The report that Doctor Simpson had brought up for General Hammond was left lying on the conference room table. It's presence was proving a mighty distraction to Colonel Makepeace. He had long since given up listening to the tales of Teal'c's and trials of the intrepid SG-1, and he was now busy speculating about the contents of the file. The speculation routine that was installed with the operating system of his biological processor was not as sophisticated as the one that was used by Daniel Jackson, but does have some capacity, and it was busy producing fanciful scenarios to entertain it's self.

"Do you mind if I have a look at that file, General," he found himself asking. Colonel Makepeace had not meant to speak, and caught himself completely by surprise when he did so. He would have clamped his own hand over his own mouth, if he had any warning at all that the traitorous speculation routine had access to the verbal output buffer, but it was too late by that stage. The damage had been done. He sat there mortified and worried about what sort of response he was going to get.

Both Teal'c and General Hammond blinked for a moment and tried to reorient them selves in light of this new development.

"Yes, go ahead," General Hammond said finally. "Carry on Teal'c," he added.

They could probably hear the explosive release of Makepeace's pent up breath down in the infirmary.

*

Jack O'Neill led the SG-1 team forward. A gaping darkened maw awaited them. He had his AK-47 out and the safety was off. Almost in unison, they stepped over the portcullis and into the gloom of the castle entrance.

"Ah the travellers have arrived at last," called a voice from the shadows.

O'Neill restrained a blast of AK-47 hollow point teflon coated armour piercing rounds by an effort of will that cause a cold sweat to break out on his brow. It was not alone. He had already sweated enough to make his hair matted so it made no difference to his appearance. Inwardly he had a few concerns. The taste of unused adrenalin breakdown bi-products is always unwelcome.

SG-1 collectively turned to face the newcomer. The voice from the shadows dripped with something that was both seductive and repugnant at the same time. Why they should react in such an ambivalent manner was not clear to any of the SG-1 team. It was the sort of voice to make a radio announcer green with envy. The lovingly constructed diction even made the Germanic obsession with all things consonant and glutteral sound smooth and mellow, although it fell short of melodic, just.

A man stepped forward, appearing first as a pair of disembodied feet, which gradually accumulated the accompaniments of legs and body with each forward pace. The apparition was bathed in an eerie glow that appeared to have no source of it's own. A body clothed in evening dress and cape appeared above the legs. Finally a head appeared from the shadows. To Daniel Jackson's educated eye, the head sat atop a body clothed in a costume more appropriate to the middle-ages of central Europe than the Goa'uld preference for Egyptian finery. The new comer wore tights that bunched slightly at the knees, so they obviously hadn't invented Lycra yet. He wore a doublet and a cape. Everything was in a uniform amalgamation of harlequin colours. His hair was dark and sleek; it was pulled back from a high forehead and clasped at his neck from whence it trailed in a shortish pony tail.

For some reason Jack O'Neill thought the guy would look more appropriate dressed all in black.

To O'Neill the newcomer appeared youngish, perhaps the same age as Jackson, perhaps younger yet.

A fine moustache ill-graced his upper lip and trailed onto his chin via the side of his mouth, bracketing it so that it took a cruel tilt. His eyes appeared to glow from within, and that was always a dead give away that he was host to one of those wormy things that are the Goa'uld (and the Tok'ra, but their on our side so we won't say nasty things about them, well not all the time anyway). But his voice had lacked the stereo soundtrack that the SCG teams always equated with Goa'uld in the variant forms.

O'Neill managed not to shoot him yet again when he did the eye-trick. There was always later, if it proved necessary. O'Neill's eyes stole to the man's hands, but he saw no evidence of a ribbon device, and that was a good thing. O'Neill had been hit with one of those things a few times and he was not excited about repeating the experience.

The newcomer bowed. "Welcome to my home," he said and waved an expansive gesture to encompass the castle and all of its environs.

"You knew we were coming?" Jackson asked.

The harlequin newcomer nodded and wore an expression of faint surprise. "Certainly, did we not exchange our arrangements?" he bowed and gestured to encompass the castle. His voice took on a self mocking tone. "But as well, this castle has need of guardians and they keep me and mine well informed." He laughed; a quick bark that contained no mirth. "The barbarians are always at the gate so to speak. My guardians are always on the look out for those who would make their way up to the castle, and they keep me informed of the presence or otherwise of strangers. But we were aware of your impending visit for some time. The communications carried no name, but upon examination of yourselves, who else could you be? My guardians are thoughtful and cunning, well able to think and reason for themselves." He turned and skewered Jackson with a gaze that bordered on the intensity of a Goa'uld system lord. "And so, how might I address you?"

Jackson considered his answer before replying. "Daniel," he told the newcomer, "my name is Daniel. And now may I tell my companions who has provided us with such a hearty welcome?"

The newcomer bowed. "Welcome Dan'el, and to the rest of your troupe, I extend the hospitality of my house. As to who I am, I am the count of this district, fashioned as Romany by my people. I am called Dra'ula. I am surprised that you were not informed of such before leaving."

Jackson waved at the remaining members of the SG-1 team, while giving the Count only their Christian names, while he decided what to say in answer to that last statement. "We are but last minute replacements for the man who was chosen for this role initially," Jackson lied.

