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and locations are the property of Paramount television, except those
that have sprung from my own imagination. No infringement is intended.
STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark  of Paramount
Pictures.

The Riding-Hound of the House of Tain.
 

                                                1.

        His quarters were emptily quiet.  Throwing his jacket onto the couch,
the tailor sank wearily into the nearest chair.  At least the lights
were dim, unlike the disturbing brightness of the rest of the station,
and he let his eyes rest, adjusting to the shadows.  Then, he walked
into the bathroom, peeled off his garments and stepped beneath the
shower to let the hot water soothe his aching muscles.  He stayed there
for some time, relaxing as the water poured across his scaled skin.  At
last he turned off the shower and dried himself.  He caught sight of
himself in the mirror and paused to contemplate his reflection.  He had
often wondered when it would happen, that he would begin to see himself
as old, and the face that stared back at him seemed defeated; the wounds
behind the blue eyes more marked than before, the lines of his face
harsh even in the kindness of the low light.  He turned away,  found a
silk robe, and went back into the main room in search of tea.  He sipped
slowly, gazing into the darkness beyond the window: the stars faint
against the swallowing depth of night, and not even the presence of a
ship, travelling, to betray the life that lay there.
        There was a tentative knock at the door, so slight a sound that Garak
thought he had imagined it.
  'Yes?' he said.
There was no reply. With unconscious wariness, his hand reached for the
drawer of the desk, checking for the presence of the disrupter.  His
fingers curled around the gun and drew it into the wide sleeve.
  'Open,' he said, softly.  The door drew aside and Garak stared into
the face of the man who stood there.
  'Well,' the tailor said, after a pause.  'I haven't seen you for a
very long time.'

                                                2.

  'So,' I said, smiling at my friend.  'How have you been keeping?'
We were seated at our usual place in the Replimat, trying to pretend
that everything was normal and that the horrifying events of the last
month had never happened.  During my long confinement in the Dominion
cell, I'd had a considerable time to reflect on my life and my
friendships and as time passed and I grew more bitter and frustrated, I
had managed to convince myself that there was little real affection
between us.  Garak was lonely in exile, and had latched on to the first
person who might be reasonably sympathetic, I told myself.  Over the
past few years, there had certainly been more than a few bones of
contention between the tailor and I.  In those long hours of torment, it
seemed to me that I had deluded myself in thinking that any
companionship other than mutual loneliness existed.  We were too far
removed from one another, I reproached myself, our values at too great a
distance for there to be any secure foundation for friendship.  I had
been a fool in this, as at so many other times of my life.
        Then, the tailor came after Tain, and as I walked through the door to
see him there, all my doubts vanished; it was as though morning had
come.  Despite the terrors which still awaited us, I knew that
everything would be all right, because he was there, and when we
returned to the station it was as if I had returned to a new life, with
a new foundation beneath me.  That foundation was shaken, but not
shattered, some weeks later when Doctor Zimmerman's ill-fated attempt to
make a hologram of me went so disastrously awry.  Garak had been kinder,
and more supportive of me during those difficult days than I had a right
to expect, but after it was all over, my friend seemed to withdraw. I
believe that his father's death had broken something within him; the tie
to his old life and identity was gone and now he, like me, was forced to
reflect and begin anew.  He had agreed with an evident reluctance to my
insistence that we should meet for lunch.

Now, he said evasively
  'I'm sorry, doctor.  I've had a few things to do...you know how it
is.  I've been busy.'
I nodded, ruefully.
  'I've had more than enough to occupy myself, too.  What with
Zimmerman, and before that my surgery occupied and my patients treated
by - well, I'd like to know where that shapeshifter obtained his medical
licence.  The consequences could have been appalling; God only knows
what he might have accomplished.  He was here for a month, after all.'
  'Have you noticed anything amiss?'
  'Well, not yet,' I admitted. 'Except that it seems my replacement's
bedside manner was so brusque that Leneris Tassic's hypochondria has
gone into permanent remission.'
Some of my more regular patients were, I had to acknowledge, a sore
trial.  Garak said shortly
  'Your trouble is that you're just too sympathetic.  That man's a
hysteric; it's simply a bid for attention.'
  'I know that, but I still feel sorry for the old boy, and it's hardly
a major inconvenience having to listen to his aches and pains once a
week...'
  'Major Kira,  I gather from Ziyal, recommends the sterling remedy of
slapping him across the face.'
I agreed gloomily that this callous suggestion was not without merit.
  'What do you think I should do about Tassic, if he starts coming back
in?' I asked, staring into my coffee.  I'd felt the need for something
rather stronger than red leaf tea.  There was no reply.  Glancing at my
friend, I saw that his gaze was riveted on something behind my left
shoulder. I caught my lip between my teeth. I had learned something from
this long association, after all, and those sessions in the holodeck
hadn't been entirely wasted.   I reached casually to adjust the
cafetiere that stood before me on the table, and was not disappointed.
In its shining, mirrored surface, I was just in time to see the
reflection of the Cardassian who, lizard quick, slid from view.
 

                                        3.

