Chapter 4

Dusk had fallen over Cardassia City. With the dying of the light, Garak settled into the privacy of the old gardening shed turned shelter, in the garden of the home where he’d grown up. By now, Cardassians would have consumed their evening meal and retired to their homes, tents, or whatever shelter they had. The streets would be mostly empty, except for the patrolling security teams and those whose furtive movements suggested less reputable motives. A few stars poked through the hazy heavens above, but mostly the city was now a realm of shadows, as was the memorial garden that surrounded him.

Secure in his shelter, Garak continued to read, and to ponder what Rekel had gleaned for him, and what he’d learned from Limorin.

...This was in the third year of Alont Dumerik’s tenure as the leader of the Council, when the vaults of the heirs of the flyers were sealed to contain the poison that had spread among the Paldar....

The Paldar was one of the sectors of Cardassia City; he knew of no other Paldar on their world. Paldar was the second oldest part of the city; it had been home to civil servants and bureaucrats — the highest-ranking families among the civilians. The district also contained large numbers of cemeteries and mausoleums, along with its parks and memorials, and carried a great deal of historical significance.

There was a reference in the Dumerik family repetitive epic, In the Shadow of Glory, something about the Paldar — not Paldar Sector, but “the Paldar” — what was it.... After a second it came back to him. There was an obscure comment in old editions of the epic, in which the civil servants of the time were referred to as “the Paldar”; the line had been revised in more recent editions. He’s always thought it a reference to the section of the city they lived in, but what if it was a reference to the people who lived there? If the sector had been named for some obscure reference to the civilian workers who primarily resided there? It was possible.

“Among the Paldar could mean a poison that spread among the civil service and minor bureaucrats,” he murmured to himself thoughtfully. “Dissent of some kind? Hmm, civilian dissent, it would not be the first or last time such arose among our people....”

But what kind of dissent? What kind of poison could be contained by sealing a vault with the heirs of the flyers?

Rekel’s investigation revealed that the heirs of the flyers were labeled as either mythical creatures from a long-ago age, or cult members who had to be suppressed for the good of society.

He had no doubt the “cult members” had been dissidents of some kind, their very names tainted and then buried in expectation their existence would be forgotten. The Obsidian Order and the Cardassian military had done the same to other small groups, over the past two hundred fifty years. If the military still held sway as it once had, the same would have happened to Lang’s dissidents and the supporters of the Oralian Way.

So, dissidents targeted for oblivion. What did they believe? What does Mondrig wish to learn about them? And why? Garak knew the self-serving worm cared nothing for history, except what he could use or sell. The incident with the Ferengi had shown that clearly.

Something he could profit from.... Another vault, perhaps? Another collection of our historical artifacts that he could privately dispose it? He felt a wave of contempt and anger flood through him. That was certainly the easiest and most likely explanation. Mondrig was treasure hunting, seeking a trove of artifacts that dated back at least to the time of Alont Dumerik, artifacts that were perhaps related to a dissident group.

And he — Garak laughed deep in his throat — had perhaps taken away Mondrig’s source of information, in stealing Tarmer’s history from the children.

He skimmed more of the history and let his thoughts wander idly, knowing that somewhere in his mind, connections were being made on subconscious levels, that would reveal themselves only when he had reached a conclusion.

...And the Paldar had held the heirs of the flyers in high esteem, and honored them as children honor their parents, and preserved their place of rest....

Cardassian children were raised to honor their ancestors, with generations sometimes living together in single homes, and with families remembering the honors earned by members of their families, and carrying the feuds of parents and grandparents from one generation to the next.

“Preserved their places of rest.” Tombs, perhaps? That, too, was not uncommon. There had been many family estates where three or even four generations of one family lived in the home — and twice that many generations lay together in mausoleums on the grounds.

...But the poison spread. The heirs would not stop it, and Alont Dumerik could not. So he chose to conceal it, to bury it away, for the good of Cardassia. He acted, as his grandfather had acted before him, but with the authority of the Council. Their seductive light was dimmed on the dawn of their triumph....