"Ah then we are suitably satisfied, come, make your way inside. It will not do to be abroad at night in these parts."

"This is a highly fortified castle," Jackson observed.

The Count nodded. "A bloody history leads us to this point in time good sir. But that is not the conversation of the day. We have hospitality to offer and stories to exchange. Come take advantage of the opportunity to avail yourselves of shelter, food and entertainment."

He waved once again and bade them into the courtyard of the castle. Jackson stepped past the Count first, continuing the illusion that he was the leader of the expedition. O'Neill fell in behind, eyes scanning the facility with interest.

Illumination was supplied by flickering candles, mounted every five metres around the perimeter of the massive entry hall. The candles were secured against the walls in little wrought metal frames, and riveted to wooden brackets. Inside the massive walls and battlements, the courtyard was tile floored. A staircase faced the entry. Huge arches of stone led to the left and right from the entry. Heavy tapestries hung from every wall.

"What was all that about Daniel?" O'Neill hissed through the corner of his mouth.

"We've been offered the run of the castle, food and entertainment," Jackson hissed back to him.

"Not any of that 'come be my slave and let's put one of the wormy things in your neck?'"

"Not a word."

"It's always there. He's just pretending."

"Yep, no doubt about it."

"Suggestions?"

"He has not recognised my staff or the mark of my tattoo," said Teal'c.

"OK, well that is a point in their favour," O'Neill conceded. The Goa'uld normally recognised Teal'c as a former slave (and the primary of Apophis, which was a good deal more visible in Goa'uld circles) and they normally acted accordingly. No reaction was telling in itself.

It probably only meant that the castle occupants had been out of communications with the rest of the Goa'uld for a while.

And of course, it was a bit odd seeing them out of the Egyptian god mode. After their run in with Ra and Apophis and the little incident with Hathor and … The SGC one teams were getting a touch complacent with the Goa'uld Modus Operandi.

"You are obviously tired from your journey," said their host. "We will provide you with places to freshen up, to bathe before we eat and take the opportunity to get to know one another. I recognise not the style of your speech, so perhaps there are genuine stories to tell and things we may both learn."

Jackson translated this for the rest of the team.

"Be nice Daniel," O'Neill whispered.

"We would be delighted," Jackson conceded. "The opportunity to wash off the dust of the road and to partake of the hospitality of this establishment would be most welcome. We rarely have opportunities to live under these circumstances while we are away. It is truly welcome."

"Then let us not delay. Let it not be said that the Count Dra'ula neglects his guests. We need not delay further." He waved them past.

People appeared from beneath the massive archways. They were uniformly raven haired, slender, dapper, ethereal or athletic depending on gender and function. They watched the SG-1 team with interest. The Count made no attempt to introduce them, instead he waved to another group who appeared from beneath the stairs.

A trio of what O'Neill took for serving wenches stepped into the glow that surrounded their master. Without a word being said, they appeared to understand what was required. The nearest of them beckoned for the SG-1 team to follow.

Here at least was one aspect of Goa'uld sociology that remained unchanged. The young women were dressed in the same barely there robes that the Goa'uld seemed to prefer for all of their vassals, a flowing white thing with poor quality control of seams, and poor recognition of the purpose of clothing (ie shelter from the elements and preservation of cultural taboos.)

O'Neill looked at Jackson, who raised one eyebrow and then tilted his head in ascent. He had been hanging around with Teal'c too long obviously. O'Neill shrugged and they stepped forward.

*

"What is it Makepeace?" General Hammond asked. "You've been making all sorts of faces and it's been annoying to watch it out of the corner of my eye. Is there something in the report?"

Makepeace had glanced up at the sudden attack from General Hammond and frowned. His eyebrows had a long way to travel because they had been migrating toward his hairline in small increments all the way through the report. Part of it was caused by the amazing jumble of letters that were formed into ways he had never seen before. He suspected that all of those apparently random conglomerations of letters were actually legitimate English language words. They seemed to have the correct arrangement of vowels and consonants to make them pronounceable (mostly) but he had not seen them before. But mostly his eyebrow migration was caused by a developing certainty that something was wrong. It wasn't as though Janet Fraiser had actually written those words in her report. An no stage had she come out and written, "there was something wrong," but phrases such as 'anomalous data', 'readings that we have not encountered in previous examinations using…' and 'should authorise more tests before a definitive conclusion can be reached,' always alarmed military minds. Oh, and accountants as well.

"Yes, I think you should read it sir," he summarised.

General Hammond had every intention of doing just that, as soon as he got this debriefing out of the way. "I plan to," he said. But something in Malepeace's demeanour got through to General Hammond. The man obviously thought he should read the report right now. "Why?"

"They're not your run of the mill Goa'uld," Makepeace explained.

"Then what are they?"

"I'm not exactly sure that we know yet sir. At this point in the report, Doctor Fraiser was still getting to that."

Hammond gave him one of those, 'it looks like a man but it's still a cockroach' looks that military commanders have perfected over the years. "Here give me that report," he said tetchily. "We'll look at it more closely after we finish debriefing Teal'c. It's not as though it has any immediate impact on what we need to do in the near future."

"I guess not sir."

"Carry on Teal'c."