The BLTS Archive- Droit De Seigneur
by Arcady (arcady@fastnet.co.uk)

---

I'm too damn lazy to provide a proper background to this story, but
you should assume that (a) the station is no more (b) Cardassia's
fortunes are on the up. It could be in the future; it could also be an
alternate timeline to the Dominion war arc.  Doesn't really matter.  I
wrote it because I wanted to see Garak's fortunes, too, undergoing a
change and I'd like to see him return to Cardassia, someday.

I am utterly in the debt of the usual suspects for beta reading this
and making sure that the story had washed behind its ears, got a clean
hanky and was therefore presentable before leaving the house. For your
invaluable insights into Cardassian mores:a big big thank-you, ladies!

Hope you like it; write and let me know, whatever.

Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to
the Star Trek universe, and that all characters are the property of
Paramount television.  no infringement is intended.

---
"Living?  The servants will do that for us..."


Philippe-Auguste Villiers de L'Isle-Adam, 1838 -89.
---
"People running round loose in the world
They got nothing better to do...
Make a meal of some bright-eyed kid,
You need someone looking after you...'


(Stevie Nicks: 'Stop dragging my heart around.')
---

It was an exquisite rug, the Cardassian thought, but it was in the
wrong place.  He leaned forward.

'A little more to the left...'

'There?'

'Yes...No!  A bit more to the right.'

'How about here?'

'Up a bit.'

'Here?'

'Mmm.  Actually, I think it was better where it was before.' Julian
Bashir, down on his hands and knees, sighed.

'All right, let's leave it where it was, then.' Bashir said. With
exaggerated care, he moved the rug an infinitesimal degree.

'I'm sorry,' Elim Garak said, with apparently genuine contrition. 
'It's just that having got the house back at last, I'd like it to be
perfect - ah!'The door emitted a long, liquid chime.  Bashir and the
ex-tailor looked at one another.

'Shall I assume the position?' Bashir asked.

'If you wouldn't mind,' the Cardassian replied, apologetically.

'Right.'

'I'll be back in a moment.   Beket will get the door.'


Bashir, crouching by the sofa, heard Garak's voice recede into the
distance and then the hiss of the front door as it opened.  The
butler's sonorous tones, quavering a little with age, invoked the
ritual greeting to the guest, then Garak exclaimed

'Gul Sacath - I'm so glad you could come.'

'Garak - it's good to see you back.'

'Believe me,' Bashir heard Garak say with heartfelt agreement 'It's
good to *be* back...'

Steps approached the living room, and Bashir froze.  Sacath, a heavily
built man around Garak's own age, paused when he saw the young human.

'Well, well,' he said, softly.  Reaching down, he turned Bashir's face
to the light.

'I see you've brought a few souvenirs back from your time in the
shadows...Very ornamental.  And so well trained...You always did have
a way with the lesser orders, Garak.'  Gul Sacath studied Bashir for a
moment before losing interest.  'Shall we get down to business?'

---

When Sacath had gone, the human and the Cardassian went out onto the
balcony. The sun was already falling over the edge of the city, at the
end of Cardassia Prime's short day, silhouetting the pylons against
the embers of clouds and turning the river to the colour of old blood. 
*It's beautiful*, Garak thought, and that first, hopeless love which
he had kept at bay for so long flooded back.  Bashir, however, was not
paying attention to the sunset. Instead, he was standing carefully on
one leg, stretching the other behind him.

'What are you doing?' the Cardassian asked.

'Stretching.  My legs have gone to sleep.'

'I really am terribly sorry.  I had no idea Sacath was going to stay
for so long; I'd forgotten he was such an interminable talker.'

'No, it's all right.  I managed.'

'Nevertheless,  I feel badly about it.  I think when we next have
visitors, unless it's a dinner party or something, it might be a good
idea if you were to stay in the bedroom.'

'Why did he keep looking at me like that?' the doctor wondered aloud. 
Garak gave him a narrow glance, marvelling that the young man could
retain even the vestiges of innocence after everything that had
happened.

'Not many people have human servants,' the Cardassian explained, at
last. 'I expect he was simply curious.'

He sat down on the low stone bench, leaning back against the wall and
feeling the day's warmth seep into his skin.  Bashir came to sit cross
legged at his feet.  In the soft twilight, the flowers of the
night-lily vine were beginning to open, releasing their soursweet
perfume into the air, and as Garak watched, a flock of dakitri whirled
up like dead, blown leaves from the eaves of the Hebitian temple. 
Behind him, the pylons of the house reared up into the darkening sky:
its skeletal arches encircling the balcony where they sat.  So little
difference, between the building and his own body; stone and metal
mirroring the familiar structures of scale and bone.

He had never once let himself think of this, in exile, in the cold
dead place that had been Terok Nor.  Dukat was welcome to it, he
thought.  Let him entertain his paramours up there, in his eyrie among
the stars, and never come back to Cardassia.  Remarkably, the new
posting had been Dukat's own request; confirmation that the latter's
much-vaunted return to sanity was more tenuous than generally
believed.  Dukat, however, was the last thing that Garak wanted to
think about.  *I'm home at last.  I have everything I've ever wanted.
Cardassia, and a position, and you.* He reached out and ran his hand
along the nape of Bashir's neck. The young man looked up and smiled,
and before he could stop himself, Garak leaned down and kissed him.

'What would people say?' Bashir murmured, and the Cardassian replied

'I don't care.  Come to bed.'


Later, however, when Bashir lay sleeping, Garak stepped out onto the
balcony and stood resting his hands on the stone parapet.  The city
lay dreaming below.  The only sign of life was a ship coming in to
Ortaka, and he watched as it floated down through the darkness.  His
eyes sought familiar landmarks: the lamps along the Sihali aqueduct;
the mooring lights of the barges beneath Tehesh Bridge; the dark bulk
of Sessara gardens overhanging the government buildings of the Iket. 
He might take Bashir up to Sessara one day soon, if the weather held. 
The rains were already late and the hot, stormy period of the
equinoctial months had always been his favourite season. 

*Back just in time.* 

Soon, too, they would have to think carefully about Bashir's position:
of how they were going to return him to the Federation, or what was
left of it.  It would not be easy, and for once Garak did not want to
think about the ramifications. 

*I want you here, with me.  For the rest of my life*. 

But that just wasn't possible, and he had to face facts.  For a
moment, the air seemed suddenly cold.  Drawing his robe more closely
around himself, he went back inside.

---

Bashir awoke to hear voices down in the hallway and made his way out
onto the landing.  Looking over the banister, he could see the tops of
two glossy black heads: Garak and another man whom Bashir did not
recognise.  He could tell by Garak's posture, however, that all was
not well.  Garak's shoulders were stiff and his neck ridges darkened
with annoyance, but the slight bow of his head suggested a degree of
concession, even submission.  There was too much about the new
political situation on Cardassia that Bashir did not understand; Garak
had explained it as thoroughly as he could, but events had been moving
so swiftly of late that no single person had all the answers.  
Moreover, his Cardassian friend's chequered past continued to catch up 
with him: since their arrival, and Garak's reinstatement, a whole host 
of people had been coming out of the woodwork, eager to renew old 
acquaintance and settle old scores.