        After the afternoon's surgery, I made my way to Ops and called up the
passenger manifests for the last couple of weeks.
'Who are you looking for?' Kira asked, peering over my shoulder.
  'I don't really know, yet.  A Cardassian.'
  'Well, I can tell you that.  The only Cardassian passenger has been a
Majes Remmitor, who came in from one of the Cardassian colonies.  You're
looking very shifty; what is it?'
  'Probably nothing,' I said, but I knew that this was not true.
Something was afoot, and now that my friend had let me a little way
beyond that mannered mask, I was determined to find out what it might
be.  Muttering hasty thanks to a baffled Kira, I headed for the tailor's
quarters.
        Garak greeted me with evident pleasure, I noted with relief.  The
exhaustion that had lingered in the Cardassian's face had made me
uneasy: a doctor's intuition about patients who should not be left too
long without attention.  Yet when Garak turned to go back into the room
I noticed other signs: a slight bow to his shoulders, a weariness in the
angle of his head as he turned to say
  'What can I do for you, doctor?'
  'A cup of tea would be nice,' I said, and the tailor smiled.
  'Of course.'
I planted myself firmly in the middle of the couch and proceeded to
treat my friend to an exhaustive discourse on the latest Egen Rossai
novel, which I had just completed.  Garak listened politely,
occasionally attempting to interject a comment, but I ploughed on
relentlessly, ignoring Garak's increasingly frequent glances towards the
clock.  Finally the tailor leaned across and put one hand on my arm.
  'Doctor -'
  '- remarkable grasp of narrative structure and drive -' I babbled on.
  'Doctor, fascinating though your analysis is, I really am afraid that
I'm going to have to ask you to leave.  I'm very tired, you must forgive
me -'
but he had left it too late.  The door chimed.
  'Garak?' a voice queried.
  '- and I'm expecting company,' the tailor admitted.  He opened the
door and a man stepped into the room.  I regarded him with interest.  He
was a middle aged Cardassian, some years older than Garak; slightly
stooped and with an uncertain, wondering air which rested oddly on one
from such an arrogant race.  Even on so brief an examination, he was not
the Cardassian whom I had seen in the Replimat that afternoon.
  'This is Majes Remmitor,' Garak said.  'Dr Remmitor, this is Doctor
Julian Bashir.'
  'Ah,' the Cardassian said with interest.  'We would appear to be
colleagues, Dr Bashir.  I'm always delighted to meet other members of
the medical profession.'
  'Elim's told me so much about you,' I said fulsomely, ignoring the
tailor's glance of irritation.  Remmitor blinked with apparent pleasure.
  'I confess that I was surprised that Mr Garak should even remember
me.  After all, it's many years since we last met, and I hardly think
I'm the most memorable individual...Really most flattering.  And of
course, given the nature of my problem, it's proved extremely
fortunate.'
  'I understand that you've been having some difficulties,' I prompted.
Garak said icily
  'I haven't precisely explained -'
  'But I'd be most interested to hear what Dr Bashir has to say on the
matter; I'm sure his insights will prove most valuable.  I hardly like
to impose on you, doctor, but might I ask - or indeed, hope - that
you'll help to change Mr Garak's mind about my proposal?'
  'Elim had mentioned it to me,' I said, improvising wildly.  'I'd be
delighted to help.  But I need a little time to sort through my thoughts
before I'm ready to air any theories.'  I hoped that was vague enough to
head off any awkward questions.  I did not dare look at Garak, whom I
could hear drawing breath by my side.
  'Wonderful,' Remmitor said with relief.  Turning to Garak, he added
  'Well, I just wanted to give you this, as promised.'  He handed over
an old fashioned, scrolled document.  'See you both in the morning.'
With a courtly bow, he clasped each of us briefly by the hand and left
the room.  When the door had closed behind him, I turned with some
apprehension to meet a frosty eye.
  'Young man -' the tailor began, ominously.
  'Look,' I said.  'I'm sorry. But - we've gone so far, you and I.  When
Tain was dying and you asked me to stay - well, you can't go back from
there.'  I added lamely.  I looked at him then; I don't know what I
expected to see.  His expression was unreadable.
  'Perhaps,' was all that he said.
  'And when strangers out of your past start turning up, and you closet
yourself away for nearly a month after an experience which any normal
person would regard as traumatic, I can't just let matters lie, Elim.'
At the sound of his name his gaze flickered up to meet my own.  There
was a very long pause, then, so softly that at first I thought he was
speaking to himself, he said
  'Very well.'
  'Who was that man?  The one in the Replimat today?' I said, pursuing
my advantage.  My powers of observation earned me a small smile of
approval.
  'I'm not entirely sure you'll believe this, but I've no idea.  He's
been watching me for several days.  I've tried trailing him, but I've
always lost him in the lower levels.  He's very good, whoever he is.'
  'And Remmitor?'
  'Ah, your esteemed colleague.  Well, we go back a very long way, but
I'm afraid I'm not prepared to say in what capacity.'
  'What's in the document?  And Remmitor was talking about a problem...'
  'This?' Garak tapped the little scroll idly against the arm of his
chair.  'A fairy tale, no more.  As for Remmitor's problems, well,
they're hardly more than that.  It seems that the good doctor has come
all this way to inform me that he's being haunted.'
  'Haunted?' I echoed.  'By what?'
Garak gave a faint, ironic smile.
  'Let me tell you a story, doctor - one that I am uncharacteristically
going to confess is untrue...' His eyes caught the light as he glanced
up from the parchment, turning them blank and impenetrable as he looked
at something beyond my shoulder, a long way into the past.  He said
  'On one of the Cardassian colonies - never mind which one - there is a
house.  It stands in a place called Cascerei, which is mainly - what's
the word?  Steppe, or prairie, I would think.  Anyway, it is a part of
the world that is very bleak and very old.  They say that the Hebitians
lived on the Cascerei steppes when they were still illiterate wanderers;
before they had joined the worlds across which they were scattered into
one civilisation.  They say that this early people practised magic, as
all primitive tribes do, conjuring earth and air, and lightening.  They
say that they could summon storms, cause the skies to darken with a
word, and that when they died their spirits fled into the wind to become
the hounds of the air.  I know there are beasts on your world which you
call by a similar name: they're nothing like the hounds of Cascerei.
The legend is based on a real animal; we used to use them in the Order,
for hunting.  Tain - my father - kept a couple of them on his country
estates; they were broken enough for a child to ride, as long as they
were muzzled, but it's easy to see where the legends came from.  They
can run for hours, tireless; they track their quarry by scent, for they
have no eyes, and they eat their own young unless the pups are strong
enough to struggle away immediately after birth.  Tain's hounds had to
be kept separate, in case they turned on one another.  But they can be
intensely loyal to a single master, as long as he has drawn their
blood.  It's the vestigial pack instinct, you see, though now they are
such solitary creatures...'
He fell silent.  I said, breathlessly
  'Go on...'
He gave me an indulgent smile and continued
  'The house on the steppes of Cascerei was owned by a family named
Varres - minor aristocracy, not very important.   After the starvation
years, which affected all the colonies as well as Cardassia Prime, there
were very few of the family left.  Two sons and one daughter joined the
military as soon as they were of age, and never returned from Bajor.
The youngest son, Timar Varres, who was in poor health, inherited what
was left of the estate.  He grew up with Majes Remmitor; they were
boyhood friends.  A couple of years ago, his health started to
deteriorate and Remmitor, for the sake of that old association, moved
into the house to look after Varres, who had no children of his own.
Whether they were lovers or not, I don't know, and it would be
impardonably intrusive to ask.  Anyway, matters improved somewhat over
the last few months; Varres' health took a turn for the better, and
Remmitor had good reason to be optimistic that his friend would shake
off his malaise and make as full a recovery as he was capable of.
Varres began to take walks around the estate, and gradually started to
take a more active interest in the life of the local community, which is
small enough.  Two weeks ago, although it's now quite late in the summer
in Cascerei, there was apparently an appalling storm - it's a region
that's rather prone to peculiar weather conditions.  Varres disliked
storms, and Remmitor went in search of him to reassure him.  He became
increasingly concerned when he discovered that Varres was not in the
house.  He questioned the housekeeper, Aliya Tehanar, and she told him
that Varres had slipped out for a stroll some time previously.
Anxiously, they searched the premises, even though the weather was
worsening, and to their horror they found their friend and employer
lying at the end of the entrance to the property, where the grounds of
the estate join the steppe.  Remmitor did all he could to revive his
friend, but he was too late.  Varres was dead, his features convulsed in
terror.'
  'Presumably the storm had caused him to enter a state of severe
shock.'
  'So Remmitor presumed, until a cursory inspection of the ground around
the body revealed nothing other than the footprints of a gigantic
hound.'
  'What an appalling story!'
  'Isn't it?  It contains the worst elements of those gothic novels you
had a craze for last year.'
I decided to ignore this further assault on my literary tastes.
  'And now Remmitor's being haunted?'
  'Indeed.  It seems he's seen the beast on two occasions; once just
beyond the gates of the property, and once in the grounds.'
  'Why does he assume it's something supernatural?'
  'Partly because of its formidable appearance, and partly because the
riding hound died out in Cascerei - and indeed, throughout the entire
colony - more than thirty years ago.  Those that were kept as pets were
killed on the orders of Central Command, after a rather excessive spate
of hunting, and there have been none in the wild for over five hundred
years.'
  'What sort of animals did they use them to hunt?'
  'Oh, they were never employed for hunting animals, doctor.  No, they
were used purely for sport.  Cascerei is the home of one of Cardassia's
most effective penal colonies, after all.  Plenty of prey.  Anyway, the
upshot of all this is that Remmitor thinks someone's trying to kill the
new heir to the estate, and so he's come to ask me to go back with him
and investigate.'
  'Surely the Cardassian authorities -'
  'They would think him mad.  Besides, he wants to keep the matter quiet
for the sake of the heir.'
  'Who is the heir?'
  'His name's Peratay Varres.  He's a distant connection of the family,
and as such inherited the estate after the death of Timar.  Remmitor
seems very protective, to his credit, I suppose.  Young Varres has more
than his fair share of enemies; he's been an energetic opponent of the
old regime, quite the rebel, I understand.  Remmitor's rather keen to
keep undue attention away from him until he's established his role in
the community.  I rather think there's more here than meets the eye, but
doubtless matters will reveal themselves.'  He stretched, wincing as his
shoulders arched.  'I think I'd better get some rest.'  He gave me an
oblique look.  'Doctor?' he enquired.
  'Yes?' I said.  I felt suddenly breathless, as though I had been
running.
  'If you happen to go into the surgery tomorrow, could you get me some
painkillers?  I seem to have put my back out again.'
  'Yes.  Yes, of course,' I told him, and leaving him I walked slowly
back to my own empty rooms.
 
 

                                        4.

        Alone, the tailor sat wearily down on the edge of the couch and cupped
his hands around the cooling mug of tea.  It was intolerable, he told
himself, that Bashir should continue to insinuate himself into his life
in this manner; prising open the past like someone forcing apart the two
halves of a shell.  *And yet*, a voice said somewhere far within, *and
yet, you continue to beckon him in, leaving clues to the mystery that is
yourself.  And he continues to pursue: faithful, undeterred by lies or
unkindness*.  Faced with Bashir's devotion (for how else could one
characterise such steadfastness) Garak found himself incredulous;
astonished that someone should find him worth the trouble.  However, it
did nothing to weaken his resolve on this chosen course of action.
*Better that I should be gone,* the tailor thought.   He felt as though
he looked into the abyss at last, that it had been waiting all his life,
just beyond the edge of sight, and now he stood before it.  It was an
unexpected relief, he found, but he did not want to see Bashir fall with
him.  Slowly, he sipped his tea, and stared into the empty air, and
considered his decision.

                                        5.

        I certainly hadn't endeavoured to persuade Garak into taking any course
of action, had merely listened wide-eyed as he had related to me the
dark events of Cascerei, but I was awoken the following day by Majes
Remmitor.  Blinking, I opened the door to find his attenuated figure
standing outside. Seizing my hands, he exclaimed
  'Doctor Bashir!  I knew that your wise influence would prevail.  It
seems we will be returning to Cascerei.'
Taken aback, I stuttered something and my heart contracted at the
thought that I had, inadvertently, driven my friend away.  My surprise
was compounded as Remmitor went on
  'I'll speak to the authorities about your visa.  I do have some small
influence; I don't believe that it will present any considerable
difficulties, especially under the current circumstances.  The
government does have other things on its mind, after all.  Well, I'm
sure you have things to do; I'll leave you in peace until the shuttle
leaves.'
With some trepidation, I called Sisko and told him that I'd like to take
my accumulated leave now.  He raised an eyebrow with positively Vulcan
calm and asked me if I was sure that I knew what I was doing.  I was
not, I replied, but it had to be done.  It seemed to me that I was being
moved by forces outside my own control; drawn along in another's wake,
and for once I was not moved to protest.  Sisko proved very
accommodating about the whole affair: I think he understood that I
needed to regain some self respect after the humiliations of the last
few weeks.  Then I called Garak.
  'It seems I'm going with you,' I told him.
  'It seems that you are,' he said.  I had expected him to be at worst
annoyed, at best resigned, yet there was a note in his voice that was
close to satisfaction.
  'I've booked your flight,' he said.  'We leave tomorrow, at 07.00.
I'll see you then,' he added and closed the link.

                                        6.