Interesting. His heavy brow ridges furrowed. This language sounded ... wrong. But carefully wrong. As though the author had wanted to say something specific, but hadn’t been able to come out and say it directly. Perhaps whatever he’d tried to say with such poor artistry was the reason Tarmer had ended his life in a mental institution.

Conceal. Dumerik had concealed whatever the poison was. Hmm.... Concealed.

He frowned again. Something the civilians revered had been buried, concealed with the authority of the governing military Council, hoping it would be forgotten. But apparently unlike something the first Dumerik had done? What might Laemen Dumerik have done without the authority of the Council?

Garak couldn’t help remembering, just a few years before, that the human Captain Sisko, the Bajorans’ proclaimed Emissary of the Prophets, had proven that Bajorans could have made the space flight from their world to Cardassia, eight hundred years before. Of suspicious coincidence, at that very time, Dukat had confirmed the discovery of the remnants of a Bajoran ship, on Cardassia, dating back that many years.

The discovery had been hailed as an auspicious event in quadrant history. To Garak’s cynical mind, it had been no recent discovery — more likely several years old, which the then-governing military council had intended to conceal, until the human brought the light of the galaxy upon the possibility by proving it could be done. It had been easier, then, to reveal the truth rather than try to hide it any longer in the light of public attention.

Public attention. Light. Dimmed at the dawn of triumph. Dawn of triumph. Hmm, that was an old reference to one of the Hebitian festivals—

The hill! His watery blue eyes opened wide. There was a reason the Oralian Way held its annual dawn festival at that park. They believed the hill and its fountain had been a sacred place long ago, in Hebitian days. They believed they connected with their ancient ancestors there. Was that what Tarmer was saying, in his obtuse manner, and hoping would be remembered over the years? That the tomb was located in the Paldar sector, near the memorial park and its ritual hill? Did the Oralian Way remember, somehow, that a burial vault was under that park, and make that the underlying “connection” to the ancients?

That was where he must look. Smiling in anticipation, he concealed the book in its hiding place, set the shields, and slipped out into the night.

Mondrig made his way back to the cave that passed for his home. The cavern was no longer a place of comfort and ease; now it was only a cave, part of an underground system of fissures, spaces eroded open millennia before, drainage tunnels, and passages previously used to maintain the city’s transportation, storage, information, and power systems. Everywhere he looked there was a reminder of what he’d lost. The table, the small replicator, the bed and crate in the other room — that was all he had left, the barest minimum of what had been left to him or what he’d been able to hide. The once-gleaming walls were dull now, layered with dust, without the forcefields and holoscreens that had kept them clean and given the illusion of richness.

Parn had made it all too clear that he considered Mondrig nothing more than a scavenger who deserved to live in such a place, away from the warmth and light of the skies, away from the companionship of his equals.

He hated it there now. But where else could he go? His feet slowed as he approached the entrance.

Someone stood just inside the opening, looking hesitant, wrapped in a garment that was too large for the small frame.

“Who’s there?” Mondrig called harshly.

“It’s me....”

The boy, Kehin, again. “Why are you here?”

“I ... I learned something,” the boy said timorously. “It might be important....”

“You have it? You have the book? You know where it is?” he asked eagerly, taking several steps closer — but he didn’t see the ancient tome, unless the boy had it hidden in his coat. He reached for the boy’s arm to push him farther inside, where there would be no chance of them being observed or overheard.

The boy slunk away from him. “I don’t have it, I couldn’t find it, but I learned—“

“I told you I didn’t want to see you until you found the book!” Mondrig hissed angrily.

“But Garak knows who the heirs of the flyers are!” Kehin blurted out.

Mondrig froze where he stood, his mouth agape but emitting no sound. After a very long second he said, “What did you say?”

“Garak knows who the heirs of the flyers are,” he repeated.