'Believe me, Doctor,' Garak had said, only a few days earlier.  'I've
no intention of remaining the head of the resurrected Order.  It's an
invitation to assassination. As soon as everything's in place, that's
it.  I'm going to retire.'

'And do what?' a sceptical Bashir had enquired.  'Go back to hemming
dresses?'

'I shall devote myself to horticulture.  I'll buy a place in the
country and grow orchids.  You can come with me, if you like.'

Bashir tried to imagine his friend ensconced in peaceful retreat and
failed. A sudden image of himself fetching Garak's slippers assailed
him; it was a startling vision.  He sat up straighter and blinked.

'Doctor?' Garak asked, then bit his lip in annoyance.  'I'll have to
stop calling you that.  Old habits die hard.'

'It's purely temporary,' Bashir replied, reining in his patience.  'As
soon as I'm back in the Federation, I'll be able to practice medicine
again.'

*The sooner the better*, he thought now, watching the incomprehensible
exchange in the hallway below.  In the shadows, seen from this unusual
angle, Garak's face was sculpted into an unfamiliar landscape, but as
usual when he looked at his friend, Bashir's heart contracted with
affection.  *After all, you did save my life, even if it's my turn to
become the outsider, the exile. I'd rather be your slave than anyone
else's...*  Or dead on the Promenade of DS9, anyway; like - other
people.  Bashir did not want to think about that. Silently, he turned
and retreated back into the bedroom, where he was soon joined by his
friend and owner.

The Cardassian's scales looked ruffled and his mouth was turned down
with annoyance.

'Is everything all right?' Bashir asked.  Garak came to sit next to
him on the edge of the bed.

'Julian.  You trust me, don't you?  I know our relationship's had its
ups and downs -'

'What, me shooting you, and that sort of thing?' Bashir's attempt at
levity was unsuccessful.  The ex-tailor stared at him unhappily and
replied

'Mmm.  But ever since the downfall of the station, when I brought you
here, you've know that I'd never let anyone hurt you, don't you?'
Bashir placed a hand over the Cardassian's.

'I know,'  he said, trying to look Garak in the eye.  Garak shot him a
glance which he could have sworn contained guilt.  'We have a problem,
don't we?'

'A slight difficulty has arisen, yes.  You see, startling though this
may seem, my homecoming has actually been welcomed by some rather
influential people.  Now that Tain's dead, and annoyances like Dukat
are out of the way, my old supporters are free to express their favour
once again.  Gul Remek's  just called to tell me that I've been
invited to a celebration, at the Central Hall of Governance.'

'That's the round building, with the spires, isn't it?'

'Yes, that's the one.  All sorts of people are going to be there; from
the new council downwards, and it'll provide me with the opportunity
to plead the case of the reinstated Order.'

'But that's good, isn't it?  From your point of view.'

'Oh, yes, it's excellent news.  But there's a slight hitch.  You see,
when a person of note is invited to an occasion of this sort, he's
expected to bring a personal retainer or two along with him - it's an
old Hebitian custom, dating back to the days when we still had an
aristocracy.'

'Yes, we used to have similar things on Earth.  Beket and Kafak could
go with you, couldn't they?  They're the senior members of the
household, after all.'

'Unfortunately, Remek met Gul Sacath down at the public baths last
night, and the conversation turned to - well, to personal matters, and
it seems that Sacath told Remek how decorative you were.'

'I suppose that's quite flattering,' Bashir said, after a pause.

'The trouble is that Remek now thinks that the celebration would be an
ideal time for me to show you off.  Sacath's idea, apparently. 
They're both of the  opinion that it's quite a cachet for the new Head
of the Obsidian Order to have a captured Starfleet slave. He was quite
insistent that I should bring you along, and since he has enormous
influence with the new Council, I could hardly refuse.  The Detapa
Council are technically my immediate superiors, you see, in terms of
the new hierarchy.'

'All right,' Bashir said.  'If there's no way out of it, I'm sure I
can go along and be charming for an evening.  It'll be a change,
anyway.  What sort of celebration is it?  Will there be
entertainment?'

'Well, yes.'  The Cardassian took a deep, slow breath.  'I'm afraid
that part of the entertainment is supposed to be *you*.'

Bashir digested this.  He could feel himself growing pale. 'What?' 
Stories of Cardassian atrocities flooded back into his memory. 'Will
they torture me?  They won't make you do it, will they?'

'Certainly not!  Well, not at this sort of function, anyway.  The
Council aren't barbarians.  No, the services that Remek would like you
to provide are of an altogether more discreet nature. It won't even be
in the main hall: they're hiring a separate room.  And you won't be
alone; there'll be other people there, doing the same thing...'

'*Which is?*'

'It'll only be for a few hours - until dawn at the very latest.  And
I'll be there.'

'Garak!  What am I going to have to do?'

The Cardassian told him, plainly and simply.

'What!  I can't do that!  How many people are going to be at the
celebration, anyway?' Bashir asked in shock.

'It's a very select affair.  Probably no more than thirty.'

'Thirty!  You're expecting me to sexually service thirty people?'

'Don't be absurd.  It would take ages; they'd have to form a queue.
No, you'll be in the charge of the dignitaries: the three main members
of the Council have requested you specially.'  He caught Bashir's
horrified eye. 'Julian.  Surely you know that I've no intention of
allowing you to go through with this?  I'm aware humans treat these
matters differently; I understand how you must feel. Besides,' the
scales along his throat lifted slightly 'Don't think I don't know
what's behind this.  It has nothing to do with your charms, or your
position as a captured enemy officer.  You're effectively my
surrogate.  The Council want to show they can exercise power over me,
but because I have rather too much standing to be expected to go
through with such a performance myself, they've asked for you.  They
want to show just how much control they have over my property.'

Bashir was not sure, from the Cardassian's tone of voice, whether
Garak was indignant on his behalf or merely annoyed at having his
territory infringed upon.  He decided that the answer to that
particular question could wait.

'Elim?'

'Yes?'

'Have you - I mean, have *you* done this sort of thing before? 
Personally?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Didn't you mind?'

'Naturally I minded.  But sometimes it was expedient, and sometimes,
to be perfectly honest, it was enjoyable.  Remember, we're not like
you.  We attach a different emphasis to sexual affairs.'

Resolutely, Bashir dragged his mind back to the present.

'Well, what are we going to do about it?'

Garak sighed. 'I told you; I'll have to wait until the dust dies down
before there's any chance of contacting the Federation.  Everyone's
attention is on me at the  moment: I can't risk jeopardising my
position, and therefore your return.'

'Garak, I understand that. I really do; there's no way I'd want to see
you back in exile.  But there has to be a way out of this.  Can't we
say I'm ill?'

'Too obvious.  No, leave it with me.  I'll think of something.'

He reached out and drew a tentative finger down Bashir's cheek.  'I
always do, after all.  Now. The other thing is, Remek's invited me to
meet him at the municipal baths today, after I've finished work.  He'd
like you to join us.'

'Do I have a choice?'

'No.'

Bashir sighed.'I suppose this will be yet another ordeal to be
endured.  "Droit de Seigneur", one might say.'

'Pardon me?'

'It's an expression meaning, more or less, 'owner's rights.'  It dates
from feudal times on Earth: basically all the maidens in the village
were sexually  obligated to the lord of the manor.  He could have them
whenever he chose, and so could his friends.'

