"You will be able to direct our path?" Vuron asked as they preformed final checks at the back door. She frowned at his chest for a long moment, before opening his cloak to remove the house badges from his sash. She took her own off as well, tucking all of the various bits of metal into some hidden pocket.
"I think so."
Vuron tilted his head a moment in consideration, then retrieved a general-use Vulcan tricorder from one of the closer storage areas.
"This has a compass, along with a homing beacon for this house."
"If we're found out, this will be the last location I'll be running to." Her hands still shook as she reached for his hood, tugging on the wool and leather to assure herself of its security. "Last chance to meld with me, Vulcan. Even I can hear the wind howling out there. There won't be any other way to communicate when we go out in that mess."
Vuron shook his head.
"I know." She heaved a large sigh and gave one last check of her weapons while he tucked the tricorder into a secure pocket. "Come, my love. To battle. For glory."
Her words were correct, but there was no battle fire resonating within her voice.
He snagged her gloved hand in his, gave it a squeeze, and keyed the door's access code.
The wind immediately tugged and rushed them out the door. Even the hydraulics had to argue to shut the mechanism.
Swirling particulate clouds of varying densities washed his eyes out with white. A strange twilight took over the capital; not yet midday, but the storm both blocked out the majority of the sun's direct rays, and yet the high amount of reflectivity filled the world with a diffused glow.
A strong hand gripped his and tugged him in a direction. He followed, keeping his grip on his bondmate.
He assumed they took main roads, to start with. The layer of snow below his feet looked just about the same as the other side of the road, or the sky above. Occasionally they passed a streetlight, the glow increasing the local illumination by degrees before disappearing to nothing.
The farther they went, the deeper the cold seeped into his bones. The generalized numbness from the hypospray wore off with a tingle of his extremities, sensation returned in a painful burn, then slowly ebbed away again with the impression of thousands of needles jabbing open nerves.
Utilizing parts of his consciousness that he usually reserved for control during hand-to-hand combat, or long distance shooting, he sped up his heart rate and focused on opening up the capillaries in his extremities. The rush of his blood gave him a temporary flush. Temporary relief from the cold.
As they passed under a gateway, manned by some unfortunate soldiers, J'Mara pulled him into a alcove, out of most of the wind's influence.
She swatted frozen mucus from where it'd solidified under her nose.
"I'm cold enough to turn to an ice cube," she grumbled with a grin that nearly split her face. "How are you?"
"How far away is it from here?"
"At this pace? Another couple hours. At long as the wind keeps the roads clear."
Vuron sighed and succumbed to an autonomic shudder. "I will survive."
J'Mara removed her gloves and fiddled with his cloak. Warm hands enveloped his cheeks.
"You're not as cold as I expected. Doing that Vulcan thing, are you?"
He hummed his agreement. Even with the adjustment, her skin felt... nearly hot against his. Her thumb grazed his bottom lip. He felt an eyebrow lift.
"Don't do that, once we're in Ka'Tra's land."
He blanked his face again.
She frowned, opened up each of their cloaks, and pressed her chest against him. Shared her warmth.
"That face won't work either. Think you can put on a scowl for me?" She tugged at his face here and there until she smiled at the results. "There. That will work."
She snuggled deep against him, tucking her face against his neck and wrapping her arms around his back. Well, one arm. The other slipped lower until she gave his backside a squeeze. He jumped a little at the touch.
"What was that for?"
"I'll be treating you like a engineer scab next time I get to touch you. I figured I'd enjoy you while I could."
He wrapped his own arms around her, careful not to dislodge their cloaks and release their combined heat.
"You're worried."
"How could you tell?" she asked his collarbone.
"It is unlike you to be this quiet, or to seek so much body contact. Your moods have been alternating swiftly from one extreme to another."
"This is going to be difficult."
He nodded into her hair. "The probability for our success is extremely low."
"But if we're going to stop a war, we've got to try."
He froze.
"Stop... a war?"
She pulled back to stare into his eyes. "Yes. I thought you'd figured that out."
"No."
J'Mara sighed and glanced back out into the snow behind them. "Starfleet is weak. Their fleet has been cut in half. Its largest supporter all but gone. Vulcan's new colony destroyed by an 'unknown experimental weapon.' No ransom call was given out for an Ambassador, or his staff. It's a wonder that the Empire hasn't gone up in arms yet."
