"I will not give it back," Data said.

The man in the red mask looked around and, seeing that most of his comrades were dead or gone, let go of the sword and tried to escape. Unfortunately for him, a handful of villagers, emboldened by the apparent victory, caught him and finished him off with harvesting tools. Kate averted her eyes.

She sought Ensign Whiff to see how badly he was hurt. An instant later, she was joined by Riker, Greenblatt, and Data.

The Antarean was still conscious and was sitting up, but blood was streaming from his shoulder.

"I may be able to stop the bleeding," said the doctor, "but we really should send him to sickbay, in case an artery's been severed."

"Anybody else injured?" asked Commander Riker.

TheEnterprise crew members shook their heads, still too dazed to do much talking.

"Many of the villagers are injured," said Data. "At least four of them are dead."

"Dead," Riker repeated numbly, glancing back at the raider he had killed.

"I saw it all," said Kate. "You had no choice."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Will murmured, trying to block out the sight of the crumpled body.

Though he felt only remorse, the villagers were laughing with delight as they plundered the bodies of the slain raiders. Their wounded were being attended to, and their own dead had been respectfully covered, but much fuss was made over the live dead raiders. With great ceremony, the villagers were stripping the raiders of their masks and ridiculing their faces. Some of them danced around the b.l.o.o.d.y heaps.

Riker shook off his guilt and stepped to a neighboring hut to look inside. It was empty. "Data, have you got your communicator on you?"

"Yes," replied the android.

"Take Ensign Whiff inside this hut, call Geordi, and have him beam Whiff up to sickbay."

"Yes, sir." Effortlessly, the android lifted the wounded officer and carried him inside the hut.

Wearily, the commander put his arm on Kate Pulaski's shoulder. "Come on, Doctor, let's see what we can do for the wounded. Later on, I'll worry about how to explain this in my log."

For the rest of the day, Katherine Pulaski efficiently patched up the wounded villagers. Only one of them was in serious danger, and he would probably lose a leg even if she could take him back to theEnterprise . The Prime Directive discouraged that, as it did intervening in the affairs of any planetary population, but it didn't prohibit Federation personnel from defending their lives during a wanton attack.

Though the others had helped her with the seriously wounded, Kate was now by herself in the empty hut, treating her final patient, a woman with superficial cuts on her back and arms. Commander Riker was outside with Data and Ensign Greenblatt, seeking opinions about what the discovery of the Halloween mask in the maskmaker's shop might mean. At the very least, it meant that Picard's party had come into contact with a band of Lorcans led by someone named Piercing Blade. Kate could only hope that Day Timer had been wrong when he said that Piercing Blade's followers were little better than a band of raiders.

There was a rap on the door. "Come in!" Kate called.

Commander Riker stuck his head in. "Doctor, are you about finished? Day Timer says that the maskmaker and leaders of the village want to thank us for our help. This may be our chance to get going."

"I'm done," answered Dr. Pulaski, smoothing down the last of the bandages. "Change those twice a day," she told the woman, handing her a package of medicated bandages that had been beamed down from the ship.

"Thank you, Healer," the woman said reverently. She nodded to Riker on the way out. "Thank you, too, sir."

Riker nodded his clay mask. "I'm glad we could help."

"You did more than help," the woman replied. "You freed us."

After the woman had left, Riker turned to Pulaski and lowered his voice. "I had to tell them that Whiff was dead and that Data went off to dispose of his body. There's no other way to account for his absence without explaining more than we want to."

"I understand," the doctor replied. After the commander left, she carefully straightened the hut and packed up her equipment. She didn't want to leave clues to their true ident.i.ty.

When Kate stepped outside, she saw that most of the villagers had gathered around Day Timer's wagon. She joined the clay-masked apprentices, who now numbered four, as they stood in a line facing Day Timer, Trim Hands, and the a.s.sembled villagers. She hadn't seen the peddler or the maskmaker since the attack began, and she wondered what they'd been up to.

Trim Hands cleared his throat importantly and stood as straight as his aged spine would allow. "Today is a great day in the history of our beloved village," he announced. "Never have we repulsed a band of raiders so successfully, killing over half of them."

The crowd murmured its approval, and some cheered l.u.s.tily. Kate glanced at her shipmates, but their simple masks betrayed none of their curiosity and puzzlement.