“How can he? How could he even know about them?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t talk to him, you told me not to talk to him,” Kehin spilled in a continuous stream of words. “But I listened and I heard other people talk, and what they said, and I knew I should come here and tell you because it might be important....”

“You listened....”

“Yes, whenever I could—“

Mondrig interrupted. “What else did you learn?”

The boy shook his head rapidly, still babbling. “Nothing. Nothing else. I tried to listen to Commander Blake, but he caught me and sent me away. And then I looked for Ibis, but she won’t talk to me now, and—“

Mondrig lost control. “Get out!”

“I—“

“And don’t ever come back! I don’t want to see your miserable face again, you incompetent failure!” he raged, his voice raising to a scream. “You’re worthless to me! You’re worthless to Cardassia! The Ferengi should’ve taken you away, they’d have done our world a favor!”

The boy fled.

It took several minutes to regain his control and decide what to do.

“Garak.... There’s only one way he could have found out....”

Breathing hard, with a determined expression, Mondrig left his cavern.

The silence of the night shift in the clinic was broken by occasional footsteps as one of the medical support staff passed by, and by the thick coughing of those who’d contracted one of the more serious of the diseases spreading in the camps.

From an alcove, Rekel observed for just a moment, her gaze taking in every detail in the ward. The young flame-haired microbiologist, Aya, was seated against the wall in one corner, obviously exhausted, having apparently fallen asleep reviewing medical information. Vak, the Bolian medic, was tending to one or the other of the sick, his blue complexion unexpectedly luminous in the dim light as he leaned over the bed.

Dr. Parmak entered the ward; Rekel watched him pause over Aya, and gently touch her shoulder as if to wake her. She barely stirred. After a second, the doctor pulled a blanket off a fresh laundry cart, and draped it over the human, wadding a corner of it under her head as a makeshift pillow. Then he headed for Vak.

Before he could spot her, and either ask what she was doing there or give her another task, Rekel quietly backed out of the ward.

Mondrig was in the hall.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rekel hissed, unable to keep out a second’s annoyance before her features schooled themselves steady again. “Federation security is looking for you, to question about their emitters and the attack on Dr. Bashir.”

“They won’t find me,” he replied with self-assurance, but turned toward the outer door at the end of hall.

“What about the legate?” She kept pace with him.

The man’s mouth tightened in anger. “He doesn’t care. But he will.”

“What do you mean?”

His expression turned more cagey and he furtively glanced around before taking her arm. “Remember I told you there was more of the Hebitian treasure to be found?”

She stiffened and pulled away. “I remember your boasting of it.”

“I’m very close.” He smiled in satisfaction, his eyes lingering for a second on the ridged curve of her neck. “I’m going to gather the final clue tonight — by midnight, I will know where it is.”

“Tell me!” she demanded. “And tell me how to help.”

“It would be fitting for us to find it together,” he agreed, “the foundation pieces of the new Cardassia. But this is something I must do myself. Then I will come for you. And in the meantime, there is something you must do for me.”

She barely held the annoyed sigh at his overdone attempt to be enigmatic and enticing. “What must I do?” she asked instead.

“I need you to keep a close eye on Garak.”

“Garak? I already do.”

They reached the door and stepped out into the night. “But I need to know who he sees, where he goes, what he does. I especially need to know if he has any contact with an old man named Limorin.”

She didn’t even blink. “Limorin. I’ll remember the name.”

“Good. Now I have to go. I will contact you again soon.”

She nodded efficiently, and silently watched him vanish into the darkness.

“Garak, I would not have expected to find you roaming at this time of night.” A large, cloaked figure appeared at the cross-street.

Garak slowed his steps. “Nor I you, legate. What is your destination? Perhaps we can walk together. Security in Cardassia City is not what it used to be,” he concluded regretfully.

“No, it is not,” Parn stated in his resonant voice. “But I am simply ... walking. Any direction is good for me.” He glanced ahead; the long straight avenue bisected most of Cardassia City, but in this direction, there was not much city left to traverse. “You appear to be heading for the Federation camp.”

“Indeed, so I am.”

