"So," N'ivryn began between sips of root beer, "enlighten me on this lunchtime ritual of yours. What deep conversations have I been so bold to interrupt?"
"Ah, our lunch rendezvous," Garak remarked. "Quite the curious affair. Dare I say, the most peculiar blend of intellect and banter. Our dear Doctor is quite the engaging companion."
"How uncharacteristically generous of you, Garak. But you're right, our dialogues do run quite the gamut."
"Undeniably so! We traverse a labyrinth of subjects: literature, art, fashion– the occasional political debate."
A grin peeked out from Julian at Garak's theatrics.
N'ivryn sized up the pair. "Really?"
Garak nodded, not missing a beat. "In fact, just recently, the good doctor has introduced me to an Earth author of yore, a certain Russian. And now he's hellbent on persuading me of the profound literary merit of a most trivial onion."
Julian's face morphed into a look of mock offense, though clearly not for the first time. "Oh please, it symbolizes the chance for redemption, the potential for rising above moral ambiguity. Strip the narrative of the onion and you lose a potent metaphor for the intrinsic goodness lurking even within the most dubious characters."
Garak retorted, leaning back with his drink. "Debates about the accuracy of the underlying message aside, wouldn't you concur that the metaphor is rather bludgeoning? Dostoyevsky could have presented the same depth of character without such a blatant symbol."
"But that's the very brilliance of it! The onion challenges the reader to confront the intricacies of their own morality. It forces them to examine the complexity of their own actions."
As Julian raved passionately, Garak sipped his kanar peacefully. "I do appreciate the philosophical undertones, Doctor, but I maintain that the story could have been more subtle. The overwhelming presence of the onion seems to overshadow the delicate nuances of the characters' inner conflicts."
"Your utterly flawed literary criticisms never fail to astound me, Garak. The onion adds depth and layers to the narrative, much like the vegetable itself."
N'ivryn found herself suppressing a laugh. She didn't know what 'onion' they were arguing about, but watching the volleys of their banter being lobbed back and forth was all the entertainment she needed.
"Well, Doctor, perhaps the true value of the onion lies in its capacity to spark such animated debates. A testament, no doubt, to the power of stories to incite reflection and dialogue."
"I seem to remember you spouting the same rhetoric when I took issue with your interpretation of Amara Teth's 'Elegy of a Darkened Hall'."
"Yet you persist in branding her work as ostentatious and unnecessary."
"Because it is."
"I'll be sure to let your Dostoyevsky know I feel the same about his onion."
Julian shook his head with a smile. There was clearly no yielding of Garak's opinion on the subject. He grabbed an extra slice of bread and stood from the table. "As much fun as this has been, I really should be getting back to the Infirmary. With any luck we'll have some leads by this evening on what's making our young patient feel so poorly."
Once Julian was out of earshot, Garak turned his focus back to N'iv. "You know, your timing in joining us today is quite fortunate."
"Oh?"
"Indeed, I've recently procured a piece of Andorian art. I would typically explore its artistic and philosophical merits with the Doctor, but since you're here, perhaps you could share your insight."
"I guess it's only fair since I'm the reason your usual critique partner is otherwise occupied."
A pleased grin spread across the Cardassian's face. "Now, the painting captures a significant moment in Andorian mythology—the confrontation between the fabled Kolar beast and our brave hero, Thalos. Thalos stands firm on the icy ground, the setting sun casting a stark, golden sheen off his helmet. The beast's claws are skillfully depicted, one menacingly suspended over Thalos's head, the other aimed towards the remote mountain peak. Tell me, what do you perceive as the symbolic relevance of the Kolar's claws in this composition?"
N'ivryn's drink was empty but she continued to fidget with her straw. A Ferengi waiter quickly appeared to offer a refill, which she politely refused. It was becoming hard to ignore the four empty bottles already crowding the table. "It sounds like a remarkable painting. However, I'm not particularly inclined towards the arts, so I couldn't say. Do you have any theories?"
"Well, I always have my own ideas, but then again I'm not Andorian nor an expert on their mythology."
"I'm open to hearing your thoughts."
"Excellent. You can provide your input and tell me if you agree. Firstly, the claw looming over Thalos's head would signify the disguised offer of alliance extended to Thalos in his journey. It serves as a poignant reminder of the necessity of unity and empathy on his path to glory. Meanwhile, the claw pointed at the distant mountain peak might symbolize Thalos's ambitions and greater calling. It embodies his will to rise, to exceed his boundaries and embrace his fate. The artwork illustrates the essence of the hero's journey—a balance between vulnerability and aspiration, and the need for both."