"In deep grat.i.tude for your a.s.sistance in our time of need," the maskmaker continued, "your benefactor has allowed us to honor you with masks that reflect the esteem in which we hold you."

Trim Hands glanced at Day Timer, who nodded his approval. He stood straight and proud and was probably beaming, Kate thought, under his Proprietor's Mask.

"To the one called Doctor," said Trim Hands, "we present the Herbalist's Mask, the mask of the healer." He raised his hand ceremoniously, and one of the younger villagers rushed back to his hut and emerged a moment later, carrying a yellow mask with twin green serpents coiled in the center of its face. Carefully handling the mask by its edges, he pa.s.sed it to Trim Hands, who presented it to Katherine Pulaski.

As soon as she took the st.u.r.dy bronze mask, she realized why they were handling it by its edges: The paint on the yellow face and around exquisite emerald serpents was still wet and gleaming. She looked with astonishment at Day Timer.

"You do not need to wear the mask now," he explained. "This morning, it was a red mask worn by a killer. Now, fittingly, it is an Herbalist's Mask to be worn by a healer."

"Thank you," she said, her voice choking slightly. "This is an honor."

Trim Hands nodded, and the villagers murmured their approval. "Now," intoned the maskmaker, "we honor the one called Data, who protected our children, by presenting to him the Teacher's Mask."

He repeated the ritual of holding up his hand and waiting as one of the village youths retrieved a white mask from his hut. This mask looked something like the one worn by the maskmaker's female a.s.sistant. It was adorned with strange writing and signs, but it had been given a benevolent smile and a tender expression. It was the first smiling Lorcan mask that Kate remembered seeing.

Data took the mask. Although his features were hidden, Kate could tell that the android was pleased with the honor. "I will cherish this always," he said.

"To the one called Greenblatt," said the maskmaker, "who stood her ground and protected her master's wagon, felling one of the raiders with a fire arrow, we present the Archer's Mask."

Another freshly painted mask was brought forth, this one with surrealistic blue and white arrows streaking from the nose hole, across a jet black background, to the edges of the mask. The black coloring of the mask and its substantial construction gave it the appearance of a formidable piece of armor.

The young blond woman accepted the prize graciously. "May I be worthy," she said.

Next, an unaltered Raider's Mask, still the color of blood, was handed to Trim Hands. "This mask," he said reverently, "is presented in honor of the one called Whiff, who is no longer with us. Take it in your travels to be reminded of him."

He gave the Raider's Mask to Day Timer, who held it in both hands and stared at its somber visage. "The raiders stand for all that we despise about our land," he declared. "We are, by birthright and custom, a violent people, but we don't need to indulge that blood l.u.s.t by senseless killing and preying upon peaceful villages. We can direct our energies toward making this a better place to live."

"I accept this mask for my followers and friends in the hope that we will never see another one." He motioned to his astounded apprentices. "Had I a dozen more like these, I would wear the Avenger's Mask and rid our fair land of all bandits and brigands. Perhaps, at the fair in Cottage Meadow, peace-loving Lorcans will finally band together to put an end to these scavengers who prey upon innocents."

The crowd erupted with cheers, and Katherine Pulaski was again amazed at the talents of her "master." First a peddler, then a maskmaker, then a lethal swordsman, and now a speechmaker and politician. Was there any end to the number of hats, or masks, Day Timer could wear?

Of course, she agreed with every word he had said. The question remained, was he or anyone else on this planet capable of bringing order to a society where might made right and the sword was the ultimate arbiter? Were the Lorcans ready for peaceful coexistence?

Before she could consider the question further, Day Timer held up his hands to quiet the crowd and then began to speak: "Your esteemed maskmaker has given me the honor of presenting the next mask to the man called Will Riker, who has demonstrated true leadership and bravery. Upon him I bestow a special honor."

Day Timer then went to his own wagon to fetch a mask and returned with the stunning wood and jewel creation known as the Forest Mask. A high polish showed off the wood's beautiful black and red grain, and the eye, nose, and mouth holes were natural knots in the wood. The mask flowed upward in sculpted boughs, simulating the growth of a tree, and widened into an incredible array of green, yellow, and red gems, arranged like tiny leaves. It was a breathtaking mask, which Kate could imagine seeing in an airtight museum case.