        Bashir was waiting promptly by the airlock, making medical small talk
with Remmitor.  The tailor greeted him rather wanly; he had not slept,
besieged by the images of the past, and he was in no mood for the
doctor's boyish enthusiasm.  When they were seated Bashir, with an
irritatingly belated sensitivity, called up a journal on the seat padd
and spent a large part of the flight absorbed in the complexities of the
Zaranathian flux.  Remmitor, explaining apologetically that space travel
always made him queasy, ingested a capsule of unknown provenance and
instantly passed out.  Garak was left to amuse himself for the duration
of their voyage.  He leaned back against the seat and closed his
eyes.
        He did not often think of this part of the past.  It was too far away,
too far removed from the persona that he had so carefully cultivated
over the previous decades.  When he looked back, it seemed to him that
he was watching the story of someone else's life: as small and dim as
the tapestries that had hung on the walls of the long gallery that ran
above the hall.  He had been told that they came from Temarr, and that
they were very old; he was forbidden to touch them.  Even at that age he
saw no reason to disobey.  Instead, he would gaze at the tapestry
scenes; spending hours in silent contemplation, making up his own
conclusions about the lives that they depicted in such faithful, minute
detail.  These must, he reflected now, form the earliest of his
memories: later had come the harsh and welcome years of education.   His
visits to that early place became increasingly rare, and of course he
had found that it had changed.  It seemed, inevitably, smaller and
dustier; the tapestries faded in comparison with the sophistication of
Gened or Carcason, still regarded in those days as the centres of art
and learning.  Thinking of this now, Garak smiled.  It was a long time
since he had set foot in Gened, and he wondered how it would compare
with the places he had later visited: with the cities of Romulus and
beyond.  Perhaps it, too, would seem remote and provincial; the capital
settlement of an outpost colony.  Perhaps.  Yet Tain had possessed the
quality of rendering any place in which he chose to install himself as
the world's heart: his urbane certainty the crux about which the globe
span.  Now that Tain was dead, where did the centre lie?  Garak was
inclined to believe that  it might be found within himself, but now it
was too late.  *After his death*, he thought, *there is no more.  The
old order is utterly gone, swept away on a tide of blood, and there is
no place for me in what is left behind*.  There was this last matter to
be taken care of and then, the only question that remained was the form
his death would take.  He turned his head.  Tain's voice seemed to speak
to him from the space between the stars.
  'Choose your death well,' his father said. 'It is, after all, that by
which they will remember you.  Is it to be glory, or the gasp in the
prison cell, broken and old?  Choose wisely.'
The illusion was so vivid that Garak almost opened his mouth to answer.
At that point Bashir leaned across and said fretfully
  'That Andorrian has been occupying the bathroom for *the last half
hour*.  If he doesn't come out in a minute I intend to complain.'
Imperceptibly, the tailor sighed.  It was going to be a long trip.
        They changed shuttles at Fornihault, buying a berth on a cargo ship
bound for the Cardassian border.
  'After that,' Remmitor said cheerfully, 'We'll have to see what's
going where.'
Bashir still did not know where they were going.  He put the question to
Garak, while Remmitor was occupied with buying tickets, and the tailor
replied rather snappily that since Bashir had been so eager to come on
an unexplained voyage to an unknown destination, the answer could hardly
be of great importance to him.  Bashir, resigned, shrugged his shoulders
and returned to the article on flux.

                                        7.

        When we reached the border, a lengthy wait ensued while the authorities
checked the visas.  We were now in Merhathan space, needing permission
to leave and enter the Cardassian zone.  I was pleased to find that my
own papers were in order; it's always rather a nerve racking process.
My details and those of Remmitor were entered and registered and then,
to my surprise, we were told that we could go.
  'What about my colleague?' I asked, indicating the tailor.
Garak achieved an expression of well-simulated surprise.
  'Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor.  I must have omitted to mention that I won't
be going with you.'
  'What?' I said.  I must have looked utterly desolate, for a flicker of
sympathy crossed his face.
  'Don't worry,' he said.  'Doctor Remmitor will take excellent care of
you, I'm sure.'
  'But where will you be?' I asked.
Taking my arm, Garak drew me aside to where we could not be overheard.
  'Doctor, I'm sure you understand that with my father's death, I still
have unfinished business in Cardassia.  I intend to sew up a few loose
ends, and this provides sufficient cover for the time being.  And I need
eyes and ears in Cascerei.  Here's a contact code.  I'd like you to
write regular reports, no matter how trivial the subject, and send them
here.  And Doctor?'  he added.
  'Yes?'
  'You should know that there is no-one whom I trust more than I trust
you.'  He looked at me and for once I could see nothing in his face but
the truth.  I reached out and took his hand.
  'I'll do my best,' I said and he nodded.
  'I know you will,' he said, softly, then with a return to his normal
sardonic manner he added 'and for once, I'd be obliged if you'd refrain
from playing the hero.  I have quite enough problems already.  Well,
I'll see you soon, and don't worry.  If you need me, I'll be there.'
With this cryptic remark, he was gone and I was left staring uneasily
after him until he disappeared into the depths of the spaceport.
 

                                        8.

        It took another day before we reached Cascerei.  I still did not know
which colony we were headed for.  That part of Cardassian space is
confusing, with innumerable small worlds, ringed with moons; islands in
the sea of night.  Later, I prevailed upon Remmitor to tell me the name
of the world and he obliged, but it is a long time ago now and the word
has slipped my mind.  Besides, I made a promise.
        We came down into the small central spaceport.  I must say that it
struck me as a quiet, backwoods place; very far removed from the
overwhelming worlds of the Empire, where cities stretch from sea to sea
without remittance.  It was turning into autumn now, and the skies were
heavy with cloud.  The smell of rain was in the air, and a thin wind
blew across from the north east.  Remmitor shivered and drew his coat
more closely about him.
  'We Cardassians are not the hardiest race when it comes to low
temperatures,' he said with an apologetic smile.
  'I'm not very tolerant of them myself,' I said.  'Does it get very
cold here?'
  'In the northern latitudes, the passes are snowbound all the winter
long, but no-one lives up there.  We prefer the gentler lands of the
south, but even here we keep to our homes when winter comes; build up
the fires, so to speak.  I've arranged for a transport to meet us,
Doctor Bashir, I suggest we do not linger.'
        During the journey out to the house, I had time to study the changing
landscape of the region.  It was desolate country.   The land seemed to
roll on for ever: umber and grey and indigo, interrupted by high
outcrops of rock.  Between the clouds the sky was the colour of bone: a
pallor washed with red.  It was formidable country, keeping its own
secrets; even under the sun, I thought, it would look dark.
        On the road, we passed a number of armoured vehicles, each with a
contingent of armed soliders.  I attriubuted this to the unrest caused
by the Dominion takeover, until Remmitor turned on the radio and we
realised that a convict had escaped from the local penal colony.
  'A dangerous man,' Remmitor said, unhappily.  'I remember the case, I
think - he murdered an elderly shopkeeper in the vicinity.  There was
quite a stir at the time.'  He would have said more, but at that point
we arrived at the house of Varres.
        Remmitor parked the transport a short distance from the property. I
turned to look out across the rise of the steppe, and as I did so the
immense silence was broken by a long, attenuated cry: very far away and
filled with loss.  My scalp prickled with unease.
  'What,' I said to Remmitor 'was *that*?'
  'I don't know.  Perhaps a bird, hunting,' he replied, but he did not
sound convinced.  The first drops of rain began to fall.   Remmitor and
I put our coats over our heads and bolted for the door.  Inside, in the
sudden silence, I paused and looked around me.  It was, I realise now, a
typical example of middle period Cardassian architecture: a long central
hall flanked by a gallery.  The glassy floor was arranged in geometric
patterns of mauve and silver grey, and in keeping with Cardassian
tradition the structure of the building was partly revealed: the stone
struts arching up like a ribcage, massive and yet not lacking delicacy.
The air smelled of incense and age, somehow redolent of the Empire and
its people: a dark spice, filled with secrets and subtle poison.  As I
gazed, a voice, startlingly loud in the silence, said
  'Has he come?'
I looked up to see a stocky Cardassian of roughly my own age descending
the staircase.  This, I realised, must be Peratay Varres, the young
heir.  Whatever he may have thought at seeing a total stranger standing
in his hallway, and a human one at that, he showed nothing.  As Remmitor
introduced us, he grasped me warmly by the hand and professed himself
honoured to be my host.
  'Elim Garak's reputation has preceded him,' he said.  'I welcome his
associate as I would Garak himself.'
Varres had a soft, eliding accent which is apparently characteristic of
the inner colonies.  I reminded myself that he was almost as new to
Cascerei as I myself; Remmitor had told me that Varres had spent the
larger part of his life in Eluden.
  'Winter is coming,' Varres said with a grimace. 'I hope you did not
get too chilled on your way to the house.  Tehanar will show you to your
rooms.'
Picking up my bag, I followed the silent servant to the upper floor and
settled myself within.  Varres was, it appeared, expecting both Remmitor
and myself for dinner; for now, I was left to my own devices.  I crossed
to the window and looked out.  Night falls early in those latitudes, and
it was almost dark; only a crimson trail in the west betrayed the
passage of the sun.  The rain beat steadily against the window.  I could
see nothing of the steppe, save for a massed rise of shadow beyond the
summer-seared trees.  The desolation should have reminded me of my
loneliness, yet there was something almost comforting about the house
itself; as though some part of this place was familiar and known to me.
It was a curious sensation.  I felt that I might turn the corner and
find a friend.  I unpacked the few clothes that I had brought with me
and lay down on the bed to make my preliminary notes.