Vuron let his head fall back against the stone behind him. Watched the gentle swirls of snow that filed in to their little space.
"I hadn't even considered that possibility."
"I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong."
"And if you're not? Then what? Will you follow Bel'tath? Take your ships into battle against the Federation? Against my people?"
Her fingers stroked his cheek again, drawing his attention back down. "One day at a time. First, we get your people off world."
"And me?"
"We'll see how many enemies we make today first," she replied with a grin.
War.
They bundled back up and J'Mara led the way again. This time Vuron didn't pick her hand back up, just kept close to her four 'clock so that she didn't loose sight of her dark silhouette in the snow.
Relations with the Klingon Empire had been strained since before the founding of the Federation. Humans and Klingons seemed genetically predestined to quarrel.
Vuron didn't doubt that the attempt at a trade agreement from Vulcan had been the first step in some years-long plan to bring this warrior culture into the fold. A collection of pacifists and explorers held no interest to them now, but with the influx of medical technology and modern science, the export of vital goods and services...
But now, with the safety of the highest ranking Vulcan on this planet threatened, not just threatened but destroyed by the very man who'd vowed to protect them, there was no chance that the elders would extend the hand of friendship again.
No wonder Ambassador Sranak fought so hard, after Vulcan's implosion, to secure any resource at all. Secure that first line of trust, in the hopes of averting... war.
And the two of them caught in the middle.
"Romeo and Juliet."
"What?" J'Mara yelled over the roar of the wind.
Vuron shook his head. Even if he did explain the reference, it'd be pointless. She wasn't some idiot to poison herself in an attempt to confuse the enemy, and he wasn't some mushy lovestruck child to stab himself without pulling out a tricorder to check for vitals before assuming that the love of his life was dead, rather than just unconscious.
He reached for her hand again, gave it a squeeze, and pointed ahead.
The remaining hours were cold, blinding, and deafening. As they moved into the outskirts of the city, the drifts grew. Cold water filled his boots as the snow reached his thighs. He shoved along beside his mate, unwilling to follow in her track incase they ran across any of Ka'Tra's men.
She made a gesture eventually, pointing off towards another archway. He nodded and checked his weapons as they walked through.
Someone had been sweeping the path here, at least. Snowdrifts rose to meet the very tops of the high walls that surrounded the Chancellor's land, but only a few inches slowed their progress.
J'Mara lead to a secondary path, her back bowed against the wind. They passed a guardhouse without being stopped. Dark buildings loomed through the haze.
They were admitted with nothing more than a knock on the door.
A wave of moist heat hit Vuron full in the face. The smell of cooking meat followed once his nose thawed sufficiently.
J'Mara threw back the hood of her cloak and shook off a good measure of the snow. Vuron attempted to mimic the shake and set the facial expression she'd molded his face into earlier. He kept his hood up for the moment.
"You here with the gagh? Ka'Tra's just about had my head over this preserved stuff."
"Sorry, no," J'Mara said with a chuckle. "Just refugees from the storm."
The grey-haired cook eyed her a moment. "What were you doing out in this muck anyway?"
"Councilman Gour," J'Mara spat. "Had us deliver some letter to Bel'tath. Who knows what's so important in this storm. Had to land the shuttle since the Lord never sees fit to actually pay for sensor parts."
The old cook laughed. "He is a cheapskate. You're lucky you didn't crash the thing."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," J'Mara said, slapping Vuron roughly in the chest. "Had his best engineer in the ship with me. Man's been trying to get in my pants for ages. Too bad the only action he saw was landing that blasted G-47."
"Oh, he sent you in the G-47? Sure he's not trying to off you?"
"Heh. Just point me in the direction of the mugs. Turk? Bloodwine for you?"
Turk? Really? He nodded his head and sat where the cook indicated.
"Got to get the Chancellor's food up," he grumbled. "But your welcome to warm yourselves."
"Ka'Tra's still on the grounds?" J'Mara asked conversationally. "Figured he hightailed it with the rest of the pompous bastards as soon as the snow started to fall."
The cook grunted agreement and ladled some indecipherable concoction into a large serving platter. J'Mara, her hands full of two overflowing mugs of bloodwine, took a seat next to him. He took one and tilted back about half of the volume and slammed the metal goblet onto the table before him with the appropriate slosh of alcohol.