'Believe me, Julian, I may have entertained the occasional
slave-fantasy about you back on Terok Nor, but this kind of thing was
not a prominent feature.'

'So I should hope,' Bashir remarked, gloomily.

---

This was Bashir's first visit to the municipal baths, and he had to
admit that he was impressed.  The building was segregated: ladies on
one side, men on the other, but everyone entered through the same
cavernous portal.  Bashir, who had difficulties adjusting to the low
light, squinted up to where the ceiling arched in a series of petalled
segments.  It was rather like being inside a vast, art-deco lampshade;
or someone's ribcage.  Despite his years on the station, his eyes had
difficulty in adjusting to Cardassian perspectives: massive structures
borne on delicate curves, ridged and serrated like the secrets of
alien flesh.

He followed Garak towards the male section.  As he stepped through the
door of the changing rooms everyone turned to stare with unblinking,
unfriendly interest, which Garak ignored. 

*All very well for him*, Bashir thought sourly as he tried to remove
his clothes whilst attracting the minimum of attention. Soon, he was
standing naked in the middle of the changing rooms.  From the corner
of his eye he could see Garak neatly folding up his own attire. 
Bashir stared fixedly at a point on the opposite wall in a vain
attempt to block out the chilly eyes that were still trained upon him. 
There was even a muffled snort, whether of amusement or derision,
Bashir could not tell. He was not extensively familiar with the
subtleties of Cardassian anatomy.  The only representative of that
particular race whom he habitually saw without his clothes was Garak
himself, and Bashir had no way of knowing whether the ex-tailor was
typical.  He risked a quick glance around the changing room.
Apparently Garak was an average member of his species, if musculature
and, well, other things were anything to go by.  The ashen faces which
surrounded him were unreadable, and he was relieved when his owner
snapped his fingers, tossed him a rather inadequate towel and remarked
abruptly:

'Follow me.'

Once out into the narrow corridor, they were alone.  Garak turned to
smile at his human possession.

'Well, that's my reputation for good taste ensured.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Didn't you see how they were looking at you?  Quite enchanted, every
last one of them.'

Wildly, Bashir said, 'I can't possibly see how they can find me
attractive. I'm so - different.' Perhaps Garak, blinded by affection,
was wrong.

'But you have so many  of the classical virtues.  The ancient
Hebitians were a slender, delicate people, in every sense of the word. 
I'll have to take you round the museum; you can look at some of the
statues...'

'Surely the average Cardassian wouldn't find me sexually stimulating,'
Bashir said, in desperation.  'I mean, well, in comparison, in terms
of my -'

'A mark of refinement!' the ex-tailor said firmly.  'Stop putting
yourself down.  After all, I consider you delightful, and I've always
had impeccable taste. You really are much too modest.'

He glanced uneasily at his property. 'In fact, given your more
enticing qualities, it might be as well if we were to stay
together...I suppose I'll have to resign myself to a spell in the
frigidarium until Remek shows up.  I can hardly expect you to endure
the warm areas.'

'I'd rather not,' Bashir agreed hastily.  He doubted whether he'd
survive the heat of a Cardassian sauna.  The corridor was quite hot
enough, and the humidity had already plastered his hair flat against
his head.  Garak led him  along a labyrinthine maze and eventually
they stepped out into a wide marble atrium, containing a series of
pools.  Steam formed a light, drifting mist across the area: it was,
if anything, even hotter than the corridor.  Garak shivered.

'Come with me.  The idea is to work your way through the pools, from
the coldest onwards.  Oh well. Aren't cold baths supposed to be
healthy, or something?'

'Depends what you consider cold.'

Stepping through the door, they were joined by the urbane Gul Remek.

'Garak!' the Gul said.  'Glad you could make it.  And this charming
young man must be your latest acquisition.  You must find it quite an
honour,' he added to Bashir.

'Yes,' was all that Bashir could trust himself to say.

As he sank into the steaming water Bashir saw that the pool was
already quite full.  In another vain bid for unobtrusiveness, he
slipped as far beneath the surface as he could manage while still
continuing to breathe, and closed his eyes.  Everyone was looking at
him again.  He could sense it.  He sat still on the underwater bench
and willed their gaze away.  After a while there was a faint ripple in
the water beside him; he felt long, scaled fingers curl around his
knee.  Bashir twitched violently, and the hand withdrew.  A moment
later it crept stealthily back again. 

Bashir stole a glance at his owner.  Garak was apparently  kneeling on
the bench: his head rested on his folded arms. Despite his complaints
about the arctic nature of the baths, his face was peaceful in sleep. 
Cautiously, Bashir opened the other eye and glimpsed a shape through
the steam, much too close for comfort.  Gul Remek.  The latter gave
him an inviting smile.  Bashir's eye hastily closed. The foreign
fingers slid further along his thigh.  Frantically, he nudged Garak in
the ribs and the ex-tailor came awake with a start.  He smiled at
Bashir.

'Had enough?'

Bashir needed no encouragement.  In seconds he was sitting on the edge
of the pool in a shower of spray.  Garak regarded him indulgently.

'It is quite revitalising, isn't it?'  Sinuously, he slid up out of
the water to join his property.  The Cardassians watched with
interest.  Bashir felt like a moth on a pin.  Desperately, he rested
his chin on Garak's plated shoulder and whispered

'Could we go somewhere a little more private?'

Garak gave him a rather arch glance.'If you like,' he murmured, adding
more loudly 'Come on then, slave...'

There were cubicles along the sides of the atrium, each one concealed
behind a swing door.  Bashir did not know precisely what their purpose
was intended to be, but he could make a few educated guesses.  Garak
peered at the stains on the couch.

'Not too bad, for a change,'  he remarked disparagingly.  He fiddled
with a switch set into the wall.  'Still a little chilly, though...'

'It's fine for me,' Bashir told him.

'It'll take a while to warm up...Would you mind staying here for a bit
while I go and avail myself of the facilities in the sauna area?  I
won't be very long.  After all those years on Terok Nor, I find I feel
the cold - it gets into your bones, you know...'

'You go ahead. Elim?'

'Yes?'

'Is there a lock on this door.'

'There should be...yes, there is.'

'Could you give, say, three knocks on the door when you come back. 
I'm planning to lock it.'

'Certainly,' the Cardassian said, somewhat baffled.  'If you want to
play 'secret assignation', I'm quite amenable...'

'It's not that.'

'Oh.  Oh, I see.  There's no need to worry.  No-one's going to make a
move on you when I'm here.'

'They already have.'  Bashir explained.

'Really!' the Cardassian said, outraged.  'Some people...Remek's
getting above himself.'  He shivered.

'Go on,' Bashir said, sighing.  'I'll just lock the door.'

'It seems that would be wise...'

---

Somewhat ruffled, Garak made his way to the sauna area.  Only a few
people inhabited the hot pool: two elderly men, clearly civil
servants; a man Garak knew from the judiciar's office, with whom he
enjoyed a cordial dislike, and a younger man with a slight military
air.  The officer shifted to make room for Garak, and he sighed with
pleasure as the seething, heated water soothed his muscles.  He sank
back and closed his eyes. The holodeck was never as good as the real
thing, somehow.  He settled himself comfortably against the next
scaled body; an arm curled companionably around his shoulders.  He had
missed the presence of his fellow Cardassians, at least in this
context.  Generally, they were a suspicious, irritable people, none
too keen on the company of strangers, except here in the baths, where
all differences were put aside; all enmities suspended. 