Day Timer held the mask up for the entire a.s.sembly to see. As they cheered, Commander Riker shrank back, as if he couldn't believe the immense honor was for him. Kate Pulaski couldn't believe it either.

"I know I am losing an able apprentice when I do this," Day Timer said, "but I can think of no one I would rather see wear this mask. Will Riker, wear the Forest Mask and let all the world know that you are n.o.bly born."

He held the stunning mask out to Will, who took it with trembling hands. "I ... I don't know what to say. This is an extraordinary honor."

Trim Hands, the maskmaker, clapped with delight. "Only one who is deserving could be so reverent. I praise our new n.o.bleman, our herbalist, our teacher, and our archer. I mourn the pa.s.sing of our dead. But from the masks of the dead, new masks are born. Let us celebrate all of them with a feast."

Now the cheers were really deafening, and Kate felt caught up in the joyful rush of the villagers, each straining to congratulate her and the other honorees personally. Merrily jostled back and forth in a sea of colorful masks, she momentarily forgot about the missing away team, theEnterprise, and the reason they had all come to Lorca.

For that moment, she was a Lorcan.

Chapter Eight.

CAPTAINPICARD LOOKED BACKover his shoulder for the hundredth time that day, wondering where Worf and his Lorcan escort were. Even with half of their party on foot, Piercing Blade had encouraged them to make good time; they had probably covered fifteen kilometers of rugged road since breaking camp that morning. But darkness and amber clouds were creeping down the branches of the great trees, and the forest would soon be shrouded in nightfall. Picard didn't worry about Worf's ability to take care of himself, but he wanted to know the big Klingon was safe.

Perhaps they had run across Fenton Lewis, who had to be somewhere between the larger party and the village. He still couldn't believe that a Federation amba.s.sador had deserted them. And "desertion" was the appropriate term; there was no doubt about that. Picard harbored the faint hope that Fenton Lewis thought he would be more effective on his own and had every intention of returning. But the captain's mind kept replaying the conversation in which Lewis had admitted his career would be over when the facts of the two Ferengi deaths became public knowledge. In reality, Fenton Lewis had little incentive to return to the Federation fold.

"Picard," said a husky voice beside him, "I cannot see your face, but your gait looks troubled."

Jean-Luc whirled to his right to see Piercing Blade striding beside him. She had walked the entire way, graciously allowing Counselor Troi and her own followers to ride the ponies. Of the group of eight, only Picard and Piercing Blade had traveled on foot the entire day.

"I'm worried about Worf and Cold Angel," he answered. "I expected them to join us before now."

"You worry too much, Picard," she said. "Both men are loyal and will join us as soon as they can. They have the fastest ponies. Perhaps they stopped to dally with the women in the village."

Picard tried to imagine Worf "dallying" with the neighborhood women. The image brought an unseen smile to his face, "I'm sure they're all right. Maybe I do worry too much."

"Just in case they were delayed," she said, "we shall make camp soon and give them a chance to catch up. I know of a bog farther along where the fishing is good. We'll stop there."

The Thunder Mask swiveled away from him and he caught a glimpse of Piercing Blade's copper-colored hair curling around the nape of her neck. For such an athletic woman, she had a surprisingly slender and feminine neck. She was a tall woman, six or seven centimeters taller than Picard, and in amazing physical condition. Nevertheless, he wondered how muscular she really was and how much of her imposing stature was armor and mask.

Then Jean-Luc chided himself, feeling ashamed. Here he was, mentally undressing the woman. A starship captain acting like a lovesick teenager. He had to curb his unseemly curiosity and concentrate on the mission.

But what was the mission anymore, except to survive? The prospect of finding the mythological Almighty Slayer and pounding out diplomatic agreements now seemed ridiculously remote. They were cut off from the ship, missing two of their complement, and marching in the wrong direction. What a botched job this turned out to be.

Nevertheless, he couldn't feel totally inept marching alongside the majestic Piercing Blade. Their mission had been partly successful, in that they had won the faith and trust of a local leader. They were on their way to what was apparently the biggest gathering of Lorcan notables ever held. Somehow, Picard vowed to himself, he would see this mission through to its conclusion.

When he turned to look again, he found the n.o.blewoman gazing at him instead. Blade's green eyes sparkled in their jeweled frames. "I would like you and your female page to dine with me in my tent tonight," she said.