Servants in fur and wool filed in and out to gather all the foodstuffs. None of them spared the strangers a second glance.
He wondered how J'Mara knew that a couple unmarked strangers, in the home of one of the highest ranking Klingons on the planet, would not be searched, or questioned, or even looked at with any scrutiny.
"So, is Gour keeping to his city house in all this?"
J'Mara snorted. "What do you think? He was probably the first one to run. Doesn't even have the decency to take his staff with him to the mountains. We're lucky central power is still up; our generator's been dead the past seven cycles."
A couple plates appeared before them. Simple food, but hot. Vuron blinked down at the offering.
"Eat, can't turn down Kahless' hospitality," J'Mara said around a mouthful.
"I've a suckling targ to bring up," the cook said, pulling the very thing from the oven. "There's more stew in the pot if you want more."
With that, he disappeared up the stairs.
"Here, give it to me," J'Mara said, snagging his plate. "It'll be suspicious if we leave an full plate."
She grinned and scooped up the choice bits of meat.
"Why?"
She nodded, understanding. Her eyes flicked one way, then another.
"Surely you remember the story of Kahless and the stranger in the storm? Kahless welcomed a stranger into his house, in the middle of a torrential hurricane. 'He is a spy!' his guards proclaimed. 'He will poison our food, poison our wells.' But Kahless did not fear a single man, and offered him food, and wine, and a warm dry place until the storm blew over. His generosity was rewarded on the next day. The stranger threw back the hood of her cloak, revealing a woman of such beauty and strength that it took the breath away of all the warriors assembled. And Kahless touched her womb with his magic staff and she became fertile and great alliances were made between powerful houses."
She waved her hands in a come-along gesture. "It is gratifying to see the great houses following the example set by Kahless, is it not? Especially in such terrible blizzards."
Vuron nodded and finished off the last of the bloodwine. The alcoholic content might not effect him like it did his bondmate, but as a vasodilator it served well enough.
"Come, I think we've leaned on our host's hospitality long enough."
Instead of heading back out into the storm, as no doubt the greasy smears on the door panel J'Mara left for the cook indicated, they slipped down a long, poorly lit corridor.
J'Mara lifted a hand, pausing them. Heavy footfalls passed overhead. She waved him forward the moment they passed, into a stairwell. He lifted an eyebrow and waited a moment until she joined him.
"Up or down?" he whispered.
"Down."
Below held the Chancellor's food stores. An entire wall lined with barrels of wine, sacks of grain stacked as tall as his eyebrows, the bodies of several animals hung from hooks on the ceiling.
J'Mara headed for some heavy wooden boxes.
"Come here, we need to get you out of those clothes."
"Why?"
"No need to obfuscate down here. The kitchen will be bugged, but not the storage locker. Not much point. 'Guests' are only invited in there.
"If we're going to be sneaking around, we should be doing it in servants garb. Not good armor like I've decked us out in."
"Won't it be fairly obvious that we're not his servants?"
"Pfft. No one looks at the help. Here. Just put pull this tunic over your armor. We'll toss the cloaks out into the snow on the way back up. If someone comes down here and finds things that don't belong it'll be as bad as finding us."
He pulled an ugly, oversized grey wool tunic over his leather and metal. She did the same and tied her hair back in a quick knot.
"Do you have a plan?"
"Find a computer terminal while the lord is eating. If he's busy in the main hall, then we'll have a few hours to poke around. We need to find out what property he has the Ambassador on."
Vuron nodded. "And where he's sent the rest of the delegates."
J'Mara frowned as bundled up her cloak.
"Yes. If we can."
She touched his cheek in passing, and led the way back up to the ground level. They took another corridor to a second exit, tossing their cloaks and bat'leths into a mound of snow. Vuron felt bare without the press of metal at his back; he wondered if his mate felt its lack as well.
He followed her at a respectful distance, duplicating her quiet footfalls, pausing as she paused to allow clusters of armored warriors to pass them in the halls, bending his head and not making eye contact, even when one big man clipped his shoulder.
They found nothing of use on the second level, but on the third J'Mara found a library of sorts. Vuron eyed the stuffed animal heads and weapons that lined the walls while she booted up one of the computer terminals.
"Keep an eye on the door, would you?"
He mumbled an agreement and found a place in the shadows where he could keep lookout without being seen himself.