They could teach the Federation a thing or two about genuine
egalitarianism, Garak thought.   Look at the people in this pool.
Himself, his position as one of the most powerful people on Cardassia
restored; the civil servants, the officer, two newcomers  who could
have been anything: artists or judges or slaves.  The Federation made
much of its equality, but he hadn't seen a whole lot of that in
practice.  Except perhaps the occasional Federation officer who might
befriend someone totally beyond  the social pale: an exile, an enemy,
a spy.

He glanced sidelong at the young officer next to him: the man was
handsome, with a finely boned face and a dancer's muscles.  Sensing
his gaze, the young man's eyes opened and a spark of interest appeared
in their dark depths. Garak smiled.

'I'm sorry,' he said.  The officer's head bowed in momentary
submission.

'A pity,' he murmured.  'Another time, perhaps?'

'Another time...'

The young officer rose and stepped lithely from the pool, displaying
long legs and a sleek spine.  Garak watched him go, with intermingled
desire and regret.  If it hadn't been for Bashir, he'd have followed. 
He hoped Julian was all right, especially after that unfortunate
incident earlier.  *But he knows I'll look after him*, Garak thought,
slightly guiltily.  He could hardly expect a human to view these
sexual niceties in the same light as a Cardassian: his alien lover
would regard servicing his superiors more as a violation than a
question of courteous necessity.

Despite his annoyance at the Council's blatant assumption of authority
over his personal effects, Garak allowed himself a moment's
exasperation.  If he'd complained every time one of his superiors had
sought a momentary diversion over the office desk or in the staff
waste extraction facilities, he'd have spent the whole of his days
whining about it.  One simply extracted what advantages one could from
the experience.  There was always something one could use to one's own
benefit, after all. But Bashir wouldn't see it in the same way, and
couldn't really be expected to. Of course, it depended on who had been
requesting the favour.  Remembering, Garak smiled. 

Gul Saninain, for instance...there had practically been a queue
outside his office door, unlike - well, other people he could think
of.  And, he thought modestly, when he had gained sufficient status to
indulge a few passing attractions, his partners had hardly seemed
unenthusiastic.  At least he'd made an effort to seduce, rather than
merely demand.

The fact remained, however, that sexual favours of this nature were a
vital part of cementing the social structure; of establishing one's
place within the cultural hierarchy.

From what Garak had seen on Terok Nor, humans treated their sexual
relationships purely as a matter of mutual affection and desire, a
degree of frivolousness which the Cardassian had always found slightly
disturbing.  It seemed chaotic, and dangerously uncaring of one's
place in society: an almost anarchic sensibility.  Of course, it was
rather different if a Cardassian chose to have flighty affairs with
aliens: one needed one's diversions, after all, and it was refreshing
to form temporary dalliances without any need to consider the
political ramifications, but Garak couldn't help feeling that it was a
little - well, not perverted, exactly, but certainly decadent.  That
was, if he was honest with himself, part of its appeal, but as a way
of conducting one's more permanent relationships, it left a certain
amount to be desired in the eyes of society.

His scales rippled with remembered indignation.  Dukat had been a
persistent offender in that regard: flagrantly pursuing Bajoran women
and letting the side down.  That was precisely the sort of thing that
anyone with a shred of decency would have kept behind closed doors,
rather than flaunted so publicly. But then, Dukat had always been prey
to an embarrassing iconoclasm: yet another sign of his mental
instability.  Garak's own cross-species romance had  been conducted
with the utmost discretion.  Even now, he was careful to maintain a
proper front; insisting that Bashir behaved as appropriately as
possible when in company.  Remek was right; it was a cachet to have a
captured Starfleet Officer in his household, but there were clear
limits which everyone understood.  Suppose he'd brazenly begun taking
Bashir to formal dinners, uninvited, or addressing his lover in the
intimate mode in public?  It would be courting a scandal.

He had never understood Dukat's exhibitionist need to show off his
alien paramours.  No wonder other officers had taken it upon
themselves to pay attention to Heralia Dukat, thus saving her from
total humiliation.  Garak sighed, and sank further into the hot pool. 
Poor Heralia.  A charming woman, and quite undeserving of her
husband's inattention.  Her father had been a respected Legate, too:
why couldn't Dukat realise when he was well off?

Garak's thoughts turned back to his human lover.  It would be a pity
if the young man allowed himself to become unnerved by these
annoyances.  Garak had every intention of looking after Julian, partly
out of affection, but also due to an innate possessiveness which he
rarely thought to question.   He feared  that Bashir had much to learn
about Cardassian relationships. However, Julian was a sensitive boy
and probably wanted to feel  cherished. *He'll understand eventually*,
Garak thought, stifling his unease.  *I'll take care of things* and
with this comforting reassurance, he went to sleep.

---

The walls of the cubicles were very thin.  Bashir could hear every
sound in the area around him, somewhat to his embarrassment.  He rose
once, to check that the door was indeed securely fastened, then
stepped across to the couch and lay down again, thinking things over. 
He wished Garak could show a little more consideration of his
feelings: this undercurrent of possessiveness was all very well, but
it related more to Garak's own status than Bashir's sensibilities. 
Garak, settling back into his own world, seemed to be becoming more
Cardassian.  Bashir had hoped that the ex-tailor's experiences on the
station had changed him, but homilies about leopards and spots came
rather too readily to mind...

His neighbours appeared endowed with both energy and stamina.  Bashir
smiled to himself: Cardassians seemed prone to being voluble,
especially in bed.  At last, the rustling, whispering, uncontrolled
noises stopped.  There was a brief moment of silence, then a voice
said:

'You know he's brought his Starfleet slave with him today?'

'What, here?' a second voice said, with evident amusement.  'How
flamboyant.'

'It was Remek's idea, apparently.  Should whet a few appetites...'

'Have you seen him?'

'No...I think he's over in the hot area.'

'Sacath said that it all went according to plan.'

'So he's bringing the human to the festivities?  Good.  Is Sacath sure
he believed the story?'

'Sacath enrolled the help of Remek, who put the idea to the Council:
told them Garak needed to be shown his place.  It seems they agreed. 
Then Remek went to see him and  Garak accepted it.' A pause. 'I'll
need something we can use for the plant.'

'That won't be difficult.  As soon as someone can get close enough to
run a DNA scan, we can duplicate it.  It'll look as though the human
killed him.  A high profile execution, and a whole wealth of interests
will be served: Tain's son will be out of the way, and there'll be a
further justification for avoiding a peace treaty with the
Federation.'  A pause. 'Still, enough political discussion for one
day.  I'm sure we can both find better things to do...'

Bashir lay very still, listening, but his neighbours were leaving.  He
stepped hastily across to the door and peered through the wooden
slats.  He had difficulty enough telling one Cardassian from another,
and both backs were turned to him as the plotters walked away. Sweat
trickled down the back of his neck, but he was not sure whether this
was due to the rising heat in the cubicle or just plain fear.  Where
the hell was Garak? he thought, and as if in answer to his wishes,
there were three short knocks on the door.

'Come here,' Bashir said, and to the Cardassian's evident delight,
dragged Garak inside.   'I have to talk to you - no, please don't do
that; I want to talk to you *first*...'