                                                9.

        Over the next few days, I began to consider Peratay Varres as a
friend.  I had, after all, spent much time with only one Cardassian: all
others had been enemies, apart from the occasional patient.  Varres was
a quiet, self contained young man; disliking politics and the
machinations of the Empire.  One night I turned on the viewscreen to the
unwelcome sight of Dukat, in the midst of some interminable speech;
Varres reached past me and switched it off.
  'My apologies, doctor, if you were watching that, but I can't bear
this endless sanctimonious preaching.'
I gaped at him.  I wasn't sure whether he'd just committed a treasonable
act.  He caught my look of surprise and said
  'You mustn't make the mistake of comparing us too closely to our
cousins in the inner Empire.  Here in the colonies we prefer to keep
ourselves to ourselves as much as possible, and think for ourselves,
too.  These new rulers, this Dominion - I don't like it, Doctor Bashir.
I can see no good coming of it.' He gave a rueful laugh.  'But then, I'm
a farmer, not a politician.  I'm concerned with seeds and shoots, small
things, not the great movements of stars and Empires.'
I smiled in reply.
  'And I with my work and my patients,' I told him, and we regarded one
another with mutual understanding.

        Although the weather was troubled and stormy, we had a few fine days,
and on one of these Varres suggested that he take me out onto the
steppe.  I agreed enthusiastically, and so we set off early in the
morning.
  'You'd best take one of these,' he said, handing me a small
disrupter.  'You never know who you may meet, and given that this
prisoner still hasn't been apprehended...'
Thanking him, I tucked the gun in an inner pocket and followed him
through the door.
The morning light fell across the steppe in great waves of paleness and
shadow.  The night's rain had cleansed the air, and I thought how
pleasant it was to be away from the close confines of the station, with
its filtered air and artificial food.  Despite the presence of death and
danger, these last few days had been a much-needed holiday for me, and I
thanked the instinct that had led me to investigate Garak's mysterious
visitor.  I felt as though I had been renewed.  Varres and I climbed to
the summit of a nearby ridge, and stood looking down.  We could see the
house, a low congregation of grey arches.  The transport parked within
its gates looked as tiny as a toy.
  'Look,' Varres said.  'The sea.' I followed his pointing finger and
saw a line of brightness along the horizon.
  'I didn't realise we were so close,' I said.
  'Well, it's high up here - higher than you think.' He took a deep
breath. 'That air's wonderful, too.  I hadn't realised how much I'd
missed it, there in the inner cities.  A man can't breathe there, and
you're watched all the time.  It's not conducive to relaxation.'
  'It's certainly impressive country,' I said.  'I've rather a fondness
for walking, as a matter of fact.  I thought I might take the hoverer
out, at some point; do a little exploring.'
Varres hesitated before replying.  Then he said
  'I'd be happier if you didn't go alone, Doctor.  This is dangerous
country.  Do you see that?'
I followed his pointing hand.  At the edges of the ridge stretched a
featureless plateau, curiously vitreous in appearance.  A ragged outcrop
of rock reared from the centre of the plain; otherwise, it was entirely
unremarkable.  I said as much to Varres.
  'It looks innocuous enough, doesn't it?' he said, with a wintry
smile.  'But if you set foot on that meek expanse of sand, you would
never return, alive or dead.  It's known as the Mesai, and it was once
the bed of the Etrasan Sea, which in Hebitian times reached almost as
far as those mountains, the Vhan Dur.'  He indicated a distant line of
upland.  'Now, it's quicksand, capable of swallowing a city without a
trace.  Those who know the country well can find their way across it,
but even experienced trackers make mistakes.'  He gave me a narrow
glance, suddenly reminiscent of Garak.  'Not unlike Cardassians, eh,
Doctor?  Placid and pleasant on the surface, and beneath, the trap is
waiting.  Nothing and no-one is what they seem here.  You would do well
to remember that.'  The words were spoken with sadness rather than as a
threat.  I put my hand on his shoulder.
  'No-one?'  I asked him.
  'Well, apart from myself and Majes Remmitor, who are plain and simple
enough.'
I felt sure that Varres was sincere when he said this, but it was an
unfortunate choice of words, nonetheless, and hardly reassuring.  I was
relieved to see that a distraction was at hand.
  'I see we have company,' I said.  A small moving dot could be seen
beneath us; a sliver of crimson against the penumbra of the steppe.
Varres and I watched as it drew closer, and then it evidently spotted
us.  It waved, and began moving rapidly up the slope towards us.
  'It's a woman,' Varres said.
In a few more minutes she had joined us.  She was young, perhaps no more
than twenty, and very different from the stiff, starched Cardassian
women whom I had met previously.  Her plume of hair was unbound and
poured down her sinuous back; her eyes were a curious dark gold. Varres
and I both stared.
  'I know who you must be,' she said in little more than a whisper.
'You're Peratay Varres.'  She did not spare so much as a glance for me.
  'Yes, I am,' Varres said, surprised.  'Who are you?'
  'My name is Eledra Essoutar.  I live with my brother; he's attached to
the Research Institute at Cardor.'
  'Your brother...is that Ilay Essoutar?'
  'That is his name.'
  'Why, we've already met.  He's a botanist, isn't he?  He came to the
house once, with Dr Remmitor; a very pleasant man.  Please give him my
regards.'
He smiled at her, but she did not smile in return.  Instead, she glanced
uneasily over her shoulder and said in a rush
  'Mr Varres, you must leave Cascerei.  You must go back, live your
life.  If you stay here, nothing but ruin will follow.'
Varres smiled, but her words struck a chill into my bones.  Standing
there on the sands in her blood coloured dress, she seemed alien, other,
something conjured from the dark past of Cardassia and released into the
world.  Then she turned on her heel and was gone, striding down the
slope to be lost in the shadows of the steppe.  We stared after her in
silence.

                                        10.

After Varres' warning, I had no desire to experience the Mesai at first
hand, yet something drew me to it.  The following day, I made my way
along the ridge towards the sand.   Their uneasy presence, seemingly
always beyond the edge of sight, represented more to me than an
intriguingly dangerous tract of country.  Varres had been right, the
Mesai was itself Cardassia: ever changing, deceptive, concealing ancient
secrets which it would never relinquish.  In a sense, I thought, this
place was the heart of the Empire, not the proud solid cities of the
inner worlds.  Standing at the edge of the Mesai, with the harsh wind
against my face and the sunlight glaring up from the surface of the
sand, I felt that I had begun to understand Garak, perhaps for the first
time.   It seemed that I could almost see him, standing in the hazy air
across the sands, then I realised with a shock that someone was really
there.  It was not, of course, Garak, but a stranger.  He came swiftly
towards me, calling out in Kardasi.  It was not until he drew closer
that I understood what he was saying to me.
  'Stay still!  Don't move, if you value your life...'
He was a small, slight Cardassian, perhaps a little younger than
myself.  His grey face was the colour of bleached ash.
  'Follow me,' he said, urgently.  'Step exactly where I step.'
Startled, I did as he told me, obediently placing my feet in the
footsteps before me.  Shortly, we came to a stretch of salt grass and he
turned to help me up the little incline.
  'What -?' I began, but he held up an admonishing hand.
  'Watch,' he said.  Picking up a loose stone, he tossed it across, a
little to the left of where I had been standing.  It was as though he
had cast it into a pool of water.  The sand closed over it without a
ripple.  I felt the blood drain from my face.
  'You saved my life,' I said.  'I didn't know I was even close to the
quicksand.'
  'You were very lucky,' he said, adding 'The Guls must be holding you
in the palms of their hands.'  Within the hollows of bone, his pale eyes
were as bright as fever.  I wondered whether he might be some kind of
religious fanatic, some hermit of the Mesai, but his neat appearance
belied that hypothesis.  A closer glance at the collecting bag which
hung from his shoulder revealed that this must be the botanist, Ilay
Essoutar.  He confirmed this by introducing himself.
  'And you are Doctor Julian Bashir,' he said, regarding me with an
evident, but inoffensive curiosity.  'Majes Remmitor has spoken about
you; I understand that you're helping him with some of his research.'
  'I have that pleasure, yes.'
  'Well, Doctor Bashir, some might say that you're a brave man to
venture into even the margins of Cardassia in these unsettled times, but
we scientists are wise enough to disregard politics, isn't that so?'
Cautiously, I agreed that this was indeed the case.
  'You'll be safe enough here.  We keep ourselves very much to ourselves
here in Cascerei - as long as you don't stray too close to the sands,
that is.'
I shook my head solemnly.  Finding myself out on that treacherous ground
had been one of the more unpleasant surprises of my recent career.
'It calls to people, you know,' Essoutar said.  '"Mesai" means
'salted' in the old Hebitian tongue, but in modern Kardasi the meaning
is closer to 'siren.' Oh, I have a little familiarity with your old
legends, too.  They say that at certain times of the year, when the
seasons change, the sands begin to sing, just below the edge of hearing,
drawing one closer and closer until - well, I've no wish to disconcert
you any further, Doctor.  You must come and visit myself and my sister,
Eledra.  I understand you've met her already.'
I murmured something to the effect that I had been so privileged, and he
smiled with genuine pleasure.
  'She's very dear to me,' he said.  'The only family I have left.'
Something in his voice alerted me to some past or present bitterness,
but I could hardly press him for answers about his personal life, and so
we parted company and I started back to the house.