A faint glow illuminated her scowl as she worked over the machine. The sound of her tapping fingers fell heavier and heavier until finally she slammed a fist into the panel.
"Nothing. Nothing! No secret communiques. No cryptic messages. Nothing at all. Sneaky bastard is actually being intelligent for once."
"What does that mean?" Vuron asked, once he returned to her side.
"That means," she spat, then began furiously wiping down all traces with her borrowed sleeve. "That we need to find someone to interrogate."
A muscle in Vuron's jaw clenched. "You are speaking of kidnapping one of his men. That does not sound very honorable."
"Ka'Tra opened up this avenue first."
"Who, then? And where would we take them?"
"Your ambassador's house certainly isn't equipped. Bel'tath will stay neutral as long as she can... kidnapping one of Ka'Tra's men is tantamount to declaring civil war."
"If he discovers it," Vuron whispered, disgust curling in his stomach as an idea formed. "What if one of his men gets... lost in the blizzard?"
"What? Leave him to die in the snow?"
"No, but I can go into his mind and remove his memories. He will simply be found, disoriented and lost."
J'Mara eyed him as if he'd changed places with a stranger.
"That does not sound very Vulcan."
He nodded once in agreement. "No, it is against some very important laws. But, there is no more Vulcan government, and the needs of the many supersedes the needs of the individual."
She shut down the computer, plunging them back into darkness. "Fine. Who do you need?"
"You tell me. I've never infiltrated a Chancellor's house before."
"The pilot who took them off world, or the men who collected them."
"Will they not be with Sranak and the others?"
She huffed in frustration.
"Who, then?"
"Ka'Tra," Vuron suggested.
"Kahless, no wonder I love you." Her fingers snagged his a moment before her lips crashed into him. "Come. We'll have to go back downstairs before we can get to his great hall. For once I'm glad that idiot in his barracks courted me."
Tension vibrated through her body as they slipped back the way they'd come. More and more armored men passed them as they traveled through larger, better lit areas. J'Mara snagged a tray from somewhere and shoved it into his hands. She motioned for him to remain against one set of stairs while she disappeared just long enough to retrieve a immense pitcher filled with heated wine. She grinned, kissed him on the lips again, "For luck," she whispered and lead the way once again.
Much like J'Mara's practice arena, the main room of this keep was lined on all sides with long corridors that led off to other areas, stairs at the corners up towards living quarters, and down to the kitchens in the next building.
J'Mara led them along three of the sides, shoulders tucked in, head down, and meek as they passed one set of guards after another.
Three sets of doors on the long sides, two on one short side, one on the other. Each entrance bracketed by a guards, armed with phase pistols along with the ceremonial swords and spears. Eighteen men, sober and prepared.
On the last short side, with the sole door, one guard stepped away from his place, stopping his mate with a hand on her forearm.
"I haven't seen you here before," he growled.
"I'm new," J'Mara answered, keeping her head down.
"There are no new servants."
"I'm new to this, to serving," she amended. Her eyes flicked up, then down quickly. Her weight shifted, her toe shifted the way he preferred – to get into, and behind, an enemy's defense. The other guard took a step closer as well.
"I've been kept as a personal servant for a while," she said, her voice tilted low. Her bottom lip caught between her sharp little teeth.
Oh.
Vuron relaxed a touch, realizing just how she intended to get behind their defenses.
"A personal servant, eh?" The man laughed loud. J'Mara's skin flushed, her hands tightened around the pitcher, which she now clutched to her chest. "So he wore you out and now you're serving the filth."
They were both stepping closer to her. One reached for the pitcher, the other reaching for her ass.
She flowed like water around them, sidestepping behind and around in a swirl of leather. Vuron had the second one, the one who'd intended to grab his bondmate, by the wrist. Metal platter dropped to the ground in favor of his d'k tahg pressed unseen into the man's armpit.
Her high tinkling laughter echoed in the dark hall.
"I might be worn out, but I already have another man in my bed, gentlemen."
Vuron pressed the point tighter into the man's body, the stiffness in his captured wrist describing just how much he felt the blade. They glared at one another over the man's shoulder pauldron.
"Your an ugly bastard to have caught her eye," the guard hissed.
"Might be ugly," Vuron agreed, twisting the guard to the side just enough that the first man wouldn't see the falsehood of his browridges. "But I'm good at keeping the kitchen knives sharp."