As rapidly and coherently as possible, he explained.

'And you've no idea what sort of men these are?  What they do, or how
old they are?'

'I'm sorry.  I only saw their backs.  I don't even know whether I'd
recognise their voices again...'  Despite the linguistic safety-net of
the universal translator, he still had problems with Kardasi: with its
tones and intricacies, and on the few occasions when he had
accompanied Garak through the streets the words around him, too
fragmented to be caught by the translator, seemed to shift and slur
into alien sibilance.

Garak was sitting very still.  At last he said,   'Well.  At last.  I
wondered when I was going to start doing something right.'

Bashir stared at him blankly.  'I don't understand,' he said.

There was a light in the Cardassian's blue eyes that he had not seen
for some time; not since the station had fallen.  He had been standing
next to Garak on the deck of the freighter, watching as Terok Nor
receded into the fiery night, and it must have been then that Garak
realised he was finally going home.  He had turned to Bashir, and
said,   'Come with me.  Come home, to Cardassia.  You're too far
behind the lines for your people to save you now, but I think there's
still a way...'

Now, Bashir recognised that light behind his gaze: it was victory. 
The Cardassian said patiently,  'When people start trying to kill me,
then I know I'm back in business.' He smiled with relief.  'Still
dangerous, after all these years out of practice. Besides, it gives me
an idea...'

---

Next morning, Bashir was wandering around the terrace with a jug,
watering the lilies, when he once again became aware that he was being
watched.  He turned, to see Beket the butler's gaze fixed dolefully
upon him.

'Can I help you?' Bashir asked, politely.  Given the ambivalence
between his real role, as Garak's lover and a temporary exile from the
Federation, and his assumed position in the household, he had been
careful to keep on the right  side of the other servants.  He was not
as yet entirely sure of the status of such people within Cardassian
society: they tended to be orphans, or the landless, but the subject
seemed to be a sensitive one and he had not yet managed to get a clear
overview from Garak.  Beket seemed like a decent enough person, if a
melancholy one.  

Querulously, Beket cleared his throat.   'I have been in the service
of the House of Tain for over fifty years,' he said.

'So you've told me, and your loyalty really is very commendable -'

'And I regret to inform you that you are proving most unsatisfactory.'

'In what way?'

The butler made an irritated gesture.

'Your demeanour towards your owner fails to show the proper respect. 
It does not exhibit zhir'hai, or the correct degree of hemmet.  I
suppose you cannot entirely be blamed, due to your unhappy lack of
throat ridges; nevertheless, an effort should be made.'

'I'm terribly sorry,' Bashir said, trying to appear contrite.  'I had
no idea.'  The last thing he needed was the enmity of the butler, he
thought.  An idea occurred to him. *Win him over.*

'Perhaps you would be kind enough to instruct me?' he asked. The
butler sniffed.

'Once again, you demonstrate your utter inability to grasp fundamental
principles of decorum.  I cannot engage in your tuition: that must be
the task of Kafak, when he can find the time to spare.  Moreover, in
his graciousness, our master is clearly too well-bred to comment on
such things, but something must also be done about your clothes.'

Bashir looked down at himself.  He was wearing one of Garak's silk
dressing gowns, and a spare pair of trousers.

'I will request Kafak to take you down to the emporia this afternoon
and find you something more suitable.  This informality has gone on
quite long enough.'

Bashir, resisting the temptation to suggest that their mutual owner
run him up a couple of suits, bowed his head.  When he raised it
again, the butler had gone.

He wandered back into the house, where he found Garak amid a sea of
papers in the study.

'Your butler's just harangued me about  my lack of decorum,' he said.

'Beket's simply doing his job.  He was with my father for many years;
it's hardly surprising if he feels a little put out.'

'It makes my position here somewhat difficult.'

'Nonsense.  There's a fundamental difference.  You have earned the
right to call me 'darling' and he has earned the right to call me
'sir.'  Beket understands that; he's merely marking out his
territory.'

'I trust you don't expect me to address you as 'sir'?'

'Of course not.  Only in public.  Your charming informality and
gaucheness are the very things that attracted me to you; I've no wish
for you to change. In any case, we have far more important things to
worry about.  My forthcoming assassination, for instance.'

'Oh God, that.  Have you any clearer notion of who might be behind
it?'

'I have a few possibilities,' the ex-tailor remarked, scrolling down a
PADD. Bashir came to stand behind him and peered over his shoulder.

'How many names are on that list?'

'I've narrowed it down to about fifty.'

'Oh, only fifty?' Bashir commented with heavy irony.

'Yes, it surprised me, too.  I was banking on a round hundred...Never
mind. And of those, at least thirty five are essentially light-weights
or rank outsiders.  So that leaves fifteen...Hmm.'

Bashir watched an elegant finger travel down the list.

'Suhanek's awaiting trial...he's out of the running.  I know for a
fact Rehet Ettar is on Romulus: had a report for him yesterday - a
very good one, too; that boy will go far...Akith Ahalani...She's
overseeing Terok Nor, keeping an eye on Dukat.  Gul Vevers...no, wait,
there was that unfortunate incident.  They always were an unlucky
family.'  Briskly, he struck a name from the list.  'So that
leaves...Chelim Kharahan.  I wonder.  I'm sure he's still in town;
Sacath had dinner with him the night before last.  And he's close to
Sacath, too.  Julian?  How about a bet?'

'Really, Elim, this is far too serious to start laying odds -'

'I was joking,' the Cardassian said, smiling.  He rose and put his
hands on Bashir's shoulders, staring into his face.

'You're really worried, aren't you?  There's no reason to be.  I've
survived far worse than this, as you very well know.  I have every
intention of dying peacefully in my bed, surrounded by my loved ones.'

He brushed Bashir's mouth with his own.  'Don't look so unhappy.'

'I can't help it.'  It wasn't only Garak he was concerned about; it
was himself.

'Listen,' he said, uneasily.  'I know we agreed that I should lie low
for a while, but I really think it's time we tried to contact
Starfleet.' Garak sighed.

'You know my reasons for not doing so.  You know the war's going badly
for your people: they're being driven further and further back behind
their own borders.  It'll be extremely difficult to get a message
across and I'm not even sure that they'll spare the time to help you.'

Their eyes met.  After a long moment, Bashir nodded. 'Very well.  I'll
do as you say.'


Later that afternoon, he accompanied Kafak to the central emporium to
purchase a new wardrobe.  Kafak, a sad, plump man with a tendency to
fuss, tried to interest him in the minutiae of Cardassian sartorial
matters, but Bashir's mind was not on his attire.  He could not stop
himself from dwelling on his situation.  Everything he heard was
filtered through propaganda: through the interminable news broadcasts
which relentlessly praised the advance of the Cardassian Alliance, and
through Garak himself.  There's nothing like the propaganda of the
heart, after all.  He wouldn't put it past Garak to lie to him to keep
him here; to keep stalling until the day when Bashir finally realised
that he'd never see Federation space again.  He knew Garak loved him,
but Bashir was not so naive as to think it was an unselfish love.  It
was the indulgent affection of someone who had finally got what he
wanted; placed in the context of Cardassia and the Order, Bashir felt,
he came a rather poor third.  He couldn't even blame Garak for that. 
If their positions had been reversed, and there was a chance of having
it all - his lover and his position - would he try to change the
status quo?   Maybe not.  He loved Garak, in turn, with a depth and
passion that sometimes amazed him, but there were other
considerations.