        My encounter with Ilay was not, however, the only meeting with a member
of the Essoutar family that day.  As I walked along the ridge that led
to the house, I realised that Varres was there before me, talking to
Eledra.  At first, I thought they were arguing.  I could see her fierce
face, and her hair snapping like a banner behind her.  She turned on her
heel and stood looking out across the steppe; he put his hand on her
shoulder and she shook it off.  Then, they both laughed, and I
recognised the prickly Cardassian courtship ritual.  Garak had once
endeavoured to explain this to me; if you feel comfortable enough with
someone to insult them, he said, in a society where the littlest slight
can lead to a feud, then you must be becoming close.  Eledra, glancing
coquettishly over her shoulder, began to walk down the slope.  Then, to
my surprise, the botanist himself appeared.  Eledra stepped back when
she saw her brother and turned, but he grasped her by the arm and span
her around.  This was real anger: I could see it in the set of his
shoulders.  Varres hurried down towards them, but Eledra picked up the
skirts of her long coat and began striding in the direction of home.
Essoutar set off after her, and I met Varres as he walked wearily back
up the ridge.  He was none to pleased at having a witness to his
farcical courtship, but thawed at my sympathetic look.
  'Eledra's a free woman,' he said, dismayed.  'You'd have thought he'd
be pleased.'
  'She's his only sister,' I said, and related my own conversation with
the botanist.  Varres listened in silence, somewhat appeased by my
excuses for Essoutar's behaviour.
  'Perhaps it's as you say,' he murmured, and then, brightening, added
artlessly
  'But I know she's beginning to care for me, Julian.  One always knows,
isn't that true?'  I'm afraid that I rarely feel old and cynical, but on
this occasion even I was hard pressed to answer.  We walked back to the
house, each thinking his own disquieting thoughts.

        The day's exercise, combined with fresh air and a sound fright,  had
tired me, and I was pleased when Remmitor appeared to save me from the
effort of making conversation.  Idly, I listened to his stories of
Cascerei; its history, its myths, and only gradually did it dawn upon me
how strange it was, to be sitting here so pleasantly, surrounded by my
enemies, and dreaming of another.  Politics cannot rule the heart, after
all, and I found that I was missing Garak.  It had been almost a week
since I'd last set eyes on him, and we had already been parted for a
month before that.  When had that curious shift in perspective taken
place, I asked myself, for where he had once represented mystery to me,
I now saw only security, and I wondered whether, in all those long
years, I had been looking in the wrong place for love.  The thought came
to me with all the force of a new idea, as though the possibility had
never before crossed my mind.  I sat very still, and held my breath.  In
the light of Varres's archaic fire, the kanaar caught the flames and my
sight blurred so that all I could see was light, golden and red.  Garak,
I thought.  I barely managed to catch my glass as it fell.
  'You're falling asleep, doctor,' Remmitor said with a smile.  'I'm
afraid that I must turn your profession against you, and insist that you
go to bed.'
I agreed readily; I wanted to be alone, to think and dream in silence.
Yet I had lain restlessly in my bed for no more than an hour when the
brief respite of peace was irretrievably shattered.
 
 

                                        11.

        He had not known how much he needed silence.  Here, in this quiet
place, the past seemed as distant and unreal as the autumn stars above
him.  It was cold, but the tailor had come equipped; when the night air
became too harsh, he retreated within the little room and settled
himself on the makeshift bed, encased in warmth, watching the light play
across the domed ceiling.  There were pictures in the shadows, he
thought, seeing as a child sees: heroes, and demons, and the endless
passage of the dead.  Bashir had once told him a saying from Earth, a
line from an old story: the past is a foreign country, they do things
differently there.
        There was no need, now, to be anyone other than himself, but it seemed
to him that he did not yet know who that self might be.  Through the
cold, quiet night he looked within, map-making, drawing the landscape of
the heart, and once he dreamed.  It was not a clear dream: he was out on
the steppe, standing on the shifting sands, and looking down he saw that
the ground beneath his feet was changing, and filled with stars.  At the
top of the ridge stood a figure in a cloak, and it had no face; only a
smooth grey mask.  He watched it as it turned and faded into air.  It
was, he knew, someone very dear to him. He reached for a name, and found
nothing.
        He woke with the sun.  Throwing aside the covers, he went outside.  The
world was made of frost and light; the sands glittered.  A crescent moon
still hung in the east.  He felt as though some immense change was
approaching, a shift in the pattern of the world, but he did not
understand it and was wise enough not to try.  Instead, he went back
inside the room, rubbing his hands with the morning cold and promising
himself a fire.

                                                12.

        The darkness was filled with an electric sense of anticipation.  I lay
still, listening, and gradually became aware that someone was moving
stealthily along the corridor.  Wrapping myself in the night robe that
Varres had thoughtfully provided for me, I followed.  It took me a
moment to realise that the elegant Cardassian figure disappearing down
the passage was the servant Tehanar.  He had a perfect right to be
moving about the house, yet some slight tension about his bearing made
me suspicious.  The corridor ended in a low, glass roofed room of the
type that used to be called a solar.  It was rarely used now that winter
was approaching; I suppose Tehanar believed there to be little chance of
discovery.  I could see his tall figure standing at the window, holding
a lantern.  As I watched, he switched it off, then on again.  He was
signalling, I thought, as an answering flash came from the darkness
beyond the window.
        The hands that came from nowhere to drag me back were not gentle.  My
head knocked painfully against a hard Cardassian breast and chainmail
fingers clamped across my mouth.
  'Doctor Bashir,' my host's voice said, with every evidence of
sincerity.  'I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't want you making a noise.'
I nodded, and he released me.
  'What's he doing?' Varres hissed.
  'Signalling?'
  'But to whom?'  Motioning me behind him, he moved silently through the
door and was upon his errant employee before the startled man could
move.,  In the uncertain light, Tehanar's face was the colour of clay.
  'Tehanar,' Varres said, softly: pure Cardassian, the erudite veneer
gone and only betrayal and rage remaining.  Steeling myself, I put a
hand on his shoulder.  He flinched it away.
  'Peratay,' I said.  'Peratay, let him speak.'  After a moment, Varres
nodded and rose to his feet.
  'Well?'
Tehanar hauled himself upright and leaned against the window sill.
  'I cannot say,' he whispered.
Varres grasped him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall.
  'You will say, by the ghost of the Gul, you will tell me who is out
there!'
Tehanar swallowed painfully.
  'It is not my secret.  Kill me, if you chose, but I will not talk.'
  'Very well,' Varres said, silken.  'We'll soon see how good that
promise holds.' and he reached for the disrupter at his side.
Whether or not he would have carried out his threat, I do not know, for
at that moment Aliya Tehanar rushed through the door.  Bundled in her
shawls, her face crumpled in distress, she was a pathetic figure.
Slowly, Varres released his grip and the frozen tableau returned to
life.  Concerned, I rushed forward and helped Aliya to a seat.  In a
voice no louder than a whisper, she said
  'You must not blame my husband, sir.  It was all my doing...'  Her
voice faded and her hands twisted within her apron.  More gently, Varres
said
  'Very well.  Tell me everything.  Who were you signalling to?  Is it
the convict?'
  'Yes...'
  'But why?'
 There was a very long pause before she said
  'He is my brother.'
Varres's eyes widened fractionally.  More confidently, Aliya went on
  'My parents - all of my family - died in the great famine.  I raised
Rathen myself.  I was older than he, it was as though he were my son.
Those were hard years, it was difficult enough to survive.  A lot of
people turned to crime...'  She glanced nervously at me, as if she
defied the myth of Cardassian unity.  'Rathen was one of them.  He took
to stealing - we were starving. The famines lasted longer here than in
the inner worlds, long after Bajor was occupied...' another of those
uneasy glances in my direction ' During a robbery, someone surprised
him.  In defending himself, he killed the man.  They needed men for the
labour gangs, so they spared his life.  They gave him thirty years, of
which he served twenty one.'
  'And now he is free?' Varres said.
  'Now he is free,' she murmured, but she sounded uncertain and I could
understand why.  How long would Rathen, the murderer whom his sister
could see only as a hungry child, survive among the rocklands of the
steppe?  They could not have hoped to save him, hunted and harried as he
was, and winter coming.
        I said as much to Varres, later in the main hall. Tehanar and his
wife had gone to their rooms, on the promise that the matter would be
discussed in the morning.  Our sleep irretrievably disrupted, I sat with
Varres before the warmth of the fire.
  'A common enough case,' he said, ruefully.  'What do you hear of us,
out there in the bosom of your cosy Federation?  Ruthlessness, cruelty,
the will to power?'
Embarrassed, I muttered something and he smiled.
  'It's a useful myth, for ourselves and our enemies.  The truth is that
we are a fragmented society, seething with buried tensions, and
permanently on the brink of revolt.  Tyrannies are never stable...Well,
tomorrow I suppose we must seek out Aliya Tehanar's errant sibling
before too much attention is drawn to my own estate.' He pushed a scrap
of wood closer into the heart of the blaze with the toe of his boot,
sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.  I could hear the wind, high
in the flue, gathering strength.  'Best get what rest you can,' Varres
said. 'There's a storm coming, Doctor Bashir.'

                                        13.