He nodded, glad for once that his emotions were hidden behind the grim animal mask. "It will be our pleasure."

"Good," she said emphatically. "Now I must look for that bog, if we are to have anything to eat."

The warrior strode to the front of the queue, her long legs carrying her effortlessly past those mounted on ponies. The captain debated whether to follow her and learn more about the hidden pa.s.sageway to the underground sea, but he decided against it. He would see her at dinner that night, and that would be enough.

Too much of Piercing Blade could be intoxicating.

Cold Angel and Worf stopped near a bog to water their ponies and give them some grain. Under normal circ.u.mstances, they would have camped there for the night, but Cold Angel was convinced they weren't very far behind the main party. For proof, he pointed out several sets of fresh hoofprints and footprints in the damp clay ahead.

Lieutenant Worf looked at his brave little steed with sympathy and concern. Even with frequent stops, they were riding the animals to sweat-soaked exhaustion. But Cold Angel insisted that the ponies could take it, and Worf took the Lorcan trainer at his word. Despite the amber clouds of approaching darkness, the equines remained spirited and ready to take to the trail again, as they pawed the ground and playfully tossed their feed bags.

"These are young mounts," Cold Angel a.s.sured him, inspecting his pony's bridle. "Mine has teeth like a hatchet. Look at the way he has chewed through this new bit."

Worf ma.s.saged his aching haunches and did a few deep knee bends. "Maybe we should walk the rest of the way."

Cold Angel chuckled. "Don't you have ponies where you come from?"

"Uh, no," the Klingon answered. "I'm more accustomed to riding horses."

Cold Angel c.o.c.ked his stylized fish mask questioningly. "Horses?"

"Like these animals," Worf replied, stroking his pony's sweaty mane, "only bigger."

The Lorcan shrugged, as if conceding that such a thing might be possible. "I've heard many stories about ponies in the old times, before the dragon breathed. The storytellers say that ponies are not native to Lorca, that they came here with our ancestors. But those ancient ponies were different. They were as smart as people and knew how to dance and do tricks. Do you believe such a thing, Worf?"

"Yes." The lieutenant nodded, remembering that the Lorcans were descended from a theatrical troupe who might have used trained ponies as part of their entertainment. Certainly, ponies would have made better s.p.a.ce travelers than full-size horses. "There's no telling what might have been in the past," he observed. "But I doubt if ponies were ever as smart as people."

"Perhaps not," agreed the Lorcan. "I breed ponies, and I don't think they're smart at all."

"But these are brave and steadfast," said Worf sincerely, staring into the eyes of his plucky mount.

Cold Angel nodded. "Thank you. I raised these two from foals."

"Do you have a farm somewhere?" the Klingon asked. "A ranch?"

"Lady Piercing Blade has a wonderful home, far to the west," he said proudly. Then his voice became wistful. "We've seen too little of it in the last months. She has a dozen serfs who manage the land and grow the crops. They probably think they own the place by now."

"Then you have been a long time searching for Almighty Slayer?"

"A long time," growled the Lorcan, "searching for a dead man, seeking followers and warriors, trying to persuade people to accept Piercing Blade as queen. But change is hard on Lorca. People prefer the old stories and traditions, such as this mindless devotion to Almighty Slayer."

"What did he do?" asked Worf.

"He wore the Wisdom Mask," the trainer answered, as if that were enough. "I know Slayer was a great warrior who settled many disputes, but his time is past."

"How important is it for the ruler to have the Wisdom Mask?"

Cold Angel paused to scratch under his mask. "I can't believe how ignorant you strangers are. A ruler who didn't wear the Wisdom Mask might be accepted by some, but not by all. As soon as someone else showed up wearing the Wisdom Mask,he would be accepted as king. It's harder for Piercing Blade, not knowing where the Wisdom Mask is."

"So the right to rule is always in question," Worf concluded, "unless the ruler possesses the Wisdom Mask. It's a form of validation."

Cold Angel deftly pulled off his pony's feed bag and slipped the bit into his mouth. "I don't know that word-'validation'-but many Lorcans believe that the Wisdom Maskchooses the ruler of Lorca. Don't ask me how. This kind of ignorance is hard to overcome."

The Klingon agreed, slipping the bridle over his own pony's head.