The guards growled and Vuron scowled until his jaw hurt; attempting to meet their low rumble would only out him.
Finally, the man without a dagger pointed at his heart broke into a deep laugh and slapped Vuron hard on the shoulder. The Vulcan jumped back, dislodging the blade before he accidentally skewered him. He quickly retracted the d'k tahg's side blades and tucked it under the stolen wool.
"Brave little man," the first one chuckled. "Then, you'd have to be, to keep a slippery one like her, eh?"
Vuron grunted agreement.
"Go on, get in. The wine's bound to be getting low," the second one growled.
Vuron retrieved the platter and followed J'Mara into the room.
The guards closed the door silently behind them. Laughter and song echoed around them. A huge stone blocked their view of the room, layers of expensive embroidered silk swept off and away in both directions.
"Behind his throne," J'Mara whispered into one ruined ear. "Those two didn't know me, but even with my skin darkened the Chancellor might recognize me. Take the pitcher, fill his goblet, then move to the others. I'll go around the far side with your tray and collect dirty dishes."
He nodded. Eighteen guards ringing this room, and he could discern at least seven separate voices from here. Surveillance first.
Their fingers grazed as they exchanged items. She took a moment more to gather some dirt and rub it into his cheeks and along the collar of the servant's robes. With a frown she nodded him off.
He took a deep breath to center himself and reposition his scowl.
Vuron shouldered his way through the layers of silk. His eyes swept the room in a quick, desperate scan before he turned to the steps leading up to Ka'Tra's throne.
He'd positioned himself even taller here than his position in the High Council's chambers; twelve steps up to the carved stone he lounged in. The Empire's emblem carved into the stone, beneath the stylized flying osprey that marked Ka'Tra's own house.
Drunk, and singing. Off key, not that anyone was going to argue his interpretation of the latest opera. Several platters of food tumbled haphazardly about him. As if they'd been delivered to rest on the arms of his chair and some enthusiastic gesture, or displeasure, had sent them tumbling back down.
So drunk, in fact, that he did not question his new, ugly servant as Vuron offered more wine. The Chancellor just smacked his lips, let him fill the goblet that had been hardly touched. He tossed it back, then gesticulated with a hearty laugh for him to fill it again. Vuron waited a moment to see if he intended to do this again, but Ka'Tra waved him back down the steps to take care of this guests.
Vuron forced his body into motion. Forced his gaze to move to the next councilman at the table at the bottom of the steps. Forced his eyes to absorb the information flooding to him through the periphery. Did not look for his mate. Did not reach for his Vulcan phaser hidden away. Did not scream his rage or gut the men he'd been staring at across the negotiation table for months.
In the middle of Ka'Tra's great hall, a second seat of honor had been assembled.
Amid all of the finery of his powerful, established house, the long tables surrounded by drunken revelry, the ancient tapestries covering the walls, the servants weaving this way and that to avoid being knocked over by the shoves and punches of Ka'Tra's men. Talamak's men. Kurath's men. Fr'guS' men. And the councilmen themselves.
Vuron fixed his snarl as he stepped up to each of these great men. Each of these leaders of their houses. Stared at them. Met their hazy eyes, their lazy grins. Surprised, and not, that they failed to recognize him.
Refused to allow his gaze to turn to the center of the room, to the second honored seat, until the pitcher was empty and he could disappear into the shadows.
Ambassador Sranak.
Stripped of his robes, he sat naked on a metal stool, on a short platform. High enough that the whole room could see, knew when to cheer, as a Klingon stepped up to pick up a lash and swipe it across his aged body. They took turns. None cutting into him more than a couple times. His parchment thin skin blossomed green with the barest touch.
They laughed. Jeered. Spat in the Vulcan's unmoving face. No, not unmoving. He was mouthing something. His weight rocking back and forth subtly, until the touch of a whip or crop took him again, made him rigid with pain.
"Vuron," J'Mara whispered against his cheek.
The Ambassador's head snapped up, black eyed glaring at him.
Run.
Sranak's head swiveled forward again, his body once again upright and waiting. The move nothing more than a twitch to their captors, but Vuron knew he'd heard his mate. Saw the word he mouthed clearly now.
Run. Run.
Over and over.
Run.
J'Mara's hand covered his. He looked down. Stared at their joined hands. When had he pulled the d'k tahg? When had he sprung the blade open? His fist shaking with strain.