        In those parts, storms are long in growing and fierce when they
strike.  Next morning dawned dark and cold, with the thunderheads
massing over Herren Peak and the wind tasting of lightening.  Varres and
I took the hoverer out to the edge of the steppe.  Aliya Tehanar had
given us - with evident reluctance - directions to her brother's hiding
place and we followed them in as discreet a manner as possible until the
prominence of Sirrath Ridge became silhouetted against the sky.  We
landed the hoverer and made our way along the ridge.  It was
uncomfortably exposed: a long slope of scree ending in a field of
boulders and tawny sand at the edge of the old Hebitian ruins.  Both
Varres and I held our disrupters at the ready.  There was no sign of
recent habitation among the ruins.  At the foot of the slope, Varres and
I paused and looked around us.  From this high vantage point, the land
fell away across the Cascerei plain, until the beginning of the Vhan
Dur.  The mountains themselves were lost, but their peaks were
paradoxically visible; floating, unreal, upon a sea of cloud.  The scent
of snow pricked at the back of my throat.
  'I don't see any sign of life,' Varres said, gritting his teeth in
irritation.  'Aliya lied.  There's no one here.'
        As he spoke, we heard it.  The sound came from the distant edge of the
ridge; a long, belling note, as high and wild as a flock of geese.  Then
we saw Rathen.  He was running across the plain of scree, arms flung
wide, stumbling among the stones.  He was shouting, hoarse and
incoherent, and when I saw what followed him, I almost turned to run
myself.  When Garak had told me about the hounds, I'd not had the time
to call up the library archives for a picture.  The beast moved with an
easy lope: the long wedge shaped head questing from side to side.  I
could see the armoured scales rippling along its flanks.  It was the
size of a small horse.  Rathen, running now in a dreadful
silence, caught his foot and fell.  The hound, unhurried, came to stand
above him.  It raised a taloned foot in a curiously delicate and
affected gesture, and rolled him over.  Rathen screamed, once.  Beneath
him, the sand began to redden.  The hound patted him, tentatively, and
put its blind head on one side.  Its splayed tongue flickered out,
tasting the air.
  'What's it doing?' I whispered.
  'Playing,' Varres replied, shortly.
Rathen was now quite still, a limp bundle of rags cast across the
stones.  The hound turned its head and bayed.
  'It's scented us,' Varres said.  The hound turned and paced towards us
up the slope, but a sudden burst of fire cast up the sand between the
beast's front claws.  It paused, then turned and padded insolently away
behind the ridge.  I span around.  The shot had come from behind me.
  'Really must get my eyes tested,' said a familiar voice.
I stared, open mouthed.  Beside me, Varres whispered
  'Elim Garak!'
  'Mr Varres,' Garak said.  'Charmed...' One would have thought we were
at a cocktail party.  He placed his palm against Varres' own in the
characteristic Cardassian greeting, showing that no weapon is concealed,
and smiled at me.  'It's getting colder, don't you think?  I suggest we
collect the body of the unfortunate Mr Rathen - a decent burial is the
only thing any of us can do for him now - and return to the comforts of
home.'
Pocketing the disrupter, he strode down the slope towards Rathen's
corpse.  Numbly, we followed.
        As the hoverer skimmed across the steppe, running ahead of the rain, I
studied my friend.  He was wearing a version of a gul's body armour: a
light breastplate beneath a long leather coat, collared with sable.
Never a stout man, he seemed to have lost weight and the bones of his
face stood out in sharp relief under the silvery skin.  The blue eyes
were as fierce as fire.  I found myself grinning foolishly at him; Garak
took no notice.
  'What possessed me to come out on this insane errand, I'll never
know,' he grumbled.  'I've spent almost a week in that hovel.'
  'I thought you were on Cardassia Prime.'
  'Well, I was going to go, but then I thought: can't leave you out here
on your own, who knows what might happen -'  He caught my eye and
smiled.  'It's not true, of course.  We needed to let events unfold, and
so they have.  I've been watching you, Doctor, and young Varres, and the
delightful Eledra.  For a supposedly  quiet backwater, this place sees
more comings and goings than Quark's on discount dabo day.  You'd be
surprised....anyway, I'll explain later.'
With that, he peered out of the window with every indication of deep
interest, and would say no more.

                                        14.

        That evening, after we had dined, Varres pleaded fatigue and retired to
bed.  The atmosphere in the house was subdued and brooding: the Tehanars
still mourned their dead.  Garak, seated by the fire, stared into the
flames in silence.  At last I could stand it no longer.
  'Well?' I demanded.
  'Doctor?' he replied, amiably.
  'Aren't you going to tell me what you've discovered?'
  'All in good time, doctor, all in good time...' His smile faded, as
once again the setreda liturgy rose and fell from within the house:
Aliya Tehanar's voice raised to her loss and her dead.
  'Always that...' Garak murmured, as if to himself.  'Always death, and
waiting...'
He recalled himself to the present with an effort.
  'You must forgive me, Doctor.  I have too many memories to be entirely
comfortable in Cardassia.'
  'I understand,' I said, a little too quickly.  I expected a rebuff,
but Garak leaned over and put his hand for a moment on my wrist.
  'Cardassians don't know how to respond to sympathy.  It tends to bring
out the worst in us...'  The note of self mockery had returned.
  'Don't turn words against me,' I said.  My throat felt dry, and my
voice seemed to come from a long way away.  'Tell  me the truth.'
He must have seen something in my face.  The blue eyes were very wary.
He said, softly
  'In the morning.'

                                        15.

        With morning, came the storm.  It started before first light, lashing
down from the Vhan Dur in a blast of freezing rain.  It kept the tailor
awake; close to dawn, he got out of bed and went to the window.  He
could see nothing except a sea of water, and his own face, reflected by
darkness, and it seemed to blur and run with the rain until nothing
remained.

                                        16.

        When I came downstairs next morning, I found that we had company.  Ilay
Essoutar was standing in the hall, warming his hands by the fire.  There
was a small sound behind me; incautiously, I turned in time to see Garak
vanish into the shadows.
  'It's a bad day, isn't it?' Essoutar greeted me.  He seemed nervous.
I nodded sympathetically.
  'Winter's coming,' I said.
  'I've just spoken to Varres,' Essoutar said.  'I gather we can all
sleep safely in our beds; it seems the convict died yesterday.'  His
eyes were bright with curiosity.
  'That's right.  He was killed out on the steppe, by some sort of
animal.'
Essoutar said eagerly
  'Did you see it?'
I said evasively
  'Yes...it was some sort of predator.  Apparently they used to be
commonplace here.'
He seemed to relax.
  'That's right.  The hounds.'
  'But I thought they'd died out in these parts?'
Essoutar gave a small, sly smile.
  'Oh, so Varres the rationalist will tell you.  But there's more to the
world than what can be seen or heard.'
  'What do you mean?'
  'Cascerei has always been a home to spirits, Doctor Bashir.  Demons
who carry a bowl of blood upon their heads, and who stride the steppe
seeking more to fill it.  Beings who resemble children, withered beyond
recognition, who move like insects and feed from the heat at noon.  This
is a place that is filled with legends.'
The firelight flickered in his eyes; not for the first time, I wondered
whether he was entirely sane.
  'Well,' I told him.  'The thing I saw yesterday looked solid enough to
me.'
An expression of displeasure crossed his face.  He seemed about to speak
but then, to my relief, Varres came in, shaking rain from his black
hair.
  'A dreadful day,' he said, morosely.  'Essoutar?  What can I do for
you?'
Essoutar's mouth drooped repentently.
  'I came to apologise,' he said.  'For my behaviour the other day.  It
was really quite deplorable, and I hope you'll forgive me.'
Even now, I still don't understand more than the basics of Kardasi
without the help of a translator,  and some of the tones.  This tone
was, however, one that I recognised.  It was the most formal of the
intonations: the one used to convey dishonour and shame on the part of
the speaker.  There was no doubt that Essoutar wished his sincerity to
be known.  It worked.  Varres, mollified, said
  'Well, that's very handsome of you.  I must say, I was a little
surprised, but I'm sure there's a good reason for why you behaved as you
did.'
  'My sister Eledra and I are very close.  We've lived with each other
since she was a young girl, and I suppose I'm too protective of her -'
  'Very naturally.'
  'The thought of her leaving me quite upset me for a time, but since
then, we've talked things over and I realise that it's impossibly
selfish of me to stand in her way if she wishes to - well, form other
relationships.  And so I wanted to apologise.'
  'Accepted,' said Varres, with warm relief.  Spreading out his palms,
he pressed them against those of the botanist.  'And I hope you
understand that the last thing I would ever do would be to cause you
distress or upset your sister.'
        They parted on terms of mutual regard.  When the botanist had gone,
Garak slipped back into the room.
  'A passionate man,' was his only comment, and then as Varres opened
his mouth to speak, the tailor added  'May I say that you have some
remarkably fine portraits adorning your walls?  I was admiring them
earlier.'  He gestured to the holograms that lined the long hall.    'My
ancestors,' Varres explained, with the Cardassian's unself-conscious
pride in family.
  'I see.  And this gentleman?'
  'My great grandfather,' Varres said.  'He came from Assucar,
apparently.'
  'Yes, there's a definite look of the Jiracassari...those long
bones...'  Garak said, peering at the portrait.  Varres looked pleased.
Knowing little of Cardassian castes,  I did not understand the
reference, but I noticed that my friend's eyes lingered on the hologram
for a moment with a curious look of satisfaction.
 