N'ivryn listened quietly to Garak's analysis, allowing him to complete his thought without interruption. Following his explanation, an awkward silence hung in the air as she struggled to formulate an apt response to his meticulously crafted interpretation. "Well, your reading seems quite reasonable to me," she finally declared.
Garak reclined in his chair and sipped his drink thoughtfully.
"I don't think I can eat another bite." N'iv nudged aside the partially filled plates cluttering the edge of the table.
"I don't mean to detain you any further," Garak initiated, "I presume you'd like to retreat to your quarters and rest after your journey. However, I was wondering if you could spare some time to review a few new drafts I've been working on in my shop. The insight of a fresh pair of eyes could be invaluable."
"I'm afraid my fashion sense isn't much better than my grasp of art."
"Nonsense," Garak dismissed. "One needn't be an expert to appreciate an outfit that flatters. Besides, you may just find something you can't do without. And I promise, it won't even cost you a full bar of gold-pressed latinum."
N'iv held a palm to her forehead, cringing at the easy mark she'd made of herself earlier. She could only hope Garak would interpret her blunder as an innocent mistake made by a tired traveler. Perhaps he'd even overlook it altogether.
With some reluctance, she agreed to his proposition, and the pair left Quark's. The Promenade had quieted now, the lunchtime bustle having subsided. The sealed doors of the Infirmary offered her no stolen glimpse of Kallim inside.
Upon entering Garak's shop, N'iv felt an immediate shift in the atmosphere. She knew something was off when she heard the click of the lock being resecured behind her. She mentally chastised herself, wishing she had found an excuse to decline his invitation.
"You have a lovely shop," she said, her voice steady despite her anxiety. "You clearly have a refined eye." Her gaze settled on a luxurious evening dress, the fabric a deep, lustrous orange, like sun-kissed saffron. When she looked closely, there was the faintest hint of shimmer in the thread. Several intricate beaded strands draped elegantly from one shoulder to the other across the open back.
"Triaxian silk," he informed her. "Exquisitely rare. Not the easiest thing to work with either, but well worth the effort, don't you think?"
"Yes, it's beautiful."
"Speaking of rare materials, I couldn't help but notice the delightful trim on your sleeves. If I'm not mistaken, that's Frostweave, isn't it?"
N'iv's attention darted to the cuffs of her sleeves where a softer, woven fabric contrasted with the leather, exuding a faint blue iridescence in the light.
"A fabric with a storied history and equally renowned for its prohibitive cost," Garak continued, his tone edging into territory that felt less than casual. "Andoria hasn't seen a thread of it in decades, not since the Shimmerwing Beetle's extinction. Owning such a piece would be exorbitant, unless of course, one found less conventional methods of acquisition."
N'iv's maintained a façade of indifference. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you're implying." N'iv felt the trap closing around her, the spider slowly ensnaring the fly. But she was not yet caught, and Garak's game was far from over.
"Of course, I don't mean to accuse you of anything, my dear. I simply find it all very intriguing." His eyes flicked to a fabric display. He adjusted a few bolts of Andorian silk thoughtfully before his gaze returned to her. "Should you have anything to share, N'iv, you may find a tailor's shop quite the sanctuary. You'd be surprised at the confidences that are shared within these walls."
N'iv, managing to keep her poise, turned to a different mannequin with an exasperated sigh. "Fine, I stole it off a dead smuggler, alright? I had to dig it out of a mangled crash site, and nearly got caught by nosey Vulcans doing it. Satisfied?"
Garak's lips curled into a polite smile. Another lie. "I apologize for prying."
N'iv, eager to move past the probing, approached the work desk at the back of the store. The bones of an unfinished creation lay among piles of fabric scraps, surrounded by hand-drafted patterns.
"Is this what you wanted my opinion on?" she asked, impatient to conclude the interrogation.
"However, there's something else that doesn't add up." Garak seemingly hadn't heard her, or at least wasn't interested in discussing the garment just yet. "The myth of Thalos and the Kolar beast... The portrayal I described isn't about allyship or unity." He chuckled as if he'd caught her in an error. "It represents fearless resolve against overwhelming odds. Even a child of Andoria would know that. I imagine the suggestion of Thalos befriending the Kolar would've earned me copious ridicule in any Andorian company."
N'iv swallowed the hot ball of panic churning in her stomach. As she turned to face Garak, his knowing smile confirmed he'd successfully sprung the trap he'd laid.
"I believe we can dispense with the charade. We both know you aren't Andorian."
N'iv carefully roamed her fingers over the desk behind her, finding something cold and metallic. She curled her fingers around the handle, but the moment she arced her hand through the air, Garak's was firmly around her wrist.
