“Bateretleaves,” said a voice. “We burn them. It’s a PeldorFestival tradition.”

Dukat turned to see a Bajoran man standing in an open-topped stone cupola some short distance down the length of the ramparts. A soldier?The Cardassian read the man’s manner instantly from the way he stood, the wary edge in his voice. The Bajoran turned toward him hesitantly, as if he were uncertain it was permissible for him to speak to Dukat. The dalin saw a simple chain glitter on the man’s ear, and he took in the ochre-colored uniform, the holstered gun at his hip. He noted how the Bajoran’s hands never went anywhere near the pistol. Not a soldier then, perhaps. But certainly one used to dealing with unknown threats.The corners of Dukat’s mouth drew up in satisfaction at the thought of being considered in such a way. “You are holding a festival in our honor?”

A brief flash of amusement crossed the Bajoran’s face. “Uh, no. I’m afraid not. You just timed your arrival to coincide with one of our annual celebrations.” He nodded toward the city. “The Gratitude Festival. We ask the Prophets to help us with our troubles and watch over us in the coming year.” He sighed. “It’ll be over by tomorrow.” The Bajoran paused. He was clearly finding the situation awkward.

Dukat elected to say nothing; until this moment, every alien he had met on this planet had been a politician or a priest. He found himself wondering about the men who served below them, the workers and the warriors like this one. Like me.

“Do you have celebrations like this on your world?”

Dukat looked back at the city. “Some. On Union Day, all of Cardassia unites in honor of the formation of our society. We mark the anniversaries of the deaths of our ancestors, the births of our children and…and their namings.” His throat tightened a little on the last few words, and he frowned at himself.

The Bajoran heard the catch in his voice. “I have children. A boy, Bajin, and a girl, Nell.”

For a brief instant, Dukat considered turning around and leaving; instead he found himself answering. “I have a son,” he replied. “He has yet to be named.”

“A newborn?”

Dukat shook his head. “He is a few months old. I have been on detached duty and unable to return home to join his mother for the ceremony. Both parents must be present for the naming to be formally recognized by the state.”

“But you have chosen a name already?” The Bajoran came closer.

Dukat nodded. “Procal, after my father. I fear my wife may have other ideas, however.” He felt the weight of the holograph rod in his wrist pocket, and the pictures came to the front of his thoughts once again. His saw his family, out there in Lakat, waiting for the supplies to arrive. And here he was, only a few feet away from a room brimming with food he could not give them. The greasy aftertaste of a Bajoran meat dish he had eaten came up at the back of his throat and his hands gripped the stone lip of the battlements.

“I’m Darrah Mace,” said the other man.

“Skrain Dukat.”

Darrah accepted this with a nod. “You’re military.”

“As you are.”

“Not exactly.” Darrah frowned. “I’m a Militia officer, but not a line soldier. I’m a law enforcer, part of Korto’s City Guard.” The Bajoran followed Dukat’s gaze out over the conurbation. “I imagine the demands of our duties are similar, though. Sometimes, family has to be served second.”

Dukat shot a look at the man, and he was ready to censure Darrah for his forwardness. The urge dissolved as quickly as it had come upon him. Careful, Dukat,he told himself. Do not reveal too much to these aliens.For all he knew, this chance meeting might have been engineered deliberately by Verin and the others to take the measure of the Cardassians. And if they are anything like us, this man will report every word we have shared to his superior officer the moment I leave.The furrows on his brow deepened. He was allowing the matter of the naming ceremony, of his concerns for the welfare of Athra and his son, to play on his mind. The resentment was there again, and some of it fell at the feet of Kell. The gul knew Dukat’s circumstances, and he had denied the dalin’s request for a temporary leave of absence prior to the Bajor mission.

The Bajoran didn’t seem to notice the turmoil behind Dukat’s eyes. “We all have our responsibilities,” he said, and Dukat detected an air of resignation in the other man’s manner.

He was still forming a reply when a figure stepped out onto the balcony behind him. “Skrain. There you are.” Kotan Pa’Dar approached him. “Minister Jas has provided us with guest quarters for the night in the keep’s east tower. Professor Ico felt it would be best if we accept. A refusal might offend the—” He caught sight of Darrah and hesitated. “Our hosts.”

“Of course.” Dukat gave the Bajoran a nod. “Perhaps we will speak again?”

“Maybe so,” offered Darrah.

Pa’Dar spoke quietly as they walked away. “What was that about? You were talking with the alien?”

“It was nothing,” said Dukat, with a finality that silenced the scientist.

5

There was something about a library that instilled a sense of reverence in Gar Osen. Just as he would have on entering a temple of the Prophets, or one of the great halls in the monastery, his voice fell into soft, respectful tones. Before he accepted the calling of the Prophets, he had grown up in a house filled with books—his mother was a minor playwright—and Osen had understood from an early age that books were a doorway to other worlds, to the past or to schools of thought that were vastly different from his own. He had never lost the veneration that being in such surroundings brought upon him. It was second only to the satisfaction he felt in the temple, when he spoke with the Prophets.

Even now, late at night with the light of the floater-globes hovering in the galleries at their lowest setting, the chamber was still impressive. The Naghai Keep’s library was one of the finest private collections on Bajor, with works that the Jas clan had gathered from across the planet since the era of the First Republic. Gar had seen the deep vaults beneath the library proper where they now walked, where stasis field pods kept documents that were millennia old safe from the ravages of time. Admittedly, the keep’s current master, Jas Holza, did not have the same sense of respect for the library as his father had shown, but the minister was savvy enough to know that it was a treasure. Still, there had been times when Kai Meressa and Vedek Cotor had applied gentle pressure to ensure that the minister kept hold of certain works instead of selling them to collectors in other provinces.

At his side, the kai gestured upward to point out the three levels of the collection’s stacks. “It’s hard to imagine, but this library began in ancient times as a simple compilation of agricultural charts and works of botany.” Cotor was nodding in agreement, and behind them the two Cardassian clerics, Hadlo and Bennek, walked slowly, tipping back their heads to take in the scope of the place. “It houses works of all kinds, from fiction through to sciences, religious works, historical documents. An original copy of Shabren’s Prophecies resides here, and it is said that in this very room the treaty of the Nine Tribes was first drawn up, ushering in the age of the Third Republic…” Meressa drew her hands together. “Forgive me. History is a passion of mine.”

“A most impressive collection,” offered Hadlo. “You spoke of religious works here? Is that typical of your world, that they would be part of a clan’s personal holdings? Doesn’t your church keep important books itself?”

Cotor shook his head. “You misunderstand, Hadlo. The Naghai library is commodious, of that there is no doubt, but it is not primarily a store of holy works.” The vedek’s head bobbed in agreement with his own words. “The monastery at Kendra, some distance to the south, is Bajor’s greatest repository of devotional literature.”