 

                                                17.

        Once Varres had left the room, Garak drew me aside.
  'A word, Doctor, if I may?  In private?'
Once we were inside his room, he closed the door.
  'Matters are moving swiftly.  I'm afraid I may have to place our young
heir in a somewhat more perilous position than I'd originally hoped.'
  'Varres is in danger?  Why?'
  'Oh, really, Doctor.  Haven't you fitted the pieces together yet?'
  'No,' I said, rather put out.  'I'm afraid I haven't.'
  'Well, no matter,' Garak said, dismissing it.  There was in his nature
that curious mixture of the secretive and the dramatic: the spy's
instinct for discretion coupled with a taste for the dramatic
denouement.  I imagined that, as an operative in the Order, he'd had
ample time to indulge both.  I knew from experience that pressing him
would be of little avail.
  'Then tell me what I'm to do,' I said.  His response surprised me.  He
leaned over and took my hands, weighing them in his own.  It was an
oddly gentle, impersonal gesture.  He said, very seriously,
  'Do you mean that?  Even though you may be placing yourself in grave
danger, for little reason?'
  'Not so little.  The situation concerns someone I care for,' I said
and as he glanced up I added 'I've come to know and like Peratay
Varres.'
  'I see,' he said softly.  The bitterness in his voice touched my heart
and I said
  'And I trust you.'
  'Do you?' he said, with an intensity that I had rarely seen in him.
'If you do, then it's again for little enough reason.'
  'I disagree.  When have you ever betrayed me?'
  'Oh, all the time, or so it seems.  Reviled you when you tried to help
me, schemed for the death of your friends in that holo-program, tried to
destroy you with the planet of the Founders...' he shook his head.
'You've no reason to trust me, and you're a fool if you do.'
Suddenly, I felt as if all the darkness of the past had lifted from me.
I gave his hands a gentle shake.
  'You're a terrible old romantic, Garak,' I said, and as he opened his
mouth to protest I added quickly  'Whenever you've lied to me, you've
let me know it.  Whenever you've plotted, you've let me know it, however
obliquely, however obscurely, and if you haven't, there have been very
good reasons.  You tell me everything, only in your own way.  When have
you ever stabbed me in the back?'
  'I admit, the opportunity hasn't arisen yet, but -'
  'You would never do that, would you?  You and I both know it.  I trust
you with my life.'
I observed, with some amusement, that he did not know what to say.  He
murmured something that I did not catch, looked down at the floor, then
across to the window.  My world had contracted down to him; every
movement he made seemed vivid, filled with significance.  But I told
myself that it was not the time to speak; that danger heightens the
senses and makes situations unreal, and that we should be thinking of
the threat that hung over this house, and not of ourselves.  Beneath my
reasoning, I knew the truth: that I was afraid.  I did not have the
courage to tell him that I loved him, and perhaps I never would.  I let
go of his hands.
  'You should go to Varres,' I said.  He looked at me in bemusement for
a moment, then said
  'Yes.  Yes, I should.'  The glitter of intrigue was once more back in
his eyes.  Rising, he hauled me to my feet and said  'Come then,
doctor!  The game's afoot!'

                                        18.

        We went first to the ruins, where my friend had waited so patiently.
  'I'm leaving you here,' Garak said.  'I want you to keep watch until I
come back.'
  'Very well.  Where are you going?'
  'To see Essoutar and his sister, with Varres.  But,' he added grimly
'I won't stay there long.  There's a viper we have to stir from its
nest.'
I watched as the hoverer became no more than a latinum strip against the
shadow of the land, then sat down on a nearby boulder.  My head was
spinning.  Memories of Garak's hands in mine, the unease in Varres'
honest face, Eledra's fearful eyes, all swam before my inner vision.  I
knew now who we were hunting, but I did not know why.
        I had expected a lengthy wait, but before very long Garak slipped over
the ridge to join me.
  'Varres should be on his way soon,' he greeted me.  He sat down on the
boulder, somewhat out of breath.
  'And our viper?'
  'Should also be putting in an appearance, one way or another.'  He
sighed.
  'Are you all right?' I asked.
  'Yes, yes, perfectly well.  Just age, Doctor.  A week's camping hasn't
improved the condition of my joints.'  He shivered, but he was smiling,
nonetheless.  'It's strange, isn't it?  Here we are, waiting for horror
to strike, and yet it's so peaceful up here.'  I followed his gaze
across the bleak land to the line of indigo hills.  I could see the
ridge of rain moving across and behind it, briefly, the white star that
lit this world flared from the clouds, suffusing the plains with light.
I glanced at Garak.  His face was in shadow, and he was so still that he
seemed to have grown from the rock.  I knew, somehow, that he was part
of this place.
  'Elim?' I said, and he turned his head.  'Is this where you come
from?  Cascerei?'
  'I have a long past,' he said.  'I'm from many places, and none.
Illegitimate, you see.  To a Cardassian, I'm practically invisible.'
  'How do you mean?'
  'In this society, status is conferred principally by one's family.
Orphans have no place, as you know, they are literally difficult for
others to see.  I presume you understand that my father didn't raise
me?'
  'I'd rather gathered that, yes.'
  'I'm from the shadows,' Garak said, as though speaking to himself.
'From the gaps of the world, between words...However powerful I became,
however favoured, I've always been in exile.  I've always been alone.'
It would have been easy for me to utter platitudes about the choices one
faces and makes, or some sentimental expression of my affection for
him.  I held him in too great a respect for the former, and the latter
went too deep for the hollowness of words.  Instead, I looked at him,
and shook my head, and saw the sudden question in his eyes.  Then he sat
up, very straight and bright eyed, and whispered
  'Look...'
Varres was trudging up the slope, glancing uneasily over his shoulder.
I made a move to hail him, but Garak caught my arm.
  'No, Doctor, wait.  Let events take their course.'
Varres continued up the slope.  The rain was approaching swiftly now,
coursing across the plains.  At first, I thought that the movement among
the boulders was no more than a shadow, cast by the changing light, but
then I saw the hound.  It slid out from the shelter of rock, moving fast
and keeping low to the ground.  The light seemed to pour and flicker
around it.  The first heavy drops of rain burst against my skin.
  'Garak -' I tried to say, but the words would not come.  Varres
turned, warned by instinct, and saw his pursuer.  He gave a wordless
shout and began to run.  The hound's blind head cast from side to side;
a sinuous, reptilian weaving as it tasted the air.  I saw its split
tongue probing delicately and then it found him.  It moved in a sidling,
sideways dash, like a lizard does; a repulsive movement in something so
large.  It was upon him before he had time to cry out.  Garak was
already halfway down the slope, and firing.  The hound reared up on its
jointed hind legs and clawed the air. Garak's first shot had torn away
part of its side, and it moved wonderingly, as if unsure of what had
happened to it.  Varres was very still.  Garak went down on one knee,
took careful aim, and fired again.  Slowly, like a falling tree, the
hound toppled backwards to lie in the dust.  It made a last effort to
rise, cried once, and laid its long head on the sand.  Garak was bending
over Varres and I ran to join him.
  'Is he all right?'
  'Miraculously, yes.'
Varres' eyelids fluttered as he stirred.
Garak turned to me, and I saw with surprise that his eyes were filled
with tears.
  'Elim?'
  'It's nothing,' he said quickly.  'Just an old memory, that's all.'
He crouched by the side of the dead hound and ran a hand along its
flank.  In death, its dark iridescence had dulled; it seemed no more
vital than the surrounding stones, but now that the danger was past, I
could see how one might have loved such a beautiful creature.  Varres
sat up, spitting dust and blood,  and our attention turned to him.  We
helped him back to the hoverer; Garak took the controls while I tended
to his wounds, which, fortunately for him, were not extensive.

                                                19.

  'He's sleeping,' Remmitor said.  'He's still suffering from shock;
I've given him a sedative.'
  'Good,' Garak said, wearily.  'I'd like you to stay with him, in case
anything else happens.'
  'But you said that the hound is dead!'
  'Indeed, but I do not consider the hound to have been the more
dangerous of the two beasts stalking Peratay Varres.  One of them is
indeed dead, but Doctor Bashir and I are going after the other.'

                                                20.

        We approached Essoutar's house cautiously, disrupters drawn and ready,
but there was no sign of life.  The central room was quiet and tidy.
  'Listen!' Garak said.  'Do you hear that?'
Obediently, I listened.  I could hear a very faint sound, coming from
the upper storey.  Garak was stepping quickly up the stairs.   I
followed, to see him vanishing into one of the room adjoining the
landing.
Eledra Ilay was sprawled across the bed, bound with plastic filament.
Gently, Garak turned her over, but a pair of furious eyes above the
layers of her gag showed plainly that she was alive and well.  When
Garak peeled the gag away she hissed at him.
  'Contain yourself, madam!' said her rescuer, somewhat irritated.  'I'm
not the one you should be spitting at.'
  'He tied me up and left me here!  I could have suffocated!'  An angry
bruise down the side of her cheek indicated that she had not submitted
without a struggle.
  'Your brother, I take it?'
  'My husband!'
  'I rather suspected he might be.'
  'It was a contractual breeding arrangement,' the woman spat.  'It was
never intended to have been formally binding.  And then, when we
discovered that he was sterile, he refused to release me from the
agreement.'
  'You would have been within your legal rights to leave.'
The golden eyes burned.
  'No-one holds to such decrees in these parts.  You should know that.
Here in the outer colonies, the only true laws are the ones that we
make, never mind what the commands and councils say.  I could have left,
you tell me?'
Turning, she unfastened her robe and slid it down her shoulders.
Garak's eyes narrowed.  Her scaled back was a mass of scar tissue, as
blurred and twisted as old wood.
  'Eledra,' Garak said, softly.  'Where is your husband now?'