"Number one rule of tailoring," he tutted. "Never use the fabric scissors for anything but fabric."
Garak squeezed hard and she had no choice but to drop the shears. He caught them nimbly with his other hand. Her eyes flitted to the exit, but it was too far to make a run for it.
"Ah," Garak mused, examining her wrist where blue-white bioluminescent light glimmered beneath the cuff, "it would seem the sleeves serve a greater purpose than mere fashion."
N'iv's face twisted in a combination of panic and fury, her secrets laid bare by a master of observation and manipulation. Yet, she wasn't entirely outmatched. Her eyes hardened, and she met his gaze squarely.
She wrenched her arm away again and this time he allowed it. Self consciously she tugged the cuffs back into place. The bioluminescence was a reflexive reaction to danger, but she should've focused better on controlling it all the same. What possible lie could she offer now that would convince Garak?
"I have no intention of putting your ruse on display. Though I must say I am curious to know what exactly it's hiding," Garak said. He followed N'iv as she feigned interest in a luxurious velvet capelet.
"What's in it for me if I were to tell you?" she shot back, voice laced with suspicion.
"My dear, it seems you've failed to notice I'm not the only one on this station who's taken an interest in your arrival. Did the Constable's rather conspicuous spying somehow escape your notice during our entire time at Quark's?"
N'iv's jaw clenched, but she couldn't refute him. She hadn't noticed, a lapse she now recognized as a mistake. She'd been too caught up in the meal, the station, and the cunning game of conversation with Garak. A fleeting worry crossed her mind as she wondered how much she had inadvertently revealed.
"What could you possibly gain from helping me?" she demanded in an attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Did I say I'd help you?"
"Keeping my secret, then."
"Let's just call it an investment."
"Why invest in me, then? Why trust me?" N'iv's voice was steady, but she was probing, seeking a weakness.
"Trust, my dear, is a word seldom used in my line of business. But your deception does intrigue me. Should you choose to share the reasons behind it, I might consider offering you some assistance."
He spun on his heel and gestured to the garments around them, his tone shifting back to the playful, enigmatic figure he projected. "After all, every piece of clothing has its story. Why shouldn't yours?"
N'iv sensed the undercurrents of a deeper game, one where the stakes were far higher than mere fashion or artistic interpretation. She knew Garak's curiosity wasn't casual, and his offers of assistance didn't appear to come without strings.
But, she also knew she was cornered. Whatever his methods, he knew too much. It was a liability. Playing along might be her best way forward. She decided to engage Garak on his own terms. "I knew my knowledge of Andorians was limited, but I'd hoped I could be a little more convincing."
"Perhaps to the less discerning," Garak said, eyes narrowing. "But the subtleties betray you. I must ask, do you and the young patient in the infirmary originate from the same planet?"
N'iv's face fell and a pang of vulnerability flashed across it. Garak had seen through her from the start. If he had, who else? If Julian... She swallowed hard. "We call our home Alaris," she blurted, almost involuntarily. "It's hidden in what you refer to as the Badlands."
"Never heard of an Alaris," Garak replied, not yet convinced. It was the truth–no planet of that name had ever been identified in the Badlands. No M class planets had been found there, period. Yet he couldn't immediately dismiss the claim. Everything in her body language indicated that, for once, she was telling the truth.
"I'm not surprised. My people have gone to great lengths to ensure you wouldn't. They don't exactly welcome contact with anyone who isn't Alar."
Garak returned to his work desk and set the scissors next to the commission he'd been working on earlier that morning. "And yet here you are."
"I may…understand their reasoning, that doesn't mean I agree with every belief of my people," she answered with defiance.
"Ah, so you risked it all for curiosity and exploration. Used an illness as a pretext to enter this station. But to what end?"
"Kallim is truly ill," N'iv snapped as anger flashed in her eyes. "Do you think I'd jeopardize everything, defy my culture, for mere whimsy? Is that what you think of me?"
She was just so easy to provoke, he couldn't resist. There was an almost patronizing tone to his voice. "Oh, my naive little N'iv. You don't know what you're doing here, do you?"
"I want to help Kallim. I haven't hidden that from anyone. Why should anything else matter?"
"Oh, it might not matter to you," he mused, "but the administrators of this station are unlikely to overlook deceit, no matter how noble the intent."
"They can't know about my planet. My people's secrecy must be maintained."
He studied her intently as if assessing a challenging fabric. "Then I suggest we weave a few stories the denizens of this station will find palatable."
N'iv searched his face, trying to find some sign of whether or not she could trust him. His expression was frustratingly inscrutable. Just that damned grin.
