Khreg said nothing. He leaned back in his chair. The chair was wide and solid, with a metallic frame; it looked like the command chair of an old Klingon warship. It fitted in with the many other antiques in the room; the holograms of space battles over the fireplace, the crossed bat'leths and disruptor rifles on the walls, the commemorative plaques and the pieces of armour. Khreg's study looked like a museum - and Khreg himself, with his grizzled grey hair, and the many decorations studding his leather coat, looked like an exhibit himself. He picked up the datapad and studied it closely.
"What is this?" Dillan asked, suddenly. He pointed to a book, lying open on a small side table. "I cannot read that writing -"
"Not many can," murmured Khreg. "It is a relic of Ng'Khalvan, a nation destroyed in the Hur'q invasion. A few of those people survived, to preserve some remnants of their culture. I doubt, though, that there are a hundred people alive today who can read Ng'Khalvan Hol."
"Are you among them?" asked Dillan.
"Of course. What would be the point of owning a book I could not read?" Khreg lifted the datapad in his hand. "I can read this, too."
"And your thoughts?" asked T'Khal.
Khreg pursed his lips. "An interesting proposal," he said.
"But will you support it?" Dillan asked. T'Khal waved him to silence.
"How might I support anything?" asked Khreg. "I am a private citizen, a retired soldier - I hold no seat on the High Council. Unlike yourselves. How might a mere private citizen assist two High Councillors?"
"Your voice is heard," said Dillan. "Your House has claims in honour upon half the noble families of the Empire! You have -"
"It is true," said Khreg, "that my House has done service to the Empire over many generations. And it is good that others... remember this. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps, when I speak, others... may be minded to listen. But, tell me, why should I speak in favour of this?"
"Because," said T'Khal, "it represents final victory."
Khreg raised one shaggy eyebrow. "To the uninitiated," he said, "it looks more like final surrender."
"With respect, Dahar Master, not so," said T'Khal. "We have heard for generations how our culture must mature, must develop, and so must come to resemble its enemy. The Federation. We have been told, time and time again, that we must put aside childish things like honour and battle and pride in lineage, and embrace the Federation's supposed enlightenment. We have been told this so many time, even some Klingons have come to believe it! But this -" He took a step towards Khreg, leaning towards the old man, speaking in a softer voice that somehow carried with it utter conviction. "This proves that the humans, the Federation's single most influential species, are prepared to embrace our values, our warrior ethos. They want to be like us, Khreg. We cede a title to them, a historically important but now meaningless title, and in so doing, we win. We win the war of ideas. A more final victory than any we could win on a battlefield. The Federation stands or falls by its ideals, and here we have one of their founder members, leaving their ideals to embrace ours."
Khreg raised his head, meeting T'Khal's gaze. "No," he said, shortly.
"No?"
"You do not understand the Federation, High Councillor T'Khal. You think you do, but you do not. They take their IDIC, their diversity, seriously. They will not quail at this. It will not drive them to re-think their beliefs, their ideas. They will simply shrug it off, as a difference of opinion. Nothing more. But the symbolism to us, to our culture - You say the title is historically important, but now meaningless. I say, nothing has meaning outside its historical importance. I know my history." With his other hand, he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the relics in the room.
"You will not support us, then?" Dillan demanded.
"You have heard my thoughts," said Khreg.
"Before you reach a final decision, Dahar Master," said T'Khal, "let us speak some more of history."
Khreg shook his head. "I doubt there is any historical precedent you can cite, that would change my mind."
"Still, we must persevere," said T'Khal. "In the matter of the Orion, ahh, entertainer named Methis Dizour... that is a minor historical incident, whose details have never been entirely made clear."
"A very minor historical incident," said Khreg.
"Of course. But the movements of your heir, Karos, were of interest at the time, were they not? Though it was quickly established that he was not involved. Persons of rank and honour spoke for him. And the exact truth... well, you are a historian, you know that exact truth is hard to find. Ultimately, the only persons who know the whole truth were the Orion, and... the killer."
"The Orion is dead," said Khreg, "and the killer has never been found."
"Quite," said T'Khal. "And there are, no doubt, some who might wish this state of affairs to continue. The killer... and his House, one must presume, who would be dishonoured if the full details came to light."
"How could those full details ever come to light?" Khreg demanded. "As you say, they are known only to two people."
"Indeed," said T'Khal. "But our historical researches are meticulous, Dahar Master. They have, for example, reached as far as a certain storage facility on the borders of your own estates, at QanSa Fields. Curious, that your House's name crops up so frequently in this context, even though persons of rank and honour are convinced that your heir was not involved."
Something changed in Khreg's eyes. T'Khal's eyes were merciless.
"I... will consider all that you have said," Khreg said slowly. "There are many historical factors which must be assessed."
"Of course," said T'Khal.
"Tomorrow," said Khreg. "Tomorrow. I would ask you to call again, tomorrow. By then, I will have... reviewed the data... and will know how best I can assist you."
"That would be eminently satisfactory, Dahar Master," said T'Khal. "You have our thanks."
---
After they had gone, Khreg sat for a long time, the datapad unread in his hand.
"Honour," he said to no one, after a while. "Honour... is lost, even if no other knows that one has lost it. Is it more lost, if many know it? If only a few know?"
His free hand curled into a fist. "How? How did they know about QanSa? No one knows. No one...."
He stood. The datapad dropped, unheeded, to the floor.
"I will not help them. But I will not have my dishonour known."
He strode to one wall, opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of bloodwine and a goblet. He closed his eyes for a moment, and muttered something inaudible.
He went to another cupboard. It was locked, and he fumbled for a little while among the nearby relics, until he found a key. From the cupboard, he took a small, square, metal flask.
He filled the goblet with bloodwine, almost to the brim. He took a deep breath. He opened the flask, and poured its contents into the wine. The fluid from the flask was colourless; it vanished into the bloodwine and left no apparent trace.
He picked up the goblet, turned it in his fingers, apparently admiring the chasing. Then he took another deep breath. He raised the goblet to his mouth and drank, swiftly and steadily, never stopping until all the wine was gone.
Then he returned to his chair and sat down, composing himself, staring straight ahead, his hands on the armrests. He did not move; he seemed to be waiting. There was no sound in the room except for his breathing. After a few minutes, that stopped.
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