purchases across the ancient cobblestones in a cascade of broken glass and scattered trinkets.
"Sorry to ruin your shopping trip, lady," one of the thugs laughed, the sound echoing off the courtyard walls. He whistled a sharp signal that summoned confederates from concealed positions, then kicked the empty basket into the shadows with casual cruelty.
As they bundled her toward a waiting hover-car that materialized from the maze of narrow streets, Daffy's last coherent thought was a prayer that when Jeremy Paget noticed that she had failed to return to the inn on schedule, he would track each of these thugs down and kick their asses so hard they'd be permanently stuck with bootlaces as eyelashes…
The hover-car's engine hummed to life, and Nanzanin's ancient streets swallowed them whole.