Darrah saw the pennants flapping from the stern in the light breeze: two colored flags, one flying the city seal of Qui’al and the other the slightly gaudy clan sigil of the Kubus family. He had never dealt with anyone from that lineage before, but he knew the face of the man who stepped from the hydrofoil as well as any Bajoran who watched the newsfeeds. Kubus Oak, Minister for Qui’al and owner of one of the planet’s largest offworld shipping firms, strode down the pier and across the docks as if he owned them. The man seemed little different in the flesh to how he looked on the feeds: a round face with deep-set eyes, short and nondescript hair, clothes that favored offworld styles.

Two of the minister’s aides followed quickly behind. One was a mousy, slight man clutching a briefcase, the other a blunt-looking fellow who seemed to have been forced into a tunic a size too small for him. The second man had the unmistakable air of a soldier about him, and the constable could tell from his gait that he had a concealed holster in the small of his back.

Kubus stepped up, and Darrah opened the sedan’s door for him. The minister scrutinized the vehicle. “This is a skimmer,” he noted with a disdainful sniff.

“Your insight does you credit, Minister,” Darrah replied, without a hint of sarcasm. The man had said four words, and already Darrah was taking a dislike to him.

“I’d expected Holza to lay on a flyer for me, at the very least.” Kubus eyed the car, as if it were beneath him to climb inside.

“All on operational duty, sir,” Darrah said smoothly, “and not a one of them is as comfortable as this vehicle.” He gave a thin smile. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll have you to the keep on time.”

“See that you do, Constable,” said Kubus, finally getting in, his assistants following suit.

Darrah pressed the accelerator and took the sedan out through the back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where traffic would be thick and hard to navigate. On the dashboard monitor, he saw the stocky man, the bodyguard, peering narrow-eyed out of the windows, frowning at the tight lanes as the car threaded through them.

He skirted the industrial districts and the housing projects beyond the City Oval, flashing past the great steps that led to Korto’s bantacaspire and on to the loop roads up the hillside toward the Naghai Keep. Along the sides of the highway there was activity at every storefront, down every side road and boulevard. Banners and gales of flags were fluttering in place or being hoisted up for the start of the festival, and at every intersection there was a wide brazier. The better districts had ones plated in bronze or brass; the less moneyed wards of the city made do with simple iron cauldrons. Stalls selling scroll paper and quills were doing brisk business along with jumjakiosks and cook-wagons. Crossing over an intersection, Darrah caught a whiff of freshly made hasperatand his mouth watered.

He hadn’t really thought that much about the Gratitude Festival this year, not really, only in terms of being a constable in the City Watch, in terms of work and not family. His entire consideration of the event revolved around the dispensation of officers for the duration, of what flyers to have on standby, which known bag-snatchers and pickpockets to keep an eye out for. The phantom taste of the hasperatsoured on his tongue as he thought of Karys, of Bajin and Nell. Would this year’s festival be like last year’s, when he had pressed a handful of litas into his wife’s fingers and went off to work after a few moments of standing with his children? Absently he remembered how Bajin had got sick last festival from eating too many toasted bean curd buns. He’d only found out about that after getting in as B’hava’el was rising, Karys making it clear in no uncertain terms that it was his fault it had happened.

Darrah pushed the thought away with a grimace and drove on. From behind him, he heard Kubus talking with the slight man. “What is that?” He was pointing at something out on the street. “A giant scroll?”

The minister’s aide nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s a quirk, a quaint tradition in some of the less sophisticated townships. Districts where the locals can’t afford to purchase individual renewal scrolls for each person will often pool their money to buy one single scroll of great size; usually a prylar from the local temple will take on the responsibility of writing all the people’s woes on the paper before it is burned in the brazier.”

Kubus grunted. “The whole point of renewal is that the contents of the scrolls are private. What you write on them is between a man and the Prophets. Who would want some inexperienced cleric knowing your troubles?”

“Some of the people may not be able to write themselves,” the aide demurred.

The minister’s face soured. “Surely Korto is not so parochial that its citizens are illiterate? If that’s true, then Holza is doing a poor job of stewarding the community.”

In the driving seat, Darrah’s grip tightened on the steering yoke. Perhaps when he put his troubles down on his renewal scroll tonight, there might be a space at the bottom to add the name Kubus Oak. Darrah deliberately let the skimmer jerk as he turned into the avenue through the ornamental gardens toward the high tower of the keep.

“Pardon me,” he said, with mock sincerity, as Kubus’s aide missed his mouth with a sip of water. Darrah had never been that fond of people from Qui’al, not since he was a teenager and the city’s springball team had stolen the pennant from Korto by using decidedly unsportsmanlike conduct. Kubus Oak was doing little to improve the constable’s opinion.

As he drew the sedan to a halt inside the ring wall, at the base of the portcullis, Darrah found himself wondering if there had been any point at all in dragging him off a vital assignment just to ferry this elitist out-of-towner up to meet Jas. It was a job any supernumerary could have done—perhaps not as swiftly as Darrah did it, thanks to his knowledge of the city streets, admittedly—not one for a senior constable.

He opened the door for Kubus, and the man exited the car without ever looking at him, moving off to be greeted by Lonnic, who threw Darrah a quick nod of the head. It was all about show, all about politics, and Darrah detested the cheap theater of it. Minister Jas wanted Minister Kubus to think he had great respect for him, so he arranged for a senior law officer to ferry him about like a common driver. I’ve got more important things to do.

He turned and found the slight man watching him, dabbing at the water mark on his tunic. “The minister will require transport back to the docks once his meeting is concluded,” he was told.

“Really?” Darrah folded his arms. “How long will that take?”

“As long as it needs to.”

“Is that right?” Darrah dipped into his pocket and took out the sedan’s control key. “I’ll tell you what. You tell Kubus, he wants to drive back, he can be my guest.” Darrah tossed the key at the aide, who caught it badly, fumbling. “Just make sure he doesn’t dent it.”

The constable strode away, out through the gates of the keep. There was a tram stop just outside the ornamental gardens, and the route would take him straight back to his home. If he was lucky, he’d get back there before Karys and the kids left.

With a warmth that was utterly at odds with the misgivings he felt, Jas Holza greeted Kubus Oak with a smile and a nod. “Minister Kubus, it’s a pleasure to have you in Korto. Welcome to the Naghai Keep.”

“Thank you, Minister Jas,” said the other man, “and let me be the first to wish you Peldor Joi,”he concluded, making the ritual greeting for the Gratitude Festival.

Jas showed him to a broad leather armchair. “Ah,” he replied. “A little early, perhaps? The celebrations here will not formally commence until I make the Presider’s address to the city tonight.”