Kafak plucked at his sleeve.  'Well?'

'Well what?' Bashir said.

'I asked you whether you liked the ochre or the beige?' Kafak said,
patiently.

'Oh.  Sorry. Yes, they're both quite nice.  But I prefer the cream.'

Kafak sighed.  'I've explained this to you already.  Cream is only
worn by members of the Third Judiciary, and, combined with a slate
stripe, by the Fourth Dialectical Advocacy.'

'Oh.  What about that maroon cloth over there?'

'Only the Ministry of Epistemics may wear maroon,' Kafak said,
outraged, 'And then only if they have reached their seventeenth stage
in advisory collateralism.  No, the beige is very suitable and will
have to do for now until we can find a more subdued shade.'

He engaged in a heated exchange with the merchant, while Bashir gazed
vaguely around the emporium: a vast, cavernous building filled with a
motley assortment of utilitarian goods, the legacy of a command
economy.  It was rather like being in an aquarium: the light filtered
through its small windows was an undersea green.  He found himself
squinting again, trying to see clearly through the dimness. 

* Elim, what are you planning?  Are you intending to keep me here,
never let me go home?*  It was long past time to take matters into his
own hands, he decided. 

Kafak handed him the purchases and they made their way back through
the dusty afternoon streets.

---

Chelim Kharahan, Garak thought.  He had taken his revised list of
potential assassins out onto the balcony and was now sitting with it
balanced on his knee.  There was a connection, he was sure of it.  The
name was familiar, from some long lost context...

Methodically, he ran through the neat arrays of his eidetic memory,
scanning its data banks with the aid of the mnemonic symbols he had
been taught as a child.  And there it was,  Kharahan's family had had
a land-alliance with the Dukat clan, back in the early days of the
Bajoran occupation.  He wondered if the alliance had persisted down
the generations; it would require a little sleight of hand in
examining the land registry database, but he ought to be able to gain
undetected access.  It did not entail that Kharahan and Dukat were on
good terms - rather the opposite, in fact - but personal enmities had
nothing to do with successful plotting.  Some of his best work had
been undertaken during temporary alliances with enemies; it kept you
on your toes.  Given this link, Dukat's insistence on remaining on
Terok Nor attained a different significance.  A good alibi...

He gazed out over the city to the viaduct, where two tiny figures were
making their way homewards.  Bashir's slight form was clearly
recognisable, even at this distance.  Garak smiled.  *How much do you
love me?* he wondered, whimsically.  *And how far would you go to
prove it?*

---

Next morning, Bashir pleaded a headache and stayed in bed until he
heard the front door hiss shut.  He slipped to the window and glanced
out: Garak's familiar shape could be seen making its way in the
direction of the Order offices.  Bashir, dressed in his new beige
suit, made his way down to the study, where he began running through
the computer files at random.  He was so absorbed that he did not
notice when Beket came into the room.

'What are you doing?' the butler asked, suspiciously.

'Our master asked me to clean up the filing system.  You can ask him,
if you like.  Shall I call him at the Order?'

'No.  No, that won't be necessary.  If he set you the task, you'd best
complete it,' Beket said, reluctantly.  Unnervingly, however, he
remained, watching while Bashir occupied himself with the system. 
Bashir tried to look innocuous, and must have succeeded.  After a few
minutes, the butler left without a word.

He did not want a message to be traced back to Garak.  This would
involve setting up a scrambler relay, routed through a series of
safemails; the information equivalent of money laundering.  He began
to explore the possibilities, working as quickly as he could.  It
should be possible to use  externally broadcast channels,
piggy-backing a message in a sequence of fragmented signals.  Military
communications?  No, the security would be too tight?  Trade?  Most
areas were either embargoed by the Cardassians, or embargoed them in
turn.  Then, a brainwave came to him.  Cardassia Prime broadcast
propaganda: endless exhortations to other systems on the superiority
of the Cardassian state.  Garak had told him that they were sent out
automatically, on a relay basis.  He could hide his message in those. 

Soon, he had connected with an intricate series of relay stations,
embedding a brief message and his Starfleet security codes within
them.  It did not take long, for someone with his unnatural
intelligence.  When Beket came back in to see  what he was doing,
Bashir was innocently polishing the woodwork.

---

'Good evening,' Garak said.  He slumped back against the couch and
massaged his temples.  Solicitously, Bashir came to sit next to him,
and placed a hand on the Cardassian's arm.

'Long day?'

'Long and tedious.  That's the last time I let Yeved out on his own
without supervision.  He wouldn't have got into the Order in the first
place if he hadn't been so well connected; the boy's a disaster
waiting to happen.' Without warning, he turned and kissed Bashir, long
and hard, and then moved  down along the couch so that his head rested
on the young man's chest.  Bashir slipped a hand into the weight of
soft, dark hair, feeling suddenly riven with guilt.  Garak sighed.

'Oh.  That's better.'

Bashir glanced down.  His lover's eyes had drifted shut; his breathing
deepened.

'Elim, are you asleep?'

'Mmm?  Yes.'

Bashir's arm was going numb.  Carefully, he extracted it, and they
stayed like this for a long time, until moonlight slid over the
balcony and cast the dappled shadows of the vines across the floor. 
In the half-light, Garak's face seemed younger, stripped of its
sometimes malicious intensity.  He was dreaming; his fingers flexed
gently against Bashir's shirt and once he smiled. Bashir thought of
his message: a plea for rescue broadcasting out beyond the moons,
beyond the stars, and it seemed incredible to him that he had done
such a thing.

*What was I thinking of?  I can't leave you.  You need me* but even as
the thought came, he knew it wasn't true.  As if he had heard, Garak
woke and raised his head.

'What's wrong?' he asked, softly.  'Julian?'

'Nothing.  Nothing's wrong.'

'You're a very poor liar,' the Cardassian murmured. 'I can't have
taught you very well after all.  I can hear it in your voice.'

'I don't want to leave you,' Bashir said.

'Well, then, you don't have to,' the Cardassian said, amused.  He ran
a
finger down Bashir's breast, tracing the line of bone, then sat up and
pulled the young man closer.  One hand travelled down Bashir's spine;
Garak's breathing quickened.  Held so easily, Bashir had a moment of
uneasy doubt. Compared to the Cardassian he felt fragile and frail: it
lent an imbalance to their physical relationship, something unhuman
and unknown.  He was living among predators: Garak's civilised,
courteous manner no more than a veneer, concealing  old and dangerous
instincts.  He had once heard Cardassians compared to timber wolves,
and this constant sense of domination and submission had begun to
preoccupy him.  It was not precisely sado-masochistic, but something
else: Garak's lovemaking, so carefully gentle, carried hints of other,
deeper needs.  The occasional sharp bite, or swift possession, the
abstracted desire in the Cardassian's blue eyes...Not human, he
thought.  Not human at all.  It was arousing, yes, but it also
disturbed him.

'Garak, it's getting late...Could we just sleep, tonight?'

After a moment, the Cardassian sighed and murmured assent.

---

It was only a slight trace, but it was enough.   He had come across it
in accessing the house computer system from the Order offices, and
discovered a very minor security breach, like a broken hair left
across a door.