“Planning to spend more time with their Dr. Bashir?”

Garak smiled genially. “If he has time to spare.”

“You seem to spend a great deal of time in the human’s company.” The simple sentence was laden with suspicion and accusation.

Garak shrugged before stating mildly, “Dr. Bashir is the Federation team leader — he is therefore the one most likely to be aware of all facets of their mission. And he is also the one who makes the decisions about the mission’s future assignments.”

“And does that explain the time you spent with him, on Deep Space Nine?”

“He seemed ... a useful acquaintance to cultivate, at the time. And considering his current position, I believe I was correct.”

Parn eyed him speculatively, a new appreciation in his gaze. “So you spend time with him, then and now, as a way of monitoring the Federation actions.”

“I have always preferred to know the details of events of relevance to me,” he agreed.

“And perhaps of directing them, as well, in ways you prefer?”

“I would not go so far as to claim I can point the doctor in any direction against his own choices! I will admit, however, that there have been times he has ... asked my thoughts on certain subjects.”

“Does he truly trust you?” The legate’s expression suggested he found the very idea to be laughable.

Garak smiled slightly. “Perhaps to him it is trust. For myself, I would prefer to say ... we have come to understand each other, somewhat, as much as any Cardassian and any human can.”

“It appears, Garak, that I have underestimated you. And you haven’t changed at all.”

“Oh, legate, I doubt any of us remain unchanged, after the last few years.” His smile broadened. “But I will take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I always admired that you were a dangerous man — and I saw more than one gul learn that fact to his eternal regret.” Parn leaned toward him; it was no accident that his thick shadow fell over Garak’s. “I, however, will not be one of them. Should you be contemplating such a thing.”

“Legate,” Garak protested genially, “I will not pretend to be other than what I am. But I assure you, I have no plans to unseat you — or to play the puppet-master behind the scenes. I am only who I am. And if my simple conversations with the Federation doctor can result in a better life for our people, I will count my task here as accomplished.”

“Then we should be on the same side, and working together. The good of Cardassia is my goal as well, and that of the Directorate.”

“And what defines the good?”

“The same way we have always defined it.” The military man’s expression was hard. “Strength and cunning against one’s enemies. Loyalty to family and superiors. Submission to the rule of law. Dedication to order. Those were the virtues that held Cardassia together, that made us strong and respected throughout the quadrant. Those are the virtues we must preserve in our society.”

“Not all appear to wish to preserve those virtues in the same manner as the past.”

“They must be shown the way; they must be led!”

Garak cocked his head quizzically. “And if they do not wish to be led?”

“Then— Ah, Garak, I believe you are toying with me,” Parn wagged his finger. “I know your history. You conceal more than you reveal, and every word is chosen as a trap for the unwary.”

Garak laughed. “You give me a great deal of credit, legate.”

“I never give credit where it is not due.”

“You do have a reputation as a judge of character,” the other man acknowledged.

“Thank you. But it seems our time together this night must end — my destination is this way.” Parn gestured vaguely. “Enjoy your conversation with Bashir.”

“I always do,” Garak acknowledged blandly.

“Good. Then perhaps we can discuss, later, ways in which such conversations could be ... of value, and to the benefit of Cardassia.”

“Indeed.”

“Garak.” He turned away.

“Legate.” Garak watched Parn stride off into the darkness.

Legate Parn was approaching him personally. That was dangerous. The reference to things being of value — could that be a sly hint that he knew of the Hebitian tomb? Had Mondrig been seeking the tomb on behalf of the Directorate? How much did Parn know, or suspect? The cold chill of instinct crawling up his neck, told him there was less time than he’d thought. He had to find the tomb immediately, or its discovery could be out of his control, and perhaps vanished.

He wondered if he were being watched. Keeping a genial expression, Garak resumed his stride, managing to watch all around without seeming to pay attention, listening intently. He detected no one. Stepping up his pace, he hurried on.

“Garak....”

The husky voice drew him into the alley.  

Chapter Five