        We followed his tracks as far as the edge of the ridge.  Below, the
land fell abruptly away to the shifting, glassy surface of the Mesai.
  'He showed me the path through the sand,' I said to Garak,
remembering.
  'You're not going anywhere near that area on foot,' he replied, with
finality.
  'Don't worry.  I've no intention of doing so.'
  'He's in there, though,' my friend murmured.  'I know it; he's there,
living or dead.'  He was already up and running in the direction of the
hoverer.
  'We're going after him?' I called.
  'Oh, yes.'

We skimmed across the lethal surface of the Mesai, but saw nothing.
  'It's a place that keeps secrets well,' Garak said, with a grim
smile.  Towards the middle of the quicksand rose that curious outcrop of
rocks, fringed with saltgrass.  Garak took the hoverer down and set it
floating towards the surface of the rock.
  'Stay with it,' he said.  'I don't want any unpleasant surprises.'
Before I could protest, he vanished in the direction of the inner
rocks.  Drawing the disrupter, I stepped down from the hoverer.  Here in
the sheltered centre of the Mesai, the air was heavy, smelling of salt
from the long-dead sea.  Once again, the sinister nature of the place
fell upon me: the silence and the shimmering light, as though this
ancient shore still waited for the tide.   I turned, and Essoutar stood
watching me; a ghost conjured out of air, but the gun that he held was
real enough.  I froze, and saw him smile.
  'Doctor Bashir,' he greeted me, with a slight bow.  'Goodbye.'  Then
the gun was up and firing. I felt a thick tongue of heat lick my side
and throw me down.  The world changed to a negative image: a black sun
in a white sky as I rolled beneath the shadow of the hoverer.  The
second shot struck sparks from its left engine; the third came from the
high shelter of the rock.  I raised my head in time to see Essoutar
poised like a diver on the ridge, before he span and fell, down into the
engulfing sand.  It took him without a sound.  There seemed to be blood
everywhere.  I touched my side, and my hand looked as though I had
dipped it in paint.  Then someone was crying out and lifting me.  The
light changed and became dim, and I knew nothing more.
 

                                                21.
 

  'Really, Doctor,' Garak's voice said.  He sounded more exasperated
than alarmed, I thought.  'I can't take you anywhere.'
  'What happened?'  I was somewhere smooth and cool, that smelled of
incense.
  'You're back at the house.  Remmitor's patched you up; evidently the
old gentleman's still a credit to your profession.  You'll live, he
tells me.  Not that you deserve to; you've put years on me this
afternoon.'
  'Essoutar's dead...'
  'And no loss to the neighbourhood, either.  Eledra's here, at Varres'
insistence.  Romance is in the air,' he added, with disdain.  I smiled.
  'Don't you approve?'
  'Oh, they're an eminently suitable couple, I suppose.  I'm afraid I'm
feeling somewhat jaded at present.  Doubtless it will pass.'
I opened my eyes and smiled at him.
  'I hope so.' I said.
  'Hmm.' he remarked, brushed a hand across my forehead, and left the
room.

                                        22.

It was another few days before I was well enough to travel.  During that
time, I had several interesting conversations; with Remmitor, and with
Varres.  Gradually, with the help of Eledra, we pieced together the
skeins of motive, opportunity and cunning with which Ilay Essoutar had
created so lethal a web.  As Garak had seen that night in the hall,
Essoutar was himself a son of the house of Varres; the illegitimate
child, unseen by everyone, who himself sees all.  We will probably never
know how he discovered his origins, but once he had made that discovery,
his resentment and his ambition grew until he could see no other course
of action than the murder of the legitimate heir.  Varres and Garak
discussed this delicately with one another, one afternoon in the solar
where I undertook my convalescence.  Both of them skirted the subject
like a pair of cats around a hot plate, warily and with considerable
reserve.  It was then that I realised that Garak's own origins were a
matter of common knowledge around these parts.  He dismissed this theory
later on, of course, informing me that he had enlightened Varres as to
his own illegitimacy, and our host's good manners had led him to be
polite.
  'He must have brought the hound here from one of the inner worlds, and
kept it in the Mesai,' Garak explained.
  'You found traces?'  Varres asked.  My friend grimaced.
  'More than traces.  The inner recesses resembled a butcher's shop.  He
doesn't seem to have been too concerned about his pet's diet.  Some of
the bones were not those of animals.'
  'He was mad, of course.'
 Garak shrugged.
  'Social pressure can drive a man over the edge...Who knows what
someone might do in order to gain a little attention?'
His eyes met those of Varres, and our host hastily changed the subject.

                                                23.

On the third day, Remmitor and I both decided that I was well enough to
travel, and so we made the necessary arrangements for our return to the
station.  Varres called a number of his contacts, which would enable us
to slip through the turmoil of the new State.  On our last night at
Cascerei, the storm, which had been circling the edges of the Mesai,
returned to torment us.  I lay sleepless, listening to the rain
cascading from the guttering, and at length I left my bed and went to
knock on Garak's door.   When he opened it, he did not have the look of
someone who had been roused from sleep.
  'I've just made some tea,' he admitted.  'The rain's been keeping me
awake.'
He handed me a cup, and I sat down on the edge of the bed to drink it.
The silence between us grew, swallowing the storm, until at last I found
the courage to say
  'Before we leave, there's something I'd like to ask you.'
He said nothing, only sat and gazed into the liquid in his cup.
  'Garak?'
  'Very well, then,' he said, painfully.  'Ask.'
  'Tell me about that day.'
He glanced up, puzzled.
  'Which day?'
  'The day in the country.  The only day.  When you kept falling from
the back of the riding hound, and wouldn't give up, but kept on trying
to ride until your father brought you limping home?'
  'Ah,' he said.  'That day.  You know, I've always wondered why he did
that.  He'd never shown any interest in me before, though he'd visited
on a number of occasions.  I was surprised when he offered to take me
out - give the child a treat, he said.  He put me on the back of that
hound to frighten me, I know that.  See what I was made of, I suppose.
He asked me if I was afraid of it.  But the hound was a wonderful
creature, like something out of a story, or an old picture, and what
could I tell him?  That he frightened me more than the hound ever
could.  He was so still, so cold eyed.  I told him the truth: no, I
said, I wasn't afraid.  So, he put me up on its back, and I kept falling
off and getting back on. Apparently I passed whatever test he'd designed
for me.  With my father, one never knew if it was the most obvious
thing, or something else entirely.'  He rested his elbows on his knees
and wearily rubbed his eyes.  'Not an obvious man, Enabran Tain.
Then, after that, he began to take an interest in me.  I didn't
understand why, but I accepted it.  Children do, you know.  It was only
much later that the truth began to dawn on me: we were closer in looks
when he was a younger man.  Other people remarked on it.  Tain's enemies
started a few well-placed rumours.  He'd have been well advised to have
me removed, but he didn't.  He had no other children that I know of.
And the rest,' he smiled 'you know, or rather, you don't know, but I'm
sure you can make a few educated guesses.'
  'More than a few.'
  'Is that what you wanted to know, about my one day with my father?'
  'And you never stopped, did you?  Falling, and trying again?  You
never gave up?'
  'No.  No, I never gave up,' he echoed, and only then did he meet my
eyes.  'Not until now.'
  'There are things to live for,' I said.
  'Are there?' he replied, bleakly.  His gaze turned towards the rain.
'Doctor, I hope you're not offering me one of Starfleet's infamous
counselling sessions.'
  'No,' I said.  'That's not what I'm offering.'
He looked at me, startled.
  'I'm not sure what you mean,' he said.  His habitually unruffled
composure had gone; the tea cup shook in his hands and he put it down
hastily.  I left my seat to stand beside his chair.  He stared up at me,
wonderingly, and he looked so lost that I forgot all the elaborate
things that I had been going to say.  Instead, I took his hands and drew
him up.  It was one of the few things in my life which I have done
gracefully. Still without saying a word I led him into the shadows,
beyond the firelight, and finally, there in the warm dark beneath the
storm, we told each other the truth.

I awoke to find that the rain had swept out across the Mesai, and that
the sun was shining.  I threw the window open to let in the sea-sharp
air and leaned out.  Far across the plain, the Vhan Dur lay tranquil in
the morning light.  I heard a step behind me, and Garak's voice, still
rough with sleep, said
  'Best we leave soon, Doctor.'
  'You're anxious to be gone?'
He nodded.  'Back to the real world.'
Once again, I felt the quicksand shift underneath my feet.
  'And what does that mean?' I asked him.  I felt his hands on my
shoulders.  Into my ear, he said
  'Recently, someone - I can't remember who, precisely - told me that
there are still things to live for.  I have reason to believe that this
may be true,' and then he laughed, and added 'I don't give up what I
prize easily, Doctor.  You may have noticed that,' and in his words I
heard an echo of the child and the hound, running together, into the
light and a new day.
 

THE END