Painstakingly, Garak followed it back through the system until he
arrived at the source code and destination.  It took over two hours,
but once he had finished, he was able to reconstruct the
Federation-bound message. So, Bashir had grown tired of waiting for
him to open the cage door.   He could hardly blame the young man, but
even so, he could not help feeling betrayed. He sat looking at it for
what seemed like a very long time, while the coldness crept around his
heart, and then he went over to the window and gazed out.  Outside,
the daily monsoon was battering the city; Garak stood, staring, until
his vision blurred and the city disappeared behind the rain.

---

When Bashir stepped into the living room, he found a stranger waiting. 
The man was tall and thin, with a sharp featured face.  The mark of a
disrupter bolt scarred one cheek, and a Bajoran earring hung on the
lapel of his coat: a captured badge of war.  He glanced at Bashir, and
evidently  decided that the human was beneath his notice.  Behind him,
Beket said obsequiously,

'Mr Garak will be back very soon.  May I get you something, sir?  A
glass of kanaar, perhaps?'

'If you have any 'fifty nine, otherwise I won't bother,' the visitor
said, with disdain.

'Gul Kharahan is a connoisseur.  I'll be happy to provide for such a
distinguished guest,' the butler said.  Grasping Bashir firmly by one
arm, he ushered him from the room.

'Don't embarrass the Gul by your presence.  He has no love of
outworlders, as you should very well know...Go into the kitchen and
make yourself useful.'

Consigned to the servants' quarters, Bashir listened with mounting
agitation. Garak had now been closeted with the most obvious candidate
for his own assassination for over an hour.  Eventually, to Bashir's
relief, he heard voices in the hallway and then Garak's footsteps. 
Ignoring Beket's gasp of disapproval, he took the stairs at a run and
encountered his owner in the hallway.

'What did he want?'

'Come onto the balcony,' Garak said.  Once they were outside, he
grasped Bashir's arms and murmured in his ear 'I'll have to have the
place checked. How long was Kharahan here, before I arrived?'

'About forty minutes.'

'Forty seconds would be long enough to plant a bug...All right.  You'd
better know.  He wanted to have a private talk, as he put it, about
Dukat.'

'Dukat?'

'Keep your voice down...He wants my help in removing Dukat from Terok
Nor. Indeed, from life.'

'What?'

'It's clear enough where this is leading.  They're in it together:
Kharahan, Sacath, probably  Remek.   Embroil me in a plot, induce me
to get rid of Dukat, and then once I've become a liability, they'll
have me killed too and blame you.'

'Why does Kharahan want Dukat killed?'

'Well, a lot of people do, just on general principles.  He says
Dukat's a few taspar eggs short of an omelette, basically - he's
mentally fragile and a weak link along the border.  Dukat's been
having long chats with your former Commander, apparently.'

'With *Sisko*?'

'Yes, now that Sisko's become a vedek, Dukat seems to see him as some
sort of spiritual adviser.  Amazing what turns life takes,
sometimes...Anyway, I've agreed to go along with this, to lull
Kharahan's suspicions, but it will make the next few days rather
difficult.'

'When is this banquet?'

'In three days' time.  He's leaving a very tight margin of error...But
don't worry.  I have a plan.'

He did not divulge what this might be, but repaired to the study where
he spent a long time writing a letter.  Bashir lingered outside the
door, but wasnot further enlightened.  Periodically, he could hear
Garak laughing, which did little to lessen his disquiet.

---

Two days later, Bashir accompanied Kafak down to the emporia to
purchase supplies.  The unwelcome sight of Dukat's lean face
accompanied them; broadcast on every viewscreen with the news of his
suicide.

'A very good thing, if you ask me,' Kafak said virtuously.  His round
face became pursed with disapproval.  'The problems that dreadful man
has caused our master...'

Bashir was not particularly dismayed at the thought of Dukat's demise;
however, he could not help wondering precisely what Garak had done. 
The broadcasts related that the Gul's body had been found in a remote
area of Dakhur Province, along with an encrypted note which rambled on
about his late daughter and his wish to join her.    Bashir waited
impatiently while Kafak fingered regova eggs and pilt, and complained
about the quality of the ennet. Once back at the house, he remained on
pins until Garak returned, earlier than expected and looking sleekly
pleased with himself.

'Elim!  What have you done now?'

Garak leaned across and possessively nipped his earlobe.  'Nothing too
permanent. Now,' he slipped his arms around Bashir's waist. 'I think
I've devoted enough time to the State for one day.  I'm going to take
you out, but first...'

Evidently assassination put the Cardassian in an amorous mood.  Bashir
let himself be caressed, but for once found that his mind was
wandering.  There were too many distractions: the fate of his
disguised message, the prospect of Garak's own murder...Garak looked
up.

'Julian?  You seem very tense.'

'I keep thinking about things.'

'I told you not to worry.  Unless something else is bothering you?'

Belatedly, Bashir recognised that tone: soft, and purring, and
dangerous. 'No, it's just the thought that you might get hurt, that's
all.  I -'

Garak's fingers slid along the line of his jaw.  The Cardassian was
smiling absently, but the blue eyes were cold, like thin ice above
dark water.

'No unwise escape plans?'

It was at that point that Bashir realised that Garak knew.  'What
makes you think that?' he hedged.

'Doubtless I'm simply being paranoid,' the Cardassian said. He kissed
the human gently and added 'But we'll discuss it later. Now. Where was
I?'

---

Bashir spent the remainder of the evening in a state of controlled
panic, but Garak did not refer to the matter again.  Instead, he took
Bashir up to Sessara gardens, to watch the sun go down, and then they
strolled through the blue dusk until the last of the light died along
the horizon.  Stirred by the afternoon's rain, the hamath groves
released their resinous scent into the evening air.  Bashir looked
back and saw his footsteps marching behind him through the grey grass,
as though a ghost had walked there.

'You like it up here, don't you?' he said softly to Garak.

'Evening's my favourite time,' the Cardassian said.  'Nothing seems
real; nothing matters.  I planned to bring Ziyal here, if we ever came
back.'

'You don't talk about her much,' Bashir ventured.

'What is there to say?  She loved me, I was fond of her, she
died...She reminded me of you.'

'Oh,' Bashir said, inadequately.

'A similar spirit, it seemed to me.  She would have liked the gardens. 
Her father never brought her here; there was never time, she said. 
But perhaps she wouldn't have liked it at evening: I think she
preferred the day.'

'Perhaps you could bring something here, that belonged to her?  Have a
part of her always here?'

He felt, rather than saw, the Cardassian's sideways smile.'That's a
very human thing to say...your kind and their mementoes and souvenirs. 
With us, it's only memory that matters. We never forget - every word,
every touch of the hand.  Sometimes it seems more real than the living
person, especially if that person changes...'  He glanced at Bashir. 
'It's growing dark, Julian.  Shall we go home?'

---

Next morning, when Bashir awoke with the sinking realisation that this
was the day of the banquet, Garak had already gone.  He spent the day
in a number of minor tasks, until the sun began its slow descent
towards the mountains.  At last Kafak beckoned him into the bedroom
and supervised his dressing for the evening.  The beige suit was put
aside, and he was given a long dove-coloured robe, which fell in a
series of intricately draped folds to his feet.  It was, apparently, a
reference to classical Hebitian attire. The effect was sombre,  and
elegant.  Garak, dressed in a severe black suit, paused in the doorway
and
stared.