She squeezed him again, forcing his eyes up. She shook her head no and tugged him. Back into the shadows. Towards a different door.
His mate pried the weapon from his hand before anyone saw, bodily shoved him from the room. Forced a heaping tray of refuse into his hands. Took another one herself. Led him back down long, dark hallways, spiral stairs, until all was quiet again.
"I know," she said.
"Know what?" Vuron spat.
"I know that they must die."
She met his gaze with a placid calmness.
"No," Vuron corrected. "They will not. They will not, because even now Sranak prefers pacifism to retaliation. He told me to run."
"What?"
"'Run.' Run. Ad nauseam. Regardless if we had any chance of getting in there to rescue him without killing ourselves, we'd be declaring open war. Don't deny it. Not civil war. Not some pointless little skirmish between houses. Vulcan declaring war against Qo'Nos. A war Vulcan can not win. Never could."
"So, what? You admit defeat? You leave him to that?"
Vuron punched a wall. Hell, it felt so good he did it again, and again until green splattered his knuckles.
"Vuron. Vuron, love, please." J'Mara caught his fists in hers. He snarled at her.
"He's lost, the other delegates are lost. We should leave. Get on your damn ship and disappear while we can. Go warn the Federation to expect Ka'Tra to take the advantage while he knows he has it. If he ever breaks Sranak..."
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Planning for defeat. Even your ignorant cleaning servants back at Sranak's home had more hope than this."
Vuron pointed back up in the direction of the great hall.
"You saw that. Three councilmen. The Chancellor. Torturing a man that they'd openly admired and argued with for months. Surrounded by a feast, that I'd guess has been going on the entire time the Ambassador's been missing, if the mess on the floor is anything to judge by. Where's your people's honor now, hm, my cherished?"
She stepped back from him, her eyes dark.
He flung his arms up. "You know, I should have listened to you earlier and succumbed to my emotions at the beginning of this. Wallowing in defeat seems to be about the only thing left to me."
"No... not exactly. Let's get our cloaks and bat'leths."
He grunted his agreement.
"You know, there's acknowledging fear, and there's surrendering to it," she whispered as she led down yet another strange hallway.
"I surrender, then."
"No, you don't. You wouldn't be this angry if you did."
They fell quiet as several more warriors passed them on their way up to the feast.
"Where are we going?"
"Barracks first. By my count, most of them are at the feast."
"Wonderful."
They had to run through the storm to get to that outbuilding. Indeed, it stood nearly empty now. Only a few younger men sat on their bunks sharpening weapons and oiling armor. Obviously not ones J'Mara knew, since she met their curious gazes without comment or deflection.
There was a separate storehouse and kitchen in this building. The kitchen cold and disused, thanks to the massive feast a hundred yards away.
She indicated a few wine barrels; they lifted them as a team, bringing them closer to the massive stone oven.
She stacked wood, laying it for a long, hot fire. Handed him tinder and flint.
"I do have my phaser," he grumbled.
"Energy weapons will be noticed. Just hit your dagger on that 'til you get a spark."
Smacking the steel against the stone in a shower of uncontrolled sparks felt good. She glared at him until he tapped in a more sensible manner and got the fire going properly.
"Hopefully no one will notice the flint is half the size now," she muttered, taking the stone from him before he flung the whole thing in the fire.
While he'd been working on that, she set several vats to boil. Thin bits of cording tracing one direction, then another.
"Come, we've only got a little while before that all goes up."
She tied the handle of the door with another bit of cordage in a slip knot on the inside, tightening it as she closed it. She tested it, then dropped the trailing edge so it slipped into the crack.
J'Mara sighed at his raised eyebrow.
"Oil on the fire. It'll hit the spontaneous combustion phase in," she waggled a hand. "Fifteen minutes. It'll burn through the string holding the container of water above it. It'll drop in, vaporize instantly, giant fireball, which will catch the wine before anyone gets a chance to get in there to put it out. Whole building goes up, and it'll look like a kitchen accident. In case anyone investigates."
"So, we have a good distraction."
"In about twenty minutes."
He squeezed her hand. A small tendril of hope took hold.
"Come on. You're not facing Ka'Tra without your bat'leth."
"I'm facing Ka'Tra?"
"You were right earlier. He's shown no honor. You will face him in honorable, one-on-one combat."
So much for that hope.