'Do I look all right?' Bashir asked him, nervously.  There was an
expression on the Cardassian's face that he had not seen for some
time: a bewildered, hopeless longing.

'Yes.  Yes, you do,' Garak said, gently.  'The transport's waiting.'


When Bashir had allowed himself to think at all about the evening's
events, the more lurid parts of his imagination had conjured up images
of a veritable orgy.  The banquet, however, was so far extremely
restrained: a formal sequence of courses.  Bashir occupied himself
with remembering which utensil to use when, and almost forgot about
the danger they were in.  The hall itself was huge, and dimly lit:
pale illuminated globes ran down each side and the shadows they cast
disappeared into the stone arches of the ceiling.  Bashir had an
impression of great age and solemnity: the settled heart of a
debauched empire.  He glanced down the table and found Chelim 
Kharahan's eyes on him, watching with barely contained eagerness.  The 
captured earring glittered against the dull grey of his dress uniform: 
the light in his face was fanatical.  Further down the table, Gul 
Sacath was also watching; sliding glances in the direction of Garak 
when he thought himself unobserved.

To Bashir's left, Garak was dissecting his moonfish with one hand and
gesticulating with the other, explaining some political point to his
neighbour.  The knot of tension grew within Bashir's stomach.   He
could see the Council members from where he was sitting: ponderous men
from a once-starved society where stoutness was still a mark of
status.  They were not prepossessing.  Bashir swallowed his distaste
and picked at his fish.

At last the meal was over.  After a respectable hour or so, which
seemed to the suffering Bashir to last an eternity, the Council
members slipped away to an adjoining chamber.  Garak beckoned to
Bashir.

'Stay close to me.  And don't *worry*.'  It had almost become a
mantra. Obediently, his heart in his throat, Bashir followed.


They were alone in the corridor.  It resembled a cloister: fan
vaulting arched away into the domed roof and there was the smell of
cold stone and ancient air.  As they turned the corner, a foot hooked
neatly around Bashir's ankle. Hampered by the robe, he fell
ungracefully into a heap on the floor.  A disrupter bolt sizzled past
his ear, illuminating the corridor in a nightmarish, negative image. 
He felt the butt of a gun pressed into his hand and then he was hauled
to his feet.

'Well, ' Elim Garak's voice said nastily, into his ear. 'Once
Starfleet, always Starfleet, it seems.'

A stunned crowd had assembled a short distance away.  Gul Kharahan lay
sprawled in a pool of black blood at Bashir's feet. The disrupter felt
hard and heavy in his hand.  Bashir looked up, wonderingly, and met
Garak's cold eyes behind the muzzle of the Cardassian's own gun. 
Slowly, he let the disrupter fall.

'He was in league with the late Gul, here.' Garak said.  He touched a
hand to his sleeve, which was wet with blood.  'Their aim was the
Council, of course: then Kharahan would have sent him back to the
Federation.  Clever of the Gul, to pretend to such xenophobia.  He's
been an ally of Starfleet for years; as soon as I found out, I thought
it best to keep his human accomplice in my household, keep a close
watch on him and see how much I could learn. I knew Kharahan would
overstep the mark eventually.'  He gestured towards the frozen human.
'Take him away.'

'Garak?' Bashir said, but although he thought he had spoken aloud, the
words fell silently into the air.  An officer stepped forward, and he
was led down the maze of corridors, towards his cell.

---

His execution was set for the following morning.  The Cardassians were
not bothering with a trial; Bashir would be given poison, a shameful
death rather than the comparative dignity of hanging.   He did not see
Garak again.  He sat in his pale grey robes, feeling already like a
ghost.  So, it had come to this.  All the anguish of that early
secret, concealed down the years behind a mask...his medical work -
that, at least, had been worth something.  And then a love that had
saved his life, and would cause its loss.   He should have known that
Garak would be swift in revenge, once he found himself betrayed.
Perhaps if he had waited,  Garak would have helped him return home,
but he could hardly expect gratitude for jeopardising the Cardassian's
position by sending that message.  It was not worth considering what
might have been.  He remained awake that night, watching through the
small square of window for a reprieve that did not come, until the
pale light of a Cardassian dawn swallowed the stars and the
executioner's footstep sounded at the door of the cell.  Obediently,
he lifted his arm for the lethal hypospray, and if Garak was watching,
somewhere from the shadows, Bashir never knew.

---

Garak remained out on the balcony, among the vines, until the message
arrived. The morning rain had recently fallen, and the air steamed in
the heat, smelling of lilies.   He had already received a commendation
from the Detapa Council; remarking on his agility in keeping a
dangerous alien contained. Garak was thinking of the first time he had
ever met that alien: the young, naive doctor, wide-eyed and easily
fooled.  He had been the most idealistic person the Cardassian had
ever met; Garak had been unwillingly drawn to this, a light that he
had once glimpsed in himself, years ago, long since burned to ash by
treachery and compromise.   He would never again experience that
light, that idealism: he had been given another chance, true, to make
his society anew, but now political necessities rather than vision
dictated his actions, and he was no longer hopeful that Cardassia
could survive in a form that he could accept.  It was a different
world from the one he had known when he was young, or perhaps it was
only that he himself had changed. The communicator was calling him. 
He went inside.

---

The face above him was dark and grave, and very familiar.  Bashir
blinked.

'It's you,' he said.

'Doctor?  Welcome back to the land of the living.'

'I'm not dead?'

Sisko laughed.  'I'm beginning to see that there's remarkably little
difference between the two states, but that's a whole other
discussion.  No,you're not dead.  You're on Bajor.'

Bashir sat up.  Sunlight poured in through the window  and there was a
fresh wind blowing.

'Garak,' he said.  Sisko sat down on the end of the bed.  The vedek's
robes suited him, Bashir thought distractedly.

'Garak's still on Cardassia.  He'll come when he can, he says.  Your
former owner is a very devious man, which comes as no surprise.  He
engineered your demise, of course: the Cardassians all think you're
dead.  Not to mention Dukat's 'suicide' - interesting, to see how two
such enemies can work together against a common threat.  The Prophets
have much to say on the subject, which I'd have done well to consider
in earlier days - anyway, that's beside the point, too.  Apparently
Garak doctored the executioner's dose, then had you spirited away for
what he told the Obsidian Order were 'experimental purposes.'  You've
spent the last few days in a coma on a Rechalian freighter, disguised
as a crate of pollet.'  He laughed.  'Doctor, you have the most
transparent countenance of anyone I've ever known.  Garak sent another
message with you, by the way.'

He placed something carefully on the bed.  Bashir picked it up; it was
a night-lily, dried and withered by its long waterless voyage, but
still retaining something of its sweetness.

'He said you'd understand.  Well, Doctor, make yourself at home.  I'm
afraid I'll have to leave you now; I have a student for instruction.' 
He tapped his wrist communicator and said into it 'Tell Dukat I'll be
with him shortly.  In the meantime, he's to devote himself to the
Starlight Asana.'

Alone again, Bashir stared at the lily for a while, then got up, found
some water and went outside. When he came back, an hour later, he
found that the lily was blossoming again, its perfume drifting out
into the shadows of the room.  He thought he understood